21. The Regret of Iron

Forrix never imagined the war would end this way—the day after the Midnight Blade attacked the fortress on Kordibo, they surrendered unconditionally.

This greatly puzzled the Iron Warriors. They couldn't understand why this group, who relied on the fortress and could even fight them to a standstill, would surrender so easily after being attacked by only six thousand men.

The discussion on this issue was particularly intense among high-ranking officers, and in fact, a conclusion had already been reached, proposed by Barabás Dantioch not long ago.

"Because those Kordibo people have nothing left to rely on but the fortress," Dantioch said to his colleagues, his face serious.

"They had nothing else to protect themselves, so when faced with the Midnight Blade's infiltration of the fortress, which dealt them a real life-or-death blow, they surrendered immediately. Most people are like that, far from having the steely will to overcome their weakness of fear."

He spoke with a strong sense of confidence in his eyes, as if he didn't consider himself one of the losers. That confidence stemmed from his impulse to adopt the Night Lords' tactics and the vigor that comes with youth.

However, Forrix didn't actually believe his impulse would come to fruition. As was well known, Perturabo was a very stubborn Primarch.

He would never adopt the tactics of other legions for his own use— Forrix could even guess how his Primarch would react to this.

Doesn't misappropriating their property mean I'm learning from them? It's always the weak who learn from the strong, never the strong.

He will most likely rebuke Dantioch with harsh words, and if the situation escalates, it's not impossible that he might be demoted or reassigned to the expeditionary fleet, thus keeping him far away from the main force of the legion.

Thinking of this, Forrix pursed his lips. He pondered as he walked back to his room from the training ground, still wearing his heavy training armor.

He had just fought two of the highest-danger Combat Servitor. Normally, Forrix would use a sword or other weapon to trigger their emergency stop buttons—there were three in total, all located in vital areas. But this time, he dismantled them all.

Overwhelmed by emotions, he went against his own principles to some extent and acted irrationally. This sense of frustration mixed with the suffocating feeling from heavy thinking left him with a strong sense of disorientation as he entered his room.

That's why he didn't notice the figure standing in front of his workbench.

Forrix casually tossed his training helmet aside and turned on the light. He was an old-fashioned man and preferred to manually activate the lights rather than use automated sensor strips.

The stark white lights immediately came on, illuminating the iron-gray, cage-like room and revealing everything inside, including the person standing in front of the workbench with his back to him.

Forrix was taken aback.

"Primarch--!"

"No need to shout so loudly," Perturabo replied sternly, still with his back to him. "What's wrong with your computational model, Forrix? Why can't I see anything you're good at in it? There are even exposed cables at the edges."

He turned around, holding a model that was rather small for Primarch. It was encased in a bluish-gray exterior, with a monitor flickering in the center.

It was an idea of Forrix' that, once completed, could be used to calculate the amount of shells that might be needed before the start of each war, based on available conditions. And as Perturabo said, it was not fully finished at the edges and the workmanship was very rough.

This is completely unacceptable for Forrix.

The Iron Warriors' company commander lowered his head in shame. "I was a little distracted while I was working on it last night. Sorry, Primarch."

"."

"Primarch?" Forrix asked, head bowed. He dared not look up, not out of fear, but simply because he didn't want to see the disappointment in Perturabo's eyes. To his surprise, his Primarch remained silent for a long time after being called upon before speaking again.

"You have no obligation to apologize to me," Perturabo said curtly. "This creation is your idea, it belongs only to you. Therefore, whether you finish it beautifully or just slap it together and call it a day is up to you."

Forrix looked up in surprise, only to find his Primarch examining the computational model. His fingers were still wrapped in bandages, and his left palm was even charred and oozing blood.

This horrific scene was naturally hard for Forrix to accept, but Perturabo seemed unconcerned. He rotated the model with his bandaged fingers, his knuckles cracking constantly. Half a minute later, he finally looked up.

"Its shape needs to be more rounded to fit the human hand better," the steel-clad man said coldly. "If you only intend to supply it to officers, that's fine, but I hope you can improve it to make it more suitable for a human hand."

"You intend to distribute it to the Auxilia?" Forrix was increasingly shocked— Perturabo's appearance and manner of speaking were still familiar to him, but for some reason, Forrix felt an extreme sense of unfamiliarity.

"Why not?" Perturabo frowned and looked over.

Forrix paused for a moment, then finally offered an explanation. "Our Auxilia are few in number, Primarch. In fact, they are very few. Not many organizations within the Imperial Army are willing to cooperate with us long-term; that's our style."

He paused for a moment, intending to use a more tactful way of describing the matter so as not to hurt his Primarch's feelings. However, a cold smile appeared on Perturabo's face.

"It will inflict heavy casualties on them," Perturabo said. "And they'll call us body shredders behind our backs, I know."

"You know?"

"I've always known." Perturabo turned around and placed the computational model back on the table. He began to rummage through the surrounding design drawings and picked up some things such as wrenches or hammers.

Forrix wanted to come forward to help, but Perturabo stopped him in his tracks with just a sidelong glance.

After a while, the Primarch began to reach for the steel, pipes, and cables that were placed to the side, and in the meantime, he spoke in a rather deep voice.

This voice was not the Forrix was familiar with, the voice of "Perturabo". The company commander blinked blankly, not understanding what was happening, and could only passively listen to his Primarch's words.

"Other legions consider us a labor force and ridicule us; the Imperial Fists believes their fortresses are insurmountable; and some even say we will only achieve victory through prolonged time and heavy casualties."

Forrix took a light but deep breath.

"They don't understand what they're talking about, Primarch," the company commander said. "They're all just—"

"--Just stating the truth." Perturabo interrupted him mercilessly. "They're right, except for the second point. We are indeed a labor corps, we do spend long hours maneuvering around enemy lines, and our casualty figures are indeed enormous."

"."

Forrix fell silent.

He had imagined his Primarch admitting his mistakes many times, though he had long since abandoned such imaginings as the years had passed. But when it actually became a reality, Forrix suddenly realized that he was completely unable to adapt.

He couldn't understand.

Why now, Primarch? Why would you admit your mistake at this time? No, no, why would you admit your mistake?

The company commander's teeth began to grind against each other, like Razor rubbing together. He remained silent, trying to find a plausible reason to explain his Primarch's transformation—a plausible reason, apart from Karyl Lohars's interference.

But he couldn't find it.

His thoughts began to rub against each other, becoming tangled and knotted, like ropes deliberately knotted together after being soaked in water, impossible to untangle. But Perturabo spoke again at this moment.

"This will begin to change from today."

He turned around, and in his hand was a computational model. It wasn't Forrix's work, nor was it a modification of his work. It was a completely new computational model.

Its surface is rough and unpolished. The various marks on the steel surface stubbornly remain on its square shell.

It also has a display screen, but instead of showing calculation formulas or input keys, it displays an enormous number.

Perturabo held it in his hand and gently rubbed its surface with his bandaged, bent fingers.

"What is this, Primarch?" Forrix asked, staring intently at the number. He was so focused that he didn't even notice the tremor in his voice.

"A simple computational model," Perturabo replied curtly. "No features were added, only features were removed."

What is this number?

"Them," Perturabo said. "Everyone."

Forrix looked up, his expression contorted as if he'd been hit head-on by a bomb, a jumble of emotions trying to erupt, yet he held them back tightly.

Iron Within, Iron Without.

Steel, however, possesses no superfluous emotions.

Perturabo offered no comment on his performance; he lowered his head and continued to observe the model. He was so focused that it was as if no one else existed in his world.

After a long time, Forrix heard his Primarch's last words that night.

"I'll name it the Eltelos Number," he said, his voice authoritative and cold. "That's settled then. Keep an eye on the time, Forrix. We're setting off back to Olympia tomorrow for supplies. Don't lose your composure then."

The door slammed shut, and behind him, the steel warrior Frick began to melt.

This chapter is only 3k words long because I realized that if I continued writing, I wouldn't be able to publish it before midnight. I will continue writing the remaining 7k words.