18. Molten Steel (End)

"Then what?!"

Panting heavily, Perturabo asked, his face contorted in a grimace. "Isn't it all the same old thing in the end? I shook your hand, and you don't have to respect me. Say whatever you want, and then—"

He stopped, swallowing the rest of his words. And it wasn't because Karyl Lohars had done anything again. No, perhaps he had, but the way he did it was something Perturabo simply couldn't comprehend.

No one can understand why the world can be changed in half a second. No one can understand why a simple, iron-gray hospital room can turn into a dark and gloomy world in the time it takes to finish half a sentence.

It was extremely cold here, with howling winds and the air filled with the foul smell of burning corpses, similar to the smell of ashes, but also different.

Karyl Lohars still stood opposite him, tall and ominous, his cloak billowing wildly in the wind.

His appearance changed again; the pale face disappeared, replaced by a skeletal one. Dark eye sockets were now staring at Perturabo, without uttering a word.

"--What did you do?" Perturabo asked, bewildered. "What is this? Some kind of new holographic projection technology that you installed before I woke up?"

He instinctively refused to believe anything beyond his comprehension.

"I am a Psyker, and this is one of the things I can do with psionic abilities."

"You're lying!" Perturabo retorted fiercely. "My legion also has Librarian, and I've studied their capabilities. No Psyker could do something like this!"

"That just means your research isn't enough; Malcador can."

"Malcador?"

"Yes," said the skeleton. "Malcador, that old and useless Malcador you despise."

Perturabo was stunned by those words. A cold wind blew past, and the warmth remaining on his hospital gown began to rapidly dissipate. He thought his skin should be able to withstand the cold, but he was wrong.

He felt an extremely chilling cold.

"Malcador is an extremely powerful Psyker. I'm surprised you didn't know that. Besides, do you really think your father would put someone with no talent in that position?"

"I," Perturabo tried to speak and argue, but his voice was barely audible in the howling wind. The incident infuriated him.

Then, Karyl interrupted him again, giving him no chance to say anything.

This is the second time.

"Speak louder," the skeleton said coldly.

"Don't act like a child about to cry. You're a Primarch, Perturabo. That doesn't mean you have to be a saint or some kind of moral exemplar, but you should have at least a basic sense of responsibility. People who are willing to take responsibility don't talk like that."

"Are you accusing me of being weak?" Perturabo asked incredulously.

He was so shocked that he forgot he should be angry. He shouldn't have spoken those words so softly; he should have been angrier, more agitated.

"Accusing you?"

The skeleton shook its head.

"No, I'm simply stating a fact. The voice you just used didn't really have much to do with weakness; it just didn't quite fit your identity as the Primarch. It's reasonable for it to come from a child or teenager, after all, they are also sensitive and vulnerable."

Perturabo opened his mouth wide, wanting to say something, but he couldn't utter a word—his face was trembling and flushed, the overwhelming emotions rendering him momentarily speechless.

But Karyl continued.

"Stop acting so shocked." He said in a dismissive, even annoyed tone.

"If Sergeant Eltelos hadn't insisted, I wouldn't have wasted a single word on you. You're a piece of rusted steel, Perturabo, and I don't know where that rust came from, but removing it isn't my responsibility."

The skeleton shook his head, his cloak billowing out, revealing a darkness deeper than the night. The smell of burning intensified, becoming so strong that Perturabo instinctively wanted to cough.

He clenched his fists, trying to find some pain in his broken fingers to salvage a sliver of his sanity. He succeeded, but failed—he did feel pain, but it didn't come from his hands; it came from something emerging from the darkness.

No, it's not a thing.

It's one person.

A person who has long since died.

"You!" Perturabo stretched out his right hand as if falling into an abyss, trying to grab the Shadow so he could see its face clearly. But just as his hand was about to touch the other's shoulder, he stopped.

Perturabo stood frozen in place, awkwardly like Stone Statue. But the Shadow didn't keep him waiting long; it spoke, its voice hoarse and broken, as if it had long been destroyed by flames.

"The Primarch," it greeted.

"Eltelos?" Perturabo asked cautiously. "Why are you here?"

Without reason, without cause—at a single glance, he was certain of one thing. This Shadow was indeed Eltelos, indeed a member of his legion, an officer he had once trusted.

"Because of some reasons I cannot tell you."

"Do you mean you intend to hide the truth from me?" Perturabo asked again, his anger, which had subsided, returning at this moment.

Although they climbed slowly, and the frigid temperature around them prevented him from truly losing his mind, he was indeed angry.

"It's not about concealing, Primarch, but about protecting," Sergeant Eltelos replied in the quiet tone characteristic of the dead.

"Protect?"

Perturabo almost burst out laughing, "You protect me? Look at me, Eltelos, can you see the difference between us? I am one of the sons of the Emperor of Mankind, I am far superior to you, what makes you think you can protect me?"

"I don't deny that you are much stronger than me. However, you still need to be protected," the sergeant replied calmly.

Of course he was calm; what emotions could a dead person have?

"Reason," Perturabo said.

His tone suggested he wished Eltelos would die again.

"Because a child always needs protection." The sergeant remained calm, unmoved by Perturabo's performance.

You call me a child?

"In wisdom and strength, a million children combined cannot match you. But in willfulness and temper, you are no different from children. And the kind of spoiled child at that."

"Do you want to die, Eltelos?" Perturabo asked in a very soft voice.

"I've already died once," the sergeant retorted. "And you can't make a dead man die again."

I will remove your name from my legion forever!

"I don't care," Eltelos said. "Because I anticipated you might say that before I even did it. You're a willful and lucky child."

"Most spoiled children like this don't have playmates, but you do, and they're a group of kids who are foolish enough to trust you completely. In that respect, you're very lucky."

"You—!" Perturabo angrily raised his right hand, trying to throw a punch, but he ultimately didn't. No one stopped him; it seemed he had controlled himself.

Considering his previous behavior, this was quite unbelievable. The Primarch, panting heavily, uttered in the most furious and humiliating voice of his life amidst the howling wind. "--Get out, Eltelos, I never want to see you again."

"If I could, I would wish that too," Eltelos said calmly. "But this isn't up to you."

"Get him out of here, Karyl Lohars!" Perturabo roared, turning his head.

"You have no right to order me around," the skeleton replied coldly. "And don't shout when you speak; it only makes you look incompetent."

Therefore, you can only listen to me finish speaking now.

"You"

Perturabo took a deep breath. "Alright, then speak, Eltelos."

His eyes were filled with hatred, but it wasn't a deep hatred; rather, it was a fleeting hatred that might fade away with the years.

It is not usually seen in adults; it is more common in sensitive and proud teenagers who crave recognition but believe that others are not worthy of applause.

To put it more clearly, it shouldn't exist in a Primarch.

"Would you like to listen?"

"Speak now! Before my patience completely runs out!"

The deceased, a sergeant from the Iron Warriors, Terra -born Eltelos, spoke slowly.

What he was about to say was enough to kill him many times over, but he didn't care. He was already dead—he died for his Primarch, and for that reason alone, he had a clear conscience.

Do you approve of us?

"I certainly acknowledge those true Iron Warriors," Perturabo said dismissively. "But you— Eltelos, you are a traitor. You colluded with outsiders against me."

Eltelos ignored the latter part of Perturabo's statement, focusing solely on the first part. "No, in your eyes we are merely a bunch of incompetent tools. In your eyes, our only use is to carry out the war according to your established policies and strategies."

"Didn't my father demand the same of me?!" Perturabo retorted. "I was also one of his tools; I was also forced into war!"

"But the Emperor never asked you to shoulder everything, such as fighting three recapture battles in sixteen months, or even giving us any chance to recover."

"The Great Crusade has left humanity with little time!" Perturabo roared. "So many worlds remain unconquered, unilluminated by the Imperial Truth. What right do we have to rest?!"

You are not alone; you have many brothers.

"Ha!" Perturabo sneered. "Are you expecting me to hand this heavy responsibility over to someone like Rogal Dorn or Roboute Guilliman?"

"Them," Eltelos sighed softly. "Primarch, when have you ever heard of Rogal Dorn and Roboute Guilliman ordering their legions to hold their positions to the death, even if their casualties reach seventy percent, without allowing them to retreat?"

"Their weakness doesn't mean I can be, nor does it mean my legion can be!" Perturabo frowned, fully engaged in the debate.

At this moment, his goal was no longer to make Eltelos disappear, but to win the argument against his dead offspring.

"If you want to become steel, you must be indomitable! I am far superior to my brothers, and so are you! What they cannot do, let us do. Haven't I told you these things, Eltelos?!"

"You said it," the deceased replied expressionlessly. "You said it during the eleventh round of torture. Unfortunately, I wasn't in the mood to listen then; I had to deliver an even heavier punch, otherwise my superior would have had to endure torture for a while longer."

"The eleven-draw penalty is your punishment!"

"For what reason is the punishment taken?"

"For your defeat!" Perturabo swung his arm, as swiftly as if wielding a sword.

"Before I returned, you were known as the Labor Corps—what a disgrace! In the eyes of the Imperium, you were utterly useless except for your strict obedience and tenacity. You also refused to change your tactics, resulting in many unnecessary casualties."

He sneered, even offering an example to bolster his argument. "Take Incalati, for instance. What's so special about that Forge World? Yet you fought for a whole year, losing nearly 30,000 men!"

"I don't deny that we were indeed very stubborn before you returned, even resorting to heavy artillery and heavy vehicles for head-on attacks against the Forge World. However, the situation doesn't seem to have improved much since your return."

A change finally appeared on the dead man's pale face; the corners of his mouth turned up, but what followed was not a smile, but rather a tragic self-mockery.

"We're still suffering heavy casualties, aren't we, Primarch? Aside from the campaign against the planets near your home planet, which we were relatively successful in, the other campaigns haven't been major victories to much."

"We have strictly followed every order you have issued. If you command us to hold our ground, we will not retreat. If you order us to launch a fierce attack on an enemy trap, we will pounce on it without hesitation. Therefore, this does not seem to be our problem."

"The Iron Warriors now have only one commander, and that is you. As for the rest of us, we are merely tools to receive your orders. Do you have anything to say about that?"

Perturabo was stunned. He should have refuted Eltelos long ago, when he said the situation hadn't improved. But Perturabo suddenly found himself unable to find a point to refute.

How could he refute the facts? He wasn't thick-skinned enough to erase the truth and turn it into a lie that benefited him.

"It seems you don't," Eltelos nodded. "So, even after your return, we're still a laughingstock in everyone else's eyes, we're still a labor legion, we're still strictly obedient and tenacious, and otherwise useless—and who should be blamed for that?"

"You--you"

This is all your fault.

The sergeant drew a ruthless conclusion, with his extreme rationality, with his heart that had stopped beating but still held love and concern for the legion and his brothers.

"You are a failed commander, and a failed Primarch. Throughout the entire Imperium, is there a single Legion that hasn't changed at all since their Primarch returned? Can you find one?"

"Sanguinius transformed those ghouls into the elegant warriors they are today; Roboute Guilliman transformed those bloodless destroyers into the Ultramarines they are today; Rogal Dorn passed on everything he learned from Inwit to the Imperial Fists. And you?"

Perturabo's face turned deathly pale.

"You're just keeping us a laughingstock, and a laughingstock at a great cost. We dig trenches, build fortresses, and serve as cannon fodder."

"We received no reinforcements and fought three recapture campaigns against three different planets within sixteen months. And you even said from the beginning that you wouldn't apply for rewards from the Imperium for us after the war, nor did you want to see anyone boast about it."

"What are you thinking? Are you waiting for your father to come and praise you and your legion for the heavy sacrifices you have made?"

"You"

"Are you unable to speak?"

The sergeant finally burst into laughter, but after laughing, he sighed softly.

"To be honest, I despise you, Perturabo," he said, head bowed. "You're just a child, immature and unreliable. You only think about how everyone admires you, but you don't actively reveal your talents, you just expect them to discover them on their own."

"But to be honest, I actually despise myself more. If I had listened to my own heart before I died and cooperated with the Night Lords in a feint attack, perhaps my soldiers wouldn't have suffered so many casualties. You were a failure Primarch, and I was a failure as an Iron Warriors."

"But, no matter what—" He looked up and smiled slightly, "I still hope you can change your mind. It's not too late, Father."

As soon as he finished speaking, he vanished. Perturabo stood frozen in place, one second, two seconds, three seconds. Just as the fourth second was about to pass, he finally made a move. He lunged at Karyl at lightning speed, his broken fingers gripping the skeleton's shoulder tightly.

He growled, "Where is he? Where is the man from Eltelos? Find him! Bring him back!"

"He's dead," the skeleton replied calmly. "And the dead can never 'come back,' accept reality, Perturabo."

"Give him back to me—!" Perturabo roared. "I still have something to say to him! He—he—I want to refute his arrogance! He's misjudged me! I'm definitely not the kind of commander who would let his soldiers deliberately die!"

"Is that so?" The skeleton shook its head. "I don't care about this, and you don't need to prove anything to anyone, Perturabo. The dead are gone, and you..."

He raised his right hand and patted Perturabo on the shoulder. In an instant, the world spun around, and the iron-gray ward returned to normal. Perturabo stared blankly at everything before him, his body trembling. Karyl ignored him, simply turned and walked out of the room, leaving behind his last words.

"If you want to prove it, then prove it. Sergeant Eltelos can't see it anyway."

The door closed, Karyl stood quietly in front of it for a few seconds. Then, a heavy thud came from inside. He turned his head, a flash of blue light in his eyes, and saw through the wall a figure kneeling on the ground, panting weakly.

He nodded thoughtfully.

Your assessment of Perturabo is correct, Malcador.

Oh? You've already beaten him up?

Don't say such harsh things.

Karyl strode forward and left the medical room.

This chapter is 1300 words longer than usual, so it's a bit late. Sorry. Update complete.