Winning Is Not the Only Objective

"You've done a truly terrifying feat," Van Cleef said. "At least I have absolutely no idea how to put it in my report afterward."

"Just report the facts," Karyl replied gently.

"Are you saying you assaulted a Primarch in full view of everyone?"

"No."

"But you require me to report the truth."

"You could rephrase the wording a bit, Van Cleef, for example, educate, teach, teach a lesson—or just be direct and write 'beating,' I think that would be fine too."

The company commander sighed helplessly.

This mission was personally issued by the Sigillites, Malcador. Whether before or after the name change, this was the first time the Night Lords had received a direct order from him. Considering the Sigillites's position, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that this mission was, in a sense, the Emperor's will.

However, Van Cleef always saw more.

First, why did Malcador issue such an order?

He sent the Night Lords from Nostramo across half the galaxy to this planet called Kordibo. Why didn't he send other legions that were closer?

Secondly, even at their peak, the Night Lords couldn't compare to the Iron Warriors in terms of numbers, let alone now that they only have six thousand. Although their fighting style is indeed an alternative and tactical complement to the Iron Warriors.

However, everyone knows Primarch Perturabo of the Iron Warriors is not one to listen to anyone's advice. He even ignores the advice of the members of his own Trident Council, let alone advice from other Legions.

With a series of clues piling up, Van Cleef could no longer regard this mission as mere "support."

"Perhaps we should go straight back to the ground, instructor." After a brief silence, the company commander spoke in his characteristically flat and monotone tone.

"Reason?" Karyl asked.

"We should end this war quickly," Van Cleef said. "To be honest, I don't know what you did in the medical room just now, and I'm not particularly interested in knowing, but in my opinion, Lord Perturabo will probably challenge you to another battle after he wakes up."

"You know him very well, Van Cleef."

"The only use of living long." Van Cleef shrugged, displaying a rare self-deprecating humor. "I haven't seen many Primarch, but I've heard a lot of rumors."

"Rumors?" Karyl raised an eyebrow. "Would you mind sharing a few?"

"Now?"

"Now."

". All right."

Van Cleef pondered for a moment, then spoke again. His tone remained unchanged, without pause or inflection, yet it did not induce drowsiness.

"The angels of the Ninth Legion would secretly exchange and collect paintings by their fathers, some painted by themselves, others by outstanding artists. They considered this a responsibility."

"It is said that they worked so hard simply to create artworks that could better capture the spirit of Sanguinius. I don't know the real reason, but the painter who mentioned this to me said he didn't believe anyone could capture even a tenth of the archangel's features with a paintbrush."

"Hmm," Karyl nodded. "You guys aren't doing that too, are you?"

"Of course not," Van Cleef replied without batting an eye. "We only know how to kill; we have absolutely no interest in painting or sculpting."

Karyl chuckled and said nothing more.

The Iron Blood is truly astonishingly large—this size is different from the labyrinthine expanse of the Nightfall; its size is manifested in the ubiquitous wide corridors and long staircases.

Yes, it may sound a bit strange, but the Gloriana-class Battleship ship doesn't have many elevators or rapid transit devices. The few that exist are all located on the gun deck or in the hangar; there are absolutely no elevators in areas like this, which are used for main passage.

Moreover, there were no windows.

Combined with its minimalist, iron-gray style, it looks almost exactly like a prison.

"So, continue, who's the next rumor about?" Karyl asked with interest. "I'd be very interested to know about that."

"Do you want to hear more?" Van Cleef asked, slightly surprised. "I thought only Xianni or Jairzinho would be interested in this kind of thing."

"Of course I'd like to hear it," Karyl smiled. "But... does Jairzinho also enjoy hearing about these things?"

"He is, after all, the chief medical officer," Van Cleef said, emphasizing the word "chief." He said nothing more. The company commander stopped, his brow furrowing abruptly. "Instructor."

"It's alright," Karyl said. "You go to the landing deck first, Van Cleef, and take them back to the Nightfall."

"But."

"It's alright." Karyl turned his head to look at the figure limping towards him, his smile vanishing from his face. Van Cleef remained silent for a few seconds, then turned and left without hesitation.

The person who arrived was Perturabo.

He came alone, still wearing his hospital gown. His forehead was swollen, and his fingers were wrapped in thick bandages. He walked with a limp, not because of any problem with his legs, but because he was having difficulty breathing.

Karyl broke some of his bones, and the fractures made breathing a painful ordeal.

However, all of this seemed to have no effect on Perturabo himself; his face was expressionless. In fact, if you were to cover his eyes, which were fixed intently on Karyl, at this moment, some might think he was dead.

Karyl stood still, waiting for a moment. Only when Perturabo approached did he speak again, "Is there anything else, Your Excellency Perturabo?"

"."

"Son of Olympia?"

"."

"Ah, is that still not enough?" Karyl nodded. "Then, what would you like me to address you by?"

"Do as you please," Perturabo said, panting, his face grim. "Foolish Perturabo, cruel Perturabo, call me whatever you like, I won't deny them."

But this is an insult.

"There is no insult in the face of facts," the Primarch said, straightening his back. "Call me whatever you want; I will not deny the facts. I may be incompetent, but I am certainly not shameless."

His body was still in pain, and Karyl could hear something was off about his heartbeat. But what truly amused him was the torrent of emotions that Perturabo was now unable to conceal.

They surged up from the depths of his eyes like a tsunami. Although they were not actually revealed, for Karyl, who was looking at him, Perturabo's emotions were impossible to hide.

Perhaps Perturabo had no intention of hiding it.

Is it sad? Perhaps.

Do you regret it? Probably some.

But his dominant emotions were anger and disgust. His cheeks twitched, as did his lips. His teeth were clearly visible behind his lips, making him look like a vicious wolf trying to draw blood with its sharp fangs. But his twitching nostrils and wide eyes made him appear harmless.

After a five-minute-long silent stare, Perturabo finally spoke again. His voice was low and calm, a stark contrast to his appearance.

"I will prove it," he said. "I will prove it to Eltelos."

But he's already dead.

He didn't.

Perturabo's cheek twitched nervously.

"I am his Primarch, and I will not allow him to die, do you understand, Karyl Lohars? I don't know what kind of witchcraft you just cast on me in the infirmary, and I don't care, but listen to me. I will prove to Eltelos that I am not the kind of person he claims I am. I joined the war because I am far superior to ordinary people; they need my protection, they need my leadership, not for some damned approval!"

Even your father's approval?

"He already approved of me!" Perturabo roared. "He entrusted the legion to me."

"Then, you led your legion in one high-casualty, low-efficiency war after another. Three recapture battles in sixteen months—it sounds impressive, but how many brothers have our Iron Warriors lost so far?"

Karyl twitched the corners of his mouth and smiled. This expression, usually used to indicate goodwill or malice, appeared to Perturabo as pure nothingness.

He couldn't see a trace of "emotion" on Karyl Lohars' face; the smile seemed like a mask, and only his words were real.

"In other words, how many Eltelos have died under your orders, Perturabo?"

"I'll keep track of it."

"What's the use? They're already dead."

"I will compile the data," Perturabo repeated.

"Then what?"

Karyl put his hands behind his back and shook his head. "So, what are you planning to do, Perturabo?"

"This is none of your business," Perturabo said coldly. "Now, have your men wait on deck. You and I are coming."

"I remember saying that you have no right to order me around, don't you?"

"This is not an order." Perturabo gritted his teeth, his eyes widening to their limit. "Come with me, Karyl Lohars."

After saying that, he turned and left. Karyl stood there, pondered for a moment, and finally used psionic communication to notify Fer Zalost, who was on the deck, so that he could bring the unfortunate news to his brothers.

--

"The Kordibo people have many fortresses, a lot of heavy firepower, and are extremely fanatical about it. I'm not interested in why they have such a tradition; I'm not a historian, I'm here to conquer."

"So they only had two choices: surrender or die. They initially sent a diplomatic envoy to try and communicate with me, but that envoy said some things he shouldn't have."

"You killed him?"

"No, I gave him two extra prosthetics," Perturabo said. "But that's not the point. Look here, Karyl Lohars."

He raised his hand and pointed to the screen in front of him. The holographic projection rippled along with his finger, suggesting that it could be dragged. This was not an effect that common tactical sandboxes within the Imperium could achieve; it was undoubtedly a modification by Perturabo himself.

In fact, all the machinery in this private tactical simulation room was made by Perturabo himself. In his words a few minutes earlier, he "looked down on those pieces of junk filled with stupid and poorly designed things."

Whether they were garbage or not, Karyl naturally disagreed. But it was an undeniable fact that Perturabo's creations were indeed far superior to those Karyl was familiar with.

"Did you see that?" Perturabo asked breathlessly, his left hand still clutching his chest and abdomen.

"This is my tactic against the Kordibo fortresses. They've built many fortresses along their shattered land and planet, but these fortresses are all in treacherous locations. Weapons, ammunition, and even the most basic food supplies have to be transported across the planet through a few of the largest fortresses."

"That's why I've stretched the battle lines so thin. They love to defend cities, and they're good at it, so let them defend. We just need to cut off their transportation routes and capture some key transportation hubs and fortresses, and we can easily make them surrender!"

His eyes widened. "--Now do you understand?! They have absolutely no chance of winning!"

Karyl nodded slightly.

"Indeed," he said, standing beside the holographic projection with his arms crossed. "But how many of your legions will be lost? The Kordibo people love heavy firepower, and some of their techniques are even troublesome for us."

"Given your tactical style, a direct confrontation with them and capturing their supply lines and fortifications would indeed lead to victory, but how many men would you be willing to sacrifice?"

"."

Perturabo fell silent, his face bearing the peculiar expression of someone who had suffered greatly. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then swallowed the words back and uttered another sentence instead.

"This is none of your business," he said, forcing a proud air. "My strategy is sound."

"So, the problem lies with the Iron Warriors?"

"They have no problems either."

"Oh, that's really strange." Karyl laughed. "A war destined to be devastating, a commander who believes he's not wrong, nor is his soldiers—so, who should bear the blame for this inevitable devastation?"

"I can win!" Perturabo clenched his right fist. "Are you going to deny that?"

"Of course I won't deny it, but what exactly do you take war for, Perturabo?" Karyl wiped the smile from his face, and the emptiness that had filled Perturabo with both fear and anger returned.

He tilted his head slightly, as if looking at Perturabo, yet not at all. His gaze was focused on Perturabo's shoulder, not his face. His speech was devoid of any emotion, as if he were simply stating a well-known mathematical theory.

For example, 1 + 1 equals 2.

"You pulled me into your private tactical simulation room and explained your strategic direction and why you've stretched the battle lines so thin. So, Perturabo?"

"I just want to prove to you that my strategy is sound!"

"You don't need to prove these things to me, and I've never said your strategy was flawed. The goal of war is to win, I won't deny that. But winning can't be the only goal."

"If you continue fighting like this, you can indeed win, but it will reduce your legion's numbers by forty percent or even more. You've already seen the artillery fire from those fortresses. Koldipo's terrain is mostly flat, making it impossible for our heavy vehicles to deploy."

"Air raids can cause some problems for the fortress, if you're willing to send out ten Storm Eagle at once and endure the possibility that six of them will be shot down. Your makeshift defenses won't be able to get your legion forward at all, and even if they did, it wouldn't make a difference. The Kordibo people simply won't come out of their fortresses."

Karyl paused for a moment, pleased to see Perturabo's face gradually change. The fabricated pride vanished, replaced by a shocking deathly pallor. His breathing quickened, and the hand he was using to clutch his chest sank deeper and deeper.

Karyl waited a few seconds, and then launched a long-planned attack.

"Since the start of the war, how many men in your legion have died under artillery fire without even seeing the enemy?"

Perturabo's body swayed violently as he suddenly felt a strong urge to vomit. He raised his right hand and pressed it onto the projection sand table, the immense force instantly shattering the precious machine and sending sparks flying.

Damaged pipes and cables were exposed between twisted metal, while his face and heart were seared by pulsating arcs of electricity, every cell in his body raging. In a daze, Perturabo felt incredibly small.

He looked down at the sturdy sand table that could withstand Boltgun, and at its current disheveled state, a bewildered and bitter smile appeared on his face.

Steel, steel that is so fragile.

After a long pause, he spoke again. This time, however, he didn't sound like Perturabo at all.

"Then," the Primarch asked in a low voice, "What do you think should be done?"

"The great Son of Olympia actually wants to listen to my advice?"

Perturabo looked up and glanced at Karyl. His face was deathly pale, and a pungent, burnt smell emanated from his hands that had touched the iron table.

"Yes," he said. "My strategy and tactics are sound, that's what you said. So, how are you going to achieve my tactical objectives without relying on a frontal assault? Will you rely on the six thousand men you brought for an airborne raid, or a stealth tactic?"

"No." Karyl calmly shook his head. "We have a better way, an old one. Can the Iron Blood take over the Kordibo's communications channel and broadcast?"

"Can."

"That's enough," Karyl said. "But, like I said, Perturabo, what exactly are you doing all this for?"

The proud man from Olympia slowly clenched his teeth, refusing to answer.

Three more chapters, 5k each.