17. Molten Steel (V)

Are you trying to persuade me to arrange another private meeting between you and us Primarch?

"Exactly."

"You know just how terrible this request sounds to me..." Forrix pursed his lips. "Is it terrible?"

"I apologize if I have offended you, Company Commander Forrix." Karyl slowly lowered his head and withdrew his right hand. "But, as I said, we still have a war to fight."

What exactly are you trying to say?

"What I mean is, I don't think we should waste time waiting for your Primarch to awaken and expect him to be mentally prepared to rejoin the war. Of course, that's a hopeful statement. Based on what you know of Perturabo, what do you think will be the first thing he does upon waking?"

The city breaker's lips trembled.

He sadly speculated in his mind, and many results emerged from the combined efforts of his extraordinary mind and intellect, but the final result was devastating for him.

He found himself unable to refute Karyl Lohars's implications and his "hopeful" pronouncements.

The most likely thing Perturabo would do upon waking is definitely not to abandon everything and resume the reconquest of Kordibo. Forrix himself doesn't know what his Primarch would do, but he knows very well what he wouldn't do.

Admittedly, it's not impossible to abandon everything and return to war, but the probability is ridiculously low.

"I understand." Forrix lowered his head, feeling extremely ashamed of his performance today.

He almost wept—he was a member of the Trident Council, and he should have offered advice and stopped his Primarch, but he didn't. He didn't even deserve to fail, because he didn't even try.

Moreover, Forrix was well aware of why he had foolishly and stubbornly asked Van Cleef, an outsider, to join him in making suggestions.

Because he was afraid.

He knew his Primarch might turn on him in a fit of rage or punish him— Forrix didn't care about such things, he wasn't even afraid of death, but he was afraid of disappointing Perturabo.

And that is the most important thing.

He dared not go, for he knew Perturabo would be disappointed in him. Perturabo would roar at him, and he would never again be able to speak with pride of being a member of the Iron Warriors.

This is the root of Forrix's shame.

"Company Commander Forrix."

The city siege warrior looked up, slightly bewildered, a surge of anger rising within him for no apparent reason—what are you still doing here? And why are you calling my name in such a calm tone?

I have already told you I understand. Perturabo will punish me for letting you into the ward, but I will not back down anymore. I have suffered enough humiliation today!

"Thank you," Karyl said gently. "But you will not be punished."

He looked away and at the monitor. Perturabo, still unconscious on the hospital bed and with the machines nearby, had his eyes closed. The room was empty except for him.

"What?" Forrix asked, confused. "No, wait, what did you say?"

"Unless he's truly beyond saving." Karyl withdrew his gaze, offering a fleeting smile.

--

Perturabo is dreaming.

In his dream, he returned to Olympia. He was in his study doing his favorite work.

His study was an attic, and it was far from comfortable. There were hardly any pleasant days there throughout the year. But Perturabo didn't care; he would do his work there regardless of the weather.

He writes papers here. Mathematics, astronomy, architecture, history.

You might even find a dozen or so essays on literature here. He also does urban planning here, creating machines full of ingenious ideas and amazing blueprints.

He made them, and then he destroyed them.

Very few things survived from the study and were passed down. Perturabo was not stingy with sharing knowledge, but after a few attempts, he stopped doing so.

The wise men of Olympia were completely baffled by his design and even showed fear. Some even proclaimed in the newspapers that his knowledge was "cursed."

Perturabo didn't need to think too much to understand what these people were thinking. They were simply worried that the status they had earned over half their lives could be overturned by a single paper or design drawing.

Recalling the past was a strange thing for Perturabo; he missed almost nothing about Olympia except for Calliphone.

However, if we broaden the scope of this useless standard of remembrance, then he did actually think of his insignificant adoptive father a few times.

Perturabo was lost in these memories, trying to ignore what he had felt before falling into a coma. But his senses wouldn't so easily lull him into a peaceful slumber, as countless nights throughout his life had proven.

Perturabo would wake up at the slightest sound, and this time was no exception.

He suddenly opened his eyes and saw a skeleton of mixed black and white. Compared to the previous clear black and white, it had changed again. This armor seemed to be alive, constantly changing.

Perturabo, however, did not care about this.

He coldly ripped the IVs and instruments off his body, ignoring the pain in his fingers and ribs, and forced himself to stand up slowly, straight as a board.

"What are you doing here?" Perturabo asked with disgust. "Here to mock me a second time?"

"I suggest you sit down to talk," Karyl replied quietly, showing no emotional reaction to Perturabo's tone and words.

"Why?"

"Sit down, Perturabo," Karyl said, looking up. "I don't like using violence to force people, but if I have no other choice, I'll use methods worse than violence."

Perturabo raised his hands with a cold laugh, his ten fingers wrapped in thick bandages and splints. Clearly, Karyl hadn't just "bent his fingers" as simple as that. "You mean this kind of method?"

"No," Karyl said. "I can sing."

Perturabo's sneer momentarily turned to astonishment, followed by a resurgence of anger and humiliation. These emotions mingled together, contorting his face. He opened his mouth, his throat gurgling, ready to unleash a torrent of pre-prepared rage.

Karyl sighed softly.

"--Shut up." He rubbed his temples, interrupting Perturabo before he could finish.

This was a novelty for him, but he wasn't happy about it. Perturabo was stunned again, not because he was interrupted, but because of a golden Aquila that had been thrown at him.

Despite his injured hand, Perturabo caught it before it fell to the ground, and after a three-second examination, the Son of Olympia raised his head with a grim expression.

"Why didn't you say so sooner?" he demanded.

"You should use a more respectful tone," Karyl replied expressionlessly. "I don't think the tone you're using right now is appropriate."

Perturabo clenched his right hand tightly, the splint shattering instantly, his knuckles still cracking. The golden Aquila remained quietly in his palm, without any deformation.

A few seconds later, Perturabo spoke again.

"Dear Karyl Lohars," he spat out the words through clenched teeth, "Is that enough?"

"That's enough for you." Karyl nodded noncommittally. "For anyone else, I might have asked for more. But for you, I think this is enough."

"Not enough!" Perturabo growled as he threw the Aquila back. He stood there, his chest heaving. A few seconds later, he managed to force a twisted smile.

His eyes were wide open, unblinking. His cheeks were pulled upwards, forcing the corners of his mouth to curve, a movement that reopened the wound at the corner of his mouth, causing blood to gush out, but he didn't seem to care.

He smiled without any hint of amusement or goodwill.

Is that enough?!

"You don't need to push yourself like this, Perturabo." Karyl narrowed his eyes. "I'm not here to humiliate you or make you look bad. I'm here to reclaim Kordibo, whether you believe it or not, that's my true purpose."

"Yes, of course you can say that," Perturabo spat out. "After all, you've already humiliated me."

"That's your own fault," Karyl replied calmly. "And my patience has its limits, Perturabo."

He slowly stepped forward, his right hand outstretched and held steadily in mid-air. His fingers were straight, slightly bent. Perturabo understood the meaning of the gesture at a glance, and his cheeks began to twitch again.

"What do you mean by this?" he asked, taking a deep breath and speaking in a voice so low it sounded like steel twisting.

"This gesture is called a handshake," Karyl said. "But I don't want to shake your hand; I only do it with people I respect. I'm doing this because I have something to show you. I am a Psyker, esteemed Perturabo."

Don't call me that prefix!

"The great Perturabo."

"Enough!"

The Son of Olympia bared his teeth and stepped forward, ignoring the injury to his own finger, and grabbed Karyl's cold right hand.

He used a lot of force; if it were an ordinary object, it would probably be warped by now. But Karyl remained calm as if nothing had happened, and even smiled slightly.

It seems that some purpose has been achieved.

One more chapter.