chsdbacks Page 322
Page 322
Peturabo couldn't imagine the way others would look at him when he reappeared leading the fleet. What would they think? How would they see him? Had a foolish warp voyage cost him a third of his fleet?
The thought of this chilled the Lord of Steel, and his hand holding the pen froze.
No, Perturabo thought softly. He should have been focused on his calculations, which would have brought him peace, but now, under the curse of his abandoned offspring, the Lord of Steel was finding it difficult to perform the task he was most suited for.
The long passage of time wore him down and eroded him. When Perturabo looked up again and was shocked to see that only one of the Iron Warriors' ships remained on the Bird Servant—the Ironblood—the Iron Lord's cold exterior finally cracked open.
He opened the workshop door in disbelief. His scattered offspring lay in the empty corridor, on the border between life and death, trapped in place by their completely rusted power armor, unable to move.
[Folke?]
The Primarch called upon the last Trident he had communicated with, but there was no response.
His iron ring machines were also stuck in rust, and after a brief hesitation, the Primarch abandoned them.
Perturabo lifted his foot and walked forward. The Terminator armor strolled on the thick red rust as if it were stepping on the thick snow of Olympia. As if drawn by some other reason, he walked straight toward the deck of the Ironblood.
At Peturabo's own request, there were no observation windows on the Ironblood. He walked through long, dark, warm, damp corridors stained with the blood of his offspring.
The death, imprisonment, and torture of his offspring did not itself have much emotional impact on Peturab, but the event signified his dereliction of duty, incompetence, weakness, and a sense of defeat began to creep into Peturab's heart like rust.
The Primarch can naturally sense the wavering within himself.
The tiny, fluffy rust spores on the floor murmured in dissatisfaction.
heartless.
He said.
He walked onto the deck, enveloped by the eerie light of the warp. The Ironblood's Geller force field had been completely shattered at some point. Logically, creatures exposed to the warp turbulence should die, but Perturabo still stood seemingly unharmed on the Ironblood's deck.
The recklessly drifting Ironblood had already entered the Eye of Terror. Now, Perturabo trembled, tears streaming from his eyes, staring directly at the Eye of God, the first thing he had ever seen since he became conscious.
The gods looked at him.
In the distance, the roar of engines rose, and Peturabo saw the ships he had decisively abandoned earlier emerge from the eerie stream of light. He watched them with trembling eyes.
The rust was gone, and the hellfire raged. He smelled the peculiar acrid stench from beside the furnace. A monster made of iron and blood stood at the very front of the ship, its eyes sparkling with the embers of forging.
+I am Vashtor, the master of the forge. +
The friction of iron against iron produced a clanging sound, and the bone wings made of high-strength steel cables flapped. In a moment, Vashtor arrived in front of Peturabo.
Do you desire a reforging, Lord of Steel?
The enormous mechanical monster reached out its hand towards the Primarch.
Peturabo's pupils trembled.
It turns out that all of this was just—
No,
Vashtor interrupted him, saying earnestly,
+I have come here, Peturabo, to wish you freedom from all shackles and nightmares, and in the name of the Lord of the Forge, you will be reborn. +
What do you want? And what price will it cost me?
Peturabo bluntly stated that this, on the contrary, made Vashtor's eyes light up with a pleasant spark.
Yes, that's why I chose you and why I recommend you.
Vashtor coughed softly, and flames spewed from its mouth.
+I'll show you the truth, and you promise me you'll plunge the entire empire into calamity. +
Peturabo frowned, gripping his weapon, his muscles twitching involuntarily.
"No..." he said softly, "If you're a warp-bound being, then get lost. I'd rather rot here with the Ironblood."
Vashtor stared at him calmly.
I thought you had been abandoned, so I came here specifically to invite you...
The master of the forge turned around, about to leave.
Perturabo stood atop the blood-red rust moss, alone amidst the ruins of the Ironblood.
Wait, abandoned?
He spoke abruptly.
What are you saying? Answer me.
Vashtor slowly turned around.
+You're being rather rude, Lord of Steel.
Vashtor said unhurriedly,
+The Perfect City has fallen, Prospero is burning, Lord of Steel, you have now been sent to the Misty Starfield, is this not his decree?+
He captured and distorted your essence without permission, and then abandoned you when he no longer needed you. Magnus's tragedy is regrettable, but I cannot tolerate those who share my ideals being abandoned in a corner.
Vashtor paused for a moment, the monster sighed, and watched with satisfaction as Perturabo trembled imperceptibly. Rust sensed his wavering and began to gather around the Primarch...
Vashtor slammed his warhammer into the ground, sparks flew, and the rust slowly faded away.
Peturabo lowered his eyes to look at the rust, then looked up and saw that the abandoned ships also had no trace of rust.
Vashtor's voice rang out again.
+Alright, I'll take you away from this area, but as a warning, I want you to see the truth. We cannot bear to see another Primarch abandoned. +
Peturabo stared at Vashtor,
【it is good. 】
He said.
There's no more big chapters today.
Chapter 388 The Critical Hit Comes from Your Dad
Countless eyes were fixed on the two in the center of the stage, sparks flying restlessly, as if someone were whispering in the monster's ear.
The steel cables surrounding Vashtor drooped imperceptibly as it stepped forward and chanted a blasphemous incantation under Peturabo's gaze.
The Primarch narrowed his eyes slightly, his hand swaying as it hung at his waist.
Steam and flames rose, and the rust faded as if it had never existed. Peturabo glanced thoughtfully in the direction the rust had gone, and before the fire and electricity arrived, it had cowered away.
Is this also your way of showing sincerity?
The Primarch suddenly spoke, staring at Vashtor. Vashtor bowed slightly with an elegant and exaggerated gesture, its cables disappearing behind the steel bars as it moved.
Vashtor abides by the contract, knowing that this clause is not included in the temporary contract.
But... this is a necessary step, a sacrifice for a great undertaking, for the sake of longer-term interests.
+I'm glad you accepted my temporary kindness; the rust creeping onto steel and the decay of fine gold into dust is something I find unbearable. +
Perturabo wasn't interested in Vashtor's words; the Primarch's attention seemed to be still on the rust. Vashtor looked at Perturabo, nodded, and gestured for it to take the ship away from the fleet.
If you truly care about me, then take the Ironblood out of the warp—or to another region, if you will.
Peturabo's words were blurred behind layers of steam, and Vashtor ignored the Primarch's seemingly cryptic remarks.
Once the contract is established, if one party fulfills its agreement, the other party must abide by it. It will complete its part first—so the problem won't be on its side.
It raised its warhammer high, its bone wings spread, and flames swirled around it.
The turbulence in the highest heavens began to accelerate, the mist receded rapidly like rust, arcs of electricity rolled, and sharp lightning shattered the giant waves. The Ironblood seemed to let out a dying groan, and the steel sighed.
When Perturabo tried to blink again, he found himself and the Ironblood in the middle of the galaxy. The ripples of the warp still pressed down on him, but they were no longer raging waves.
He turned his head and saw a pair of fearful eyes staring at him from the dim starry sky.
The subspace here is still distorted from the real world, but the real side is obviously more dominant.
Peturabo frowned imperceptibly.
...This is not what he imagined...What do they want?
The Iron Lord paced silently on the deck, as if checking whether he and the Ironblood had escaped the warp. It was a reasonable request, and Vashtor, gripping his Craftsman's Hammer, waited patiently.
It needs to demonstrate its sincerity, even if the reward isn't immediate.
Perturabo gazed thoughtfully at the Iron Warrior fleet following behind the Ironblood. The rust had indeed been removed, but replaced by other useless decorations, exposed cables, and sparks flying from who-knows-where.
Perturabo gazed intently, seemingly lost in thought. His pause appeared to be rather long. Vashtor approached him, and the Lord of the Hearthfire raised one of its hands, speaking as if in negotiation.
They belong to you, of course you can have them—
Perturabo turned around abruptly, and in a flash, Vashtor saw the glint of a blade and the firelight emanating from the Primarch Terminator armor.
Yet another person who breaks their promise.
You can get out now!
Amidst a hail of bullets, Vashtor ignored the Primarch's attack and charged straight at Peturabo, who was also swinging his hammer at it. Its skeleton opened, and cables whistled out, spreading out like a spider web.
Realizing his opponent was unfazed by his attack, Peturabo quickly changed his stance in an attempt to dodge, but it was too late.
"boom!"
Perturabo crashed straight into the metal jungle. Vashtor's last words faded away with a sickening thud of metal falling. After regaining his balance and standing up, Perturabo found himself standing in a dark, dim place.
Vashtor's words faded from his ears.
+You broke the contract first! In the name of the Lord of the Hearth, I demand a price!
Perturabo remained silent. He had nothing left to lose anyway; they were all in cahoots, he thought. The rust and this monster that had inexplicably come to him and offered him kindness were all in cahoots.
They were anxious, or rather, the monster who called himself Vashtor was anxious, but since… Perturab's thoughts once again sank into the mire, since he had nothing left—admitting this was difficult, extremely difficult, Perturab could hardly imagine it… He thought for a moment that he would suffocate.
But even in extreme situations, his rational and calm side still says the same thing.
They wanted him to do something, but Peturabo remembered the monster's words—no, impossible—its naiveté almost made Peturabo laugh.
To fight, or to see what they want and then fight, Peturabo chose the latter, but he still…
Just as Peturabo wouldn't admit that Vastor's talk of the perfect city and Prospero had indeed shaken him for a moment, he wouldn't admit that his choice had failed again.
Peturabo took a deep breath. He was supposed to be rational, cold, and make the best decision based on the facts. He would do that, he always had.
Faced with reality's failure, he shut himself off once again.
As if to divert his attention, Peturabo began to focus his thoughts on the current situation. Was this the punishment for breaking the contract? Or was it the truth it spoke of?
Perturabo inwardly scoffed. The truth? Did they really think the Primarchs were so easily deceived?
Peturab lowered his eyes. The cables at his feet were neatly arranged. No, Peturab frowned as he examined them. These were not Vastor's cables.
The instruments in the room hummed steadily, and the smell of disinfectant at the tip of his nose told Peturabo the answer: he was in a laboratory, perhaps behind some large instrument.
Perturabo frowned again. The truth? He had expected something more... mysterious. Magnus had shown him a glimpse of the warp, and Perturabo certainly knew about them.
But the floor beneath his feet told him that this was not as simple as an illusion.
Perturabo sighed softly. It was time for everything to end. He was supposed to fulfill his promise to face the truth, but since he had already broken his promise, he could stop playing these pointless warp games with them.
The Primarch was preparing to stride out of the shadows, ready to tear the first living thing he saw to shreds with bullets. He could feel the muscles in his legs engaging, and then he heard a voice—
A voice he knew all too well, a voice he had longed for countless times.
The Emperor's voice.
"They need to be loyal to me, that's the most important thing."
The voice said calmly.
Perturabo's pupils trembled violently. No, this was an illusion, he thought, but the Primarch's bloodline and that... that voice he could not possibly mistake told him—it was the Emperor.
His heart pounded violently. Peturab wanted to call out the Emperor's name, to quickly emerge from the darkness, and tell him...
What should we tell him?
Perturabo suddenly realized that he had lost the Iron Warrior. What would the Emperor think of him? Would he berate him? Would he view defeat as...?
Failure.
Perturabo caught his breath, his thoughts irresistibly drifting back to his conversation with Vashtor. What had it said? He had captured the twisted essence of them, Prospero and the Perfect City, the abandoned Primarch.
Contrary to his nature, Perturab fell silent. He didn't know how to face the emperor in this "illusion." He had... failed. Perturab's brain throbbed with pain.