13. Molten Steel (I)

What does this mean?

A thunderous roar resounded, and the giant on the Throne slowly rose to his feet.

Is he angry?

Perhaps, but you can't tell his specific emotions from that.

His face was too cold and stern; the sharp, chiseled lines made it seem devoid of any gentleness. He had a high nose bridge, and his deep-set eyes beneath his brow bone held a chill that seemed to emanate from the depths of his being. He was bald; a complex and neatly arranged bundle of black, heavy cables was tied behind his head, like Butcher's Nails.

But Karyl Lohars knew that they were not.

He smiled.

"What do you think?" he asked softly.

The giant did not answer; his gaze fell behind Karyl.

Two minutes earlier, the last Iron Warriors to leave had closed the door from the outside. The hall was empty, devoid of tables and chairs, except for a Throne made of steel. Long light tubes were cleverly concealed in the iron-gray ceiling, emitting a pale light.

Apart from that, the entire hall was surprisingly austere—there were no decorations, flags, paintings, or anything else. Only the Primarch of the Iron Warriors, Perturabo himself, and the Midnight Blade instructor, Karyl Lohars, whom he was receiving.

The atmosphere between them was definitely not good.

Perturabo withdrew his gaze, but maintained a shrewd stare. Only the most rational could observe others in this way; he stared intently into Karyl's eyes, his brow slowly furrowing.

"You wish to board the Iron Blood, and I grant your request."

He spoke in a low voice.

"You wished to speak with me alone, and I granted that request as well. This was not out of respect for Konrad Curze Curze —I have never met him—but out of respect for you, Karyl Lohars."

"You led six thousand men in a surprise attack from the rear and took down that fortress, but don't think I'll thank you for it. Your actions robbed my soldiers of the opportunity to prove themselves. I tolerated you because I respected a certain quality you displayed during that raid. And now, I'm slowly losing that respect for you."

"Should I be afraid of this?" Karyl asked.

Perturabo seemed to smile, but then again, he didn't. He stepped down from the Throne and stood on the red carpet where Karyl had been.

"Do as you please," he said. "But I demand that you explain the meaning of what you just said."

Which sentence?

"You know it yourself," Perturabo retorted sarcastically.

"You never came here with good intentions. You were probably planning this from before you even joined the Ironbloods, Karyl n't Lohars? You specifically claimed you had a gift from my brother to offer me privately, hoping to speak with me alone. You were just saying that to spout that self-righteous nonsense."

"Do you think I'd be angry at your words? You're wrong. Eltelos's death was his own fault. My orders were clear: I wanted to see them advance to within 600 meters of the fortress within fifteen minutes, and he failed to do that."

"So, that's why you let him be beaten to death by his own brothers?"

"The eleventh round of divination is an ancient form of punishment," Perturabo replied coldly. "It originates from ancient human history. It's fair; I even designed a special machine for it. Didn't you see the drawing of lots?"

"They did it voluntarily because they knew they had made a mistake, a mistake caused by their incompetence. And I have been Mercy enough by only ordering the officers, led by him, to carry out eleven-fold flogging."

Karyl nodded thoughtfully.

"You understand?"

"No."

"Ha." Perturabo laughed—this was the first time he had clearly shown any form of smile.

"It's not surprising that you don't understand me; many people can't either, but I'm too lazy to explain anything to you anymore. Now, explain to me what you meant by 'Sergeant Eltelos's death is my fault'?"

"Just as you heard, literally," Karyl replied softly. "No metaphors, no hints, just the literal meaning. I think his death is your fault, nothing more."

"He died because of incompetence." Perturabo seemed enraged, his tone becoming even harsher.

A dangerous undertone began to linger in his eyes, but Karyl made no move. He simply stood there calmly, speaking in a tone that sounded almost as gentle as a teacher lecturing a class.

"The incompetence of soldiers is often a consequence of their commanders."

"Enough." Perturabo shook his head. "There's no need to continue this conversation—you, and everyone you brought, can all leave my ship."

"The Sigillites Malcador, has given orders for us to come and help you and your legion."

"You're testing my patience." Perturabo frowned again, this time with a subtle difference in attitude from before.

He paused for a moment, then spoke again.

"I've never liked Malcador. He's too old and too stubborn. I don't understand why my father values him so much, but I don't care. He's just an old, dying mortal."

"I accepted your so-called 'support' because I followed the orders he gave on behalf of my father, even though I don't need your paltry six thousand men at all."

"Let me make myself clear, Karyl Lohars, so you know I'm not a tyrant or a self-important fool. I know you don't understand the strict discipline within my legion, and I never expect any of you to. But this is my legion."

He paused for a moment, then emphasized his words.

"This is my legion, do you understand? And I will not allow any outsider to point fingers at me here—besides, by what right do you speak to me like this?"

He endured, endured, until his patience was finally worn down by these resounding, cold words, while Karyl didn't even offer any opinion; he simply remained silent. Perturabo laughed again, this time a mocking, cold laugh.

He spread his palms, revealing his white teeth behind his parted lips, his anger clearly evident. "Are you trying to cause a diplomatic incident? You come aboard my ship, my flagship, and then accuse me of disregarding human life? Don't forget your position, Karyl Lohars!"

"Yes, I know your identity is special, so special that my young brother, whom I've never met, was even willing to let you come in his place. I also know how powerful you are; Lorgar Jia told me everything, and he bitterly smiled at his own foolishness, even expressing his apologies to you at the banquet, but I don't care."

"Listen to me carefully: I don't care about the support you bring, I don't care about your strength, and I don't care about Malcador or his mission written on those rotting parchment scrolls!"

"You came aboard my ship and started spouting nonsense at me, questioning my plans for my legion, and even claiming I've failed my offspring. What right do you have to say such absurd things to me? Don't you think it's all utterly ridiculous?"

Karyl let out a slow sigh.

Yes, it was truly ridiculous. He himself hadn't even imagined things would take such a dramatic turn.

They arrived on this remote planet carrying Malcador's orders. Perturabo and his legions were waging a brutal war against the local inhabitants, who resisted fiercely and harbored intense hatred for the Iron Warriors.

This hatred fueled their fighting spirit. Coupled with the ubiquitous and strategically located fortresses, the Iron Warriors' offensive stalled, not only because of the locals' unwavering resolve, but also because Perturabo had stretched the battle lines very thin.

He launched simultaneous attacks on all the fortresses on the planet, a grand scheme, but his legion's current numbers did not support him in doing so.

After a brief exchange with Perturabo aboard the Nightfall, Karyl decided to lead the 6,000 men of the Midnight Blade directly into the western front and helped a 700- Iron Warriors squad led by Sergeant Eltelos capture a fortress.

This fortress was a transportation hub and held a very important position on Perturabo's tactical attack map. Then, after the victory.

Sergeant Eltelos then died.

The command came from the heavens, from the orbit above. It was spoken by the giant standing before him, and his words sounded particularly impatient amidst the hoarse noise of the communication channel.

He said this at the time, "Eltelos, you have betrayed my trust and the oath you made."

At that time, the Night Lords were still sweeping through the fortress to eliminate any potential enemies, so they were unaware of what was happening on the other side of the position. It wasn't until they left and rejoined the Iron Warriors that they became aware of the situation.

Sergeant Eltelos's men had won, but there was no air of victory about them. Their faces showed no joy, only a deep sadness and a numbness that they were trying to conceal.

Karyl asked them what had happened and where the sergeant who had been working with them on the battle plan over the communications channel had gone.

He got his answer half a minute later: a twisted corpse.

Eleven draws.

No weapons allowed, no attacks on vital organs allowed, no mercy allowed. The nine men attacked their superior with their bare hands.

Beating, beating, beating. Bones were broken, flesh was mangled. How tenacious was Astartes' life force? And according to the Iron Warriors, Eltelos never uttered a word until his last breath; he simply endured it in silence, just like his nine brothers who attacked him.

"Yes," Karyl said softly. "Yes, it's ridiculous."

He extended his right hand.

Two more chapters to go, 10,000 words today.

You stupid, scoundrel boss, you're really hard to write about.