20. Night Falls on Koldipo

Fortress A-3-15, a number, a digit.

Perturabo personally numbered the Kordibo fortresses, but that was none of Van Cleef's concern. He removed his helmet, took a deep breath of the distorted air thick with the smell of gunpowder, and a thoughtful expression, born of the passage of time, appeared on his clean-cut face.

His mood had subtly shifted with that single breath, becoming somber and cruel, perfectly mirroring the desolate scene around him.

It was already evening, but there was no sunset on Koldipo. Only a faint light peeked through the thick clouds on the horizon.

The remains of the Iron Warriors have been recovered. Their Apothecary have gone to great lengths to ensure that every brother whose body remains intact can return to their side to rest in peace, rather than remain on this ravaged battlefield to continue suffering the ravages of war.

That's really interesting.

Van Cleef put his helmet back on, blocking out the buzzing sound of his Power Armour.

The blades behind him remained absolutely silent; not a sound rang out. A chilling, almost unnatural anticipation crept through them. They waited, filled with expectation and longing.

A few minutes later, a hoarse voice came from the communication channel and reached their ears.

"You may proceed, First Company," the voice said. "Fortress A-3-15. Target: the highest-ranking officer or someone of similar rank within that fortress. You have twenty-five minutes."

"That's enough," Van Cleef replied softly and slowly.

He didn't just make empty promises.

Seven minutes into the operation, the 1,200 men of the First Company entered the fortress. Under the cover of night, no one noticed their arrival.

There wasn't much bloodshed in this treacherous fortress built against the mountain. The Night Lords used their superb skills to avoid most of the sentries, and those few that couldn't be avoided were killed by them in the fastest and most painless way.

The body was collected without any desecration; its death could even be described as peaceful. Fifteen minutes later, relying on information obtained through simple interrogation, they arrived at a military base within the fortress.

In the eighteenth minute, the highest-ranking officer in the base was captured by the Night Lords. With seven minutes remaining, there was no longer any resistance within the military base.

The Night Lords showed no mercy, killing all the resisters and broadcasting their cries of agony to all the soldiers inside the base via the base's internal communication channels. Surrender came quickly, but Van Cleef was not pleased.

Standing in a room that had been temporarily emptied, leaving only an iron chair, he took off his helmet again. His pale face, illuminated by the dim light around him, took on a peculiar, somber air.

Before him, a middle-aged man was trembling. He was wearing a slightly disheveled black uniform, and Van Cleef's adjutant Mollez, stood beside him, a cold hand resting on his shoulder.

The adjutant remained motionless, still wearing his helmet, but his armor was stained with blood and still burning hot. He had just slaughtered a small reinforcement squad in front of this officer, not with particularly brutal methods, but you can't expect a blade to remain gleaming after a killing.

Van Cleef glanced at the middle-aged man, made a gesture, and Mollez immediately pressed the man down into the chair that fit his size.

The sudden, immense force sent a jolt through his body, and a cry of surprise inevitably escaped his throat. The company commander stared at him expressionlessly, silently calculating the time in his mind.

A few minutes later, the helmet in his hand vibrated. The scarlet goggles began to glow, Van Cleef put them on again. A pale blue rune appeared on his retina, and a voice slowly began to play.

"How is it, Van Cleef?"

"You only need to give the order."

"Now, let's get started."

"Clear."

Van Cleef turned and nodded to his adjutant, who then drew a combat dagger from his waist and tossed it to his company commander.

Van Cleef usually disliked carrying these "backup weapons," so Mollez would typically carry two combat daggers. He earned a slightly sarcastic nickname because of this habit, but no one in the company dared to call him that.

The company commander walked up to the officer, bent down, and adjusted the external mode of the breathing grille using neural connection signals. The next second, his hoarse and distorted breathing echoed in the room.

The middle-aged man shuddered again. He opened his mouth, trying to say something, but a short knife had already struck first, gently plunging into his thigh.

It wasn't deep; in fact, it only slightly penetrated the skin. Yet, the fortress commander's body had already unconsciously changed in fear.

He may have been very tough in the past, but now, with just a little bit of pressure, he immediately screamed in agony, as if he were about to die.

Amidst his screams and violent struggles as his adjutant held him down, Van Cleef slowly spoke. He uttered one of the only three phrases of Kordibo he knew, in his still -Kordibo language.

The Iron Warriors, though reluctant, offered their help nonetheless. They themselves did not seem stubborn.

"Surrender?"

The middle-aged man howled and struggled violently, uttering a long string of words that were awkward and unfamiliar.

However, Van Cleef did not catch the other Kordibo words he wanted to hear in his voice. So he pulled out the blade, plunged it in again, and began to slowly separate the skin from the muscle along the wound itself.

He did this very carefully, his movements slow yet revealing an eerie elegance and precision. The fortress commander's screams grew more intense, but Mollez never let go, so his struggles only served to make him bleed more.

One minute and forty seconds later, Van Cleef meticulously separated the skin, flesh, and nerves, which were steaming and lay limply on the officer's own thigh, occasionally twitching. The stark white thigh bone was faintly visible among the flesh, quite alluring.

"Surrender?" Van Cleef asked again.

The officer trembled, tears streaming down his face, but his expression still did not show the emotion Van Cleef had hoped to see.

The company commander sighed softly, his voice filled with regret. Although it was distorted by the breathing grille into a long, drawn-out lament, Van Cleef was indeed filled with regret at that moment.

You could have avoided suffering any longer.

He reached out and gently grasped the officer's thigh bone. The cold, sharp metal gauntlet rubbed and tapped against it, occasionally even squeezing it tightly.

The officer's screams grew increasingly violent, until finally, he reached a breaking point. After a violent tremor, he stopped, his face, now numb with pain and fear, devoid of any other expression.

This time, Van Cleef didn't ask; he simply said the words Van Cleef had always wanted to hear.

"I surrender! I surrender!"

"Very good," Van Cleef said. "Look at me and say it again."

He clenched his two fingers.

The middle-aged man screamed, his face contorted in agony as blood stained his face. His bloodshot eyes widened as he yelled at Van Cleef with a maddened expression, his voice more like a plea for mercy than a surrender.

Van Cleef finally let go.

Two minutes later, the video he personally recorded was transmitted to a nearby Iron Warriors position. While the commander of Fortress A-3-15 was unconscious and receiving stitches from the Night Lords First Company's Apothecary, the video was being analyzed and uploaded to the track bit by bit.

Thanks to a technology personally developed by Perturabo, it began to be translated into two completely different things on the Iron Blood.

One of the documents was a complete audio recording. The other was a complete video recording. Fifteen video recordings and fifteen audio recordings, including the time required for video transmission, took a total of thirty-three minutes.

A few minutes later, on the Koldipo, shrouded in night, came many suppressed screams of terror.

--

"That's it?" Perturabo asked in a dry voice.

"That's it," Karyl replied casually and calmly.

"Fifteen video and audio recordings, played on a loop across the entire planet for a whole day via the broadcast system—that's enough, great Perturabo. What more could you want? To actually create scenes of inhumane massacres? No, that would only incite a deeper level of resistance. Some things are best done in moderation; you need to find the right balance."

"I simply can't believe I've condoned this," Perturabo said in a low voice, gripping his hammer. "This isn't war anymore; this is terrorism."

"I never said this wasn't a terrorist attack," Karyl replied, tilting his head back, seemingly amicable. "The only difference is that, compared to most terrorist attacks, the method we used was a swift and decisive death, with minimal gore."

Do you think terrorist attacks will make them surrender?

"If not, then let's try again tomorrow night," Karyl replied calmly.

"The first night's attack might mislead some of them into thinking it was a result of carelessness. Then, on the second night, with heightened vigilance, they will witness the various methods the Midnight Blade have deliberately preserved. If that's still not enough, we will issue our final declaration."

"The final declaration? What is it?" Perturabo suddenly felt a tightness in his throat.

"It's just a sentence." Karyl nodded at him with a half-smile.

"Starting tomorrow night, we will launch a relentless offensive for the entire year. Tonight, and every night. Whether they surrender or not will be their own decision; as for everything else, it is no longer their concern."

Perturabo stopped tapping the simulation table, the hammer hovering in mid-air. The tightness in his throat began to change, becoming a sensation somewhere between thirst and burning.

He was certainly not stupid; he didn't need to think too much to understand just how terrifying Karyl Lohars' words were to the Kordibo people.

A group of ghostly killers, appearing and disappearing without a trace, can only be vaguely observed in the darkness of night. The murders, committed one after another at night, are recorded by the killers themselves and then played on a loop throughout the day, impossible to turn off, impossible to escape the cries of the dead.

Then, as soon as night falls again, they will come again.

Can the Kordibo people hold on?

The answer is clearly no. They may have had solid fortifications, but that does not mean their spirit was as resilient as those fortifications, capable of withstanding bombing and artillery fire.

Perturabo stood still, a string of numbers suddenly surfacing in his mind—a countdown, the time he believed the Kordibo people would soon surrender.

--We lost.

We lost completely.

Utter defeat.

A massive steel torrent, a frontal assault, and heavy firepower are still less effective than a terrorist attack carried out by a 6,000-strong force under the cover of night.

Did they suffer any casualties tonight? Probably not. The unprepared Kordibo people would consider it a good result if they could even scratch their armor.

Perturabo pondered coldly, considering many things with his extraordinary rationality. He had always been this way; since leaving Olympia, he had discarded many things and begun to treat everything as simple data to calculate gains and losses.

His biological father— the Emperor of mankind—did not oppose him. In fact, the Emperor even affirmed to some extent his self-sacrifice.

What was the Emperor's expression like at that time?

He began to recall, the Emperor's expression gradually emerged with his memories, changing from blurry to clear, and then from clear to as if it were right before his eyes.

On that Radiance, steely face lay the admiration and recognition that Perturabo needed, but also a sense of regret and heartache that made it impossible to look any longer. He only understood the first two; the latter two remained a mystery to him.

"."

Perturabo opened his mouth blankly, and the tool hammer in his hand fell to the ground with a crisp yet dull sound.

He immediately tried to bend down to pick it up, but abruptly stopped in mid-air. His hand, which was about to touch the hammer, began to tremble, starting with his little finger; the tendons and muscles involuntarily trembled.

A wave of frustration washed over him, turning his innate arrogance into a bitter despair. A ridiculous laugh followed, and he lowered his head, unconsciously chuckling softly.

So that's how it is. Have I been doing things that make people laugh all along? What I've been pursuing can be achieved so easily in the eyes of others. If that's the case, then what about those who died because of my tactics?

He suddenly raised his head.

"No, we can't do this." He looked at Karyl. "I can't be wrong."

The pale giant, draped in the bones of the dead, silently watched him, a strange emotion flickering in his dark eyes. "Why can't you be wrong?"

"Then what did they become?"

"Who?"

"Them." Perturabo clenched his fists. "Eltelos and them."

Karyl smiled.

"Let's look at the facts." He held up one finger. "First, your strategy and tactics weren't wrong, it's just your execution style that's problematic. You are the culprit responsible for the massive casualties among the Iron Warriors. Do you have any objections to that, Perturabo?"

"."

"Really? Great Perturabo?"

"No." The Primarch thought he had buried all his emotions, believing he could do so effortlessly with his exceptional abilities. But now it seemed his emotions had never truly left; they had merely accumulated in his heart, gradually twisting him. He spoke these words with a calm, a calm born of extreme circumstances. The past flashed before his eyes. Those cold, enormous numbers assaulted him, relentlessly pounding at his heart. Perturabo clutched his chest, slowly sliding down against the wall.

"It seems I don't need to give a second example," Karyl said. "Your reaction is quite amusing; I was expecting you to suddenly erupt in anger and yell at me again."

"."

"Aren't you going to say anything? Choosing to remain silent?"

"I—" Perturabo looked up. "—I just couldn't find the words. I was wrong, but what about them?"

"They are a group of people completely loyal to you," Karyl replied softly. "Do you really think Sergeant Eltelos doesn't know what's right and what's wrong?"

Perturabo stared at him silently, like a condemned prisoner awaiting his sentence, waiting for Karyl's next words.

And Karyl did not let him down.

He tore away the last fig leaf from Perturabo's heart with the most blunt language, ripping it to shreds, exposing the wound to the air, where blood surged and roared.

"He knew from the start how to cooperate with our feint attack to achieve maximum results with minimal casualties. But he refused to do so because he had sworn an oath. That oath was given to them by you, that you made them beat their respected commander to death with their own hands."

"In the blood of their brothers, they swore an oath to become steel that you could be proud of. So whatever they do, they are not wrong. Because the only one who is wrong is you, Perturabo."

Karyl stared at him and began to smile.

A hollow smile.

"You're the one who became a laughingstock, the one who made the Legion an object of contempt, and the one who caused Sergeant Eltelos's death."

"You have nothing superior about you. Compared to Sanguinius, Roboute Guilliman, or Rogal Dorn, you are the worst of them all. Have you ever seen anyone compare you to them? You might comfort yourself by saying that those people are blind to your worth. But is that really the case?"

Perturabo slowly clenched his fists, his fingers cracking and blood seeping from between them. His still-bandaged hands were now stained red, and the steel finally began to groan silently under its strain.

"Yes," Karyl said calmly. "From beginning to end, it was just a game played by a group of people loyal to you with a naive child, based on life and accompanied by bloodshed."

He stopped speaking, turned and left. Perturabo lowered his head, leaned against the cold wall, and remained silent.

Two more chapters to go.

The last chapter might be late, but I will keep my word. The third chapter will be written before midnight.