68 Moths

Essentially, war is a science, a very cruel one. And perhaps war is what humanity excels at most? Could this, to some extent, represent human nature?

Perturabo pondered these questions many times; he had a contradictory feeling of both aversion and great interest in philosophy.

On the one hand, he believed that philosophy was of no help to human survival. On the other hand, he also believed that philosophy was very valuable for research and could help him pass the time.

Of course, as always, he didn't voice these thoughts, which was his style—after all, steel doesn't speak for itself. Steel silently endures forging and tempering, becoming armor, weapons, and shields.

"Horus has sent a message," the Lord of Drakes reported. "He will be waiting near Istvaan III."

"Did he mention Fulgrim and the others?" Perturabo asked, head bowed.

He was gently tapping a metal octahedron with a tool hammer. Its surface was silver, with intricate patterns and the coat of arms of Olympia. Undoubtedly, this was also one of Perturabo's works.

However, strangely enough, Vulkan couldn't figure out what the purpose of this octagonal cube was.

"No," Vulkan said. "That's exactly what I was worried about; he didn't mention a word about it."

Perturabo gave a muffled nasal sound, which could be considered a kind of response. He turned the octahedron and continued to tap it, and it finally reacted. The surface began to deform, and with the sound of gears turning, it transformed into a beautiful little car.

Vulkan looked at it with a hint of amazement and couldn't help but ask, "How did you design it?"

"I don't know," Perturabo said. "I was just doing it for fun."

He said this, but then, in front of Vulkan, he tapped the front hood of the car, and it transformed again, returning to its octahedral shape.

"There are sixteen transformation methods in total," said the Lord of Iron. "My original intention was to make an educational toy for children, but it seems to have become a bit too difficult. Even the scholars of Olympia haven't been able to fully understand the rules governing the transformation of this octahedron, let alone children."

"I'm disappointed. After all, it's just some simple math formulas. It's understandable that the children can't understand them, but the fact that they couldn't understand them at all is really frustrating."

"Are you showing off?" the third person in the room asked quietly.

Unlike Perturabo and Vulkan, he was fully armed, his armor and respirator even polished. The famous scythe called Silence rested quietly in his hand, and a brass-colored energy pistol called Lantern, one of the Emperor's private treasures, hung at his waist.

"Sounds somewhat like it," Vulkan laughed. "But they shouldn't be our brothers; they shouldn't need to seek superiority over ordinary people."

Perturabo snorted coldly and said nothing, which was taken as tacit agreement.

Mortarion shook his head, the aroma of spices growing stronger with his movement. "When are you going to change this habit?"

"What?"

"This."

"What?" Perturabo turned around rudely and impatiently, still holding the tool hammer and octahedron in his hand.

"What exactly are you trying to say, Mortarion? I beg you to finish your sentence, say it clearly and plainly. And don't use your numerology to explain it to me; use methods that conform to the Imperial Truth."

Vulkan laughed silently and gleefully; he already knew what was about to happen.

"Numerology is a very scientific theory, perfectly aligned with the Imperial Truth— " Mortarion held up a finger with utmost seriousness. "Seven is the hidden truth of all things; I can give many examples to prove my correctness."

"Then raise it." Perturabo put down his hammer and octahedron, crossing his arms with a sneer. "Come on, let's have a debate. Right now, you stubborn fool."

"Your attitude makes me want to shut up," Mortarion said, his eyes, visible through the respirator, filled with obvious helplessness. "Konrad Curze actually said you're a good person; I really doubt if his assessment of you is filtered through the lens of brotherly affection."

Perturabo's eye twitched violently: "You actually—"

He took a deep breath.

"--Alright." The Lord of Iron returned to his expressionless face. "Stop the small talk, let's get down to business. What's your opinion on Horus?"

"I don't believe he would do what you're guessing, but Konrad Curze's predictions do have a high degree of credibility. Although I can't yet understand his talent, his words do indeed conform to the deductions of numerology."

As he spoke, Mortarion raised one finger again with great seriousness.

"I think we need to be cautious; there are too many suspicious points in this whole affair. Fortunately, we will soon be able to approach Istvaan III, at which point the truth should come to light."

"But, brother, what if our terrible prediction comes true?" Vulkan asked seriously. "I think we must prepare for both possibilities. I propose that the Combined Fleet immediately begin pre-battle mobilization and preheat its artillery positions. At least we must be prepared before the danger arrives."

Mortarion didn't answer immediately; he frowned, appearing to be thinking.

Perturabo responded swiftly, the Lord of Iron maintaining his impassive expression. "I have no objection. If he wants a war, then we'll give him one. But if this is all just a misunderstanding, I will apologize to him."

"I hope so," Vulkan, then looked at Mortarion. "And you? Have you made up your mind, brother?"

"The minority submits to the majority," said the Lord of Death. "You're right, Vulkan. I agree."

Minutes later, they jointly issued an order that quickly spread throughout the massive combined fleet. Battle Barge, cruisers, destroyers, and even those on shuttles received the order, signed by the three Primarch, without error.

A tense atmosphere began to spread throughout the fleet, except for one ship.

It was the only exception.

Named the Terminus Est, it was the prototype for the Marauder-class battleship, completed in Luna manufacturing facility. Formerly known as the Dusk Raiders, it is now simply the Terminus Est, the flagship of Death Guard Karas Typhon.

With formidable firepower and numerous decks, all specially designed to accommodate several times the number of assault boats found on ordinary ships, it distinguished itself within the Death Guard, its name shining as brightly as that of Karas Typhon.

But that won't change soon.

--

Ezekyle Abaddon dragged himself back into the royal court.

He had just inspected the repair progress on the first twenty decks of the Vengeful Spirit, and despite the lack of crew and servants, the repairs were proceeding rapidly.

Most of the areas damaged by bombs or other objects have now been restored to their former state, and this is by no means the work of the Techmarine; in fact, the Vengeful Spirit is healing itself.

Abaddon didn't know how to view the matter. He gave himself many explanations, but none of them truly convinced him. So he forced himself to forget about it for the time being and returned to Lupercal's Court.

The Wolf God sat on his Throne, the giant wolf's fur trembling slightly on his shoulders, his crimson eyes on his black armor staring at Abaddon as if they possessed a mind of their own.

This had never happened before. Abaddon lowered his head, temporarily forgetting the matter as well, and slowly began to speak.

"Primarch," he said calmly, "We are ready to rejoin the battle. The repairs on the Vengeful Spirit are nearing completion."

In response, his Gene-Father gave him a meaningful smile.

"No, that's not enough," he said.

"Grown ups?"

"Actually, it's far from enough, Ezekyle. We need manpower to preheat the cannons; these miscellaneous tasks, like loading ammunition, all need to be done by mortals," the man on the Throne said with a smile. "We can't expect Astartes to do these chores, can we?"

"But we have no servants left to use."

There were no crew members either, Abaddon thought to himself. "I don't even know how the Vengeful Spirit should navigate and turn if war really breaks out."

"No need to worry," the Wolf God chuckled. "I have my own way. By the way, Ezekyle, have you seen Garviel Loken, Tarik Torgaddon, and Aximand? Why haven't I seen them come looking for me?"

Abaddon fell silent, momentarily confused as to why his Primarch had asked that question—was he perhaps joking with him?

A sense of absurdity welled up within him, prompting him to involuntarily raise his head and glance at the Wolf God. The latter's burning eyes were fixed on him, causing his heart to stop for a moment.

"The Primarch?" Abaddon asked hesitantly. "Have you forgotten? They're gone."

"Oh." The Wolf God nodded thoughtfully. "I forgot, I'm sorry, my son. I almost forgot they were already traitors."

He burst into laughter.

"This is truly amusing. My own son has betrayed me and taken all my crew and servants with him. What? Couldn't they find anyone else to sail the ship?"

Did they take the crew and servants with them? They weren't...

Abaddon envisioned the hanged corpses, their gruesome forms swaying in the cold, putrid wind. A rebuttal reached his lips, but he swallowed it back. The Wolf God watched him with satisfaction, a hint of murderous intent flickering within him.

"Eliminate them." He waved his right hand indifferently. "Find out exactly how many betrayed me, and erase them all. One day, they will repay me with my blood. As for now, Ezekyle, you can leave."

"Yes, Primarch."

With his head bowed, Abaddon fled Lupercal's Court as if fleeing, his body cold and unrecognizable.

Update complete.

The plot will begin to move forward tomorrow.