74: Extinction's End (VI)

Vulkan had not received any messages or orders from Perturabo for eleven minutes. Even when he called out over the communication channel, there was no answer. Coincidentally, Mortarion was also silent.

This matter was undoubtedly very unsettling. The Lord of Drakes stood with his arms crossed in the command room of the Flamewrought and sighed solemnly—for some reason, he suddenly thought of Cassian Vaughn at this moment.

That was the Salamanders Legion Commander before he returned to the Legion. A respectable warrior, now lying in his Dreadnought, awaiting the call to battle.

He pondered, the battle report display screen beside him flickering incessantly. Intense light flashed outside the porthole, each flash representing an explosion, each representing the destruction of a warship, and the Flamewrought was undeniably at the center of this destruction.

A few seconds later, Vulkan came to a conclusion: he understood that his brothers must have encountered something very dangerous.

But the question is, was Horus really capable of doing such a thing?

Vulkan asked himself these questions, but couldn't come up with any answers.

He had indeed heard of supernatural phenomena and had seen the Thousand Sons summon thunder and storms on the battlefield. But Horus was not Magnus, his legion was not the Thousand Sons, and they were not proficient in things like psychic powers and witchcraft.

But if not psychic powers, what other force could possibly be able to keep both Primarch locked in a fierce battle across such a vast distance, unable to respond to his communications?

"Primarch."

Just as he was pondering this, his bodyguard, who was also a company commander, Artères Numenz, walked into his command room.

Unlike most people, Vulkan didn't actually like standing on the bridge and surveying the entire situation. He preferred to stay in a not-so-spacious command room to think quietly, but the door was usually left open, and anyone could report anything to him directly.

"What is it?" Vulkan asked.

"We have received a communication request," Arterius Numenion reported, trying his best to remain calm. Nevertheless, a very obvious seriousness was evident in the Terra's eyes.

"From the Vengeful Spirit, it is Horus."

Vulkan squinted.

Did he state his intentions?

"No, sir," said Artères Numenziam. "He only requests to speak with you, in any way—communication, holography, or face-to-face."

"Face to face?" Vulkan chuckled. "He's either joking or he's genuinely insane. At times like these, it's almost the same. Take the communicator; I'd like to hear what he has to say."

The company commander silently left his command room. Dozens of seconds later, a communication signal ripped through a Cogitator array in front of Vulkan and was picked up by the Lord of Drakes himself.

"Traitor," Vulkan.

"I'm not here to argue with you, brother," the person on the other end of the line said, their voice slightly hoarse. "You don't need to be so hostile; in fact, I'm contacting you with good intentions."

"My fleet is attacking yours, and if possible, I would like to blow every one of your ships to smithereens with my Macro-cannon and torpedoes. And yet you're talking about goodwill now? Perhaps you do have goodwill, but I only have murderous intent towards you."

"The Vulkan I knew wouldn't be so cruel to his brother."

"But you are not," Vulkan said slowly. "I don't know what you really are, but you are definitely not Horus Lupercal. But that doesn't matter; when I throw you into the flames and watch you slowly turn to ashes, I think I will find the answer."

The person on the other end of the line chuckled softly, showing no anger at Vulkan's words. In fact, quite the opposite, he continued to explain, appearing completely detached from any hint of anger.

"You act as if you know me very well, Vulkan, but it's not really business as you think, is it? I called specifically for this matter."

Tell me your lie.

"What I am about to say is no lie," Horus said solemnly. "You may stubbornly insist that everything I say is a lie, but I will never Deceit my brother. Listen, Vulkan, Perturabo is about to die."

Vulkan's pupils constricted slightly.

"This is not a threat, nor is it any kind of alarmist rhetoric. I'm simply stating a fact to you: he is about to die."

Why should I believe you?

"You may not believe it, but his flagship is ravaged by enemies he cannot face, so not only him, but his offspring and legions will also perish from the plague. I do not wish for him to suffer such a fate. He is perhaps the one among us who has sacrificed the most for the lie of the Great Crusade; he deserves a better ending."

"What are you trying to say?" the Lord of Drakes asked coldly. "I sensed a seduction in your words."

"I will cease fire," Horus said. "I will allow your fleet to turn back and support him, to save him, Vulkan. It is only right for a blacksmith to save steel."

"Wishful thinking." Vulkan approached the ranks of the Cogitator, his hands resting on the sharp metal edges. His expression was extremely cold, and his tone was far from what it had been before, now utterly somber.

"Listen to me carefully: not a single ship in my legion will turn back or cease fire. We will fight here until you are all engulfed in flames."

Horus sighed softly.

"Alright," he said. "I regret it, but since you've chosen to stand by, the war continues."

He hung up the call.

Vulkan stood there, his breathing still long and calm, but his expression gradually became serious.

Reply quickly, Perturabo, Mortarion.

Reply quickly.

--

Unfortunately, Perturabo was unable to reply at that moment.

Whether the Lord of Iron is willing to admit it or not, he is indeed embroiled in a fierce battle.

Evidence of this can be seen in his armor stained with the sick blood, and in the Iron Warriors around him who are succumbing to the plague. They stagger, unable to even stand, let alone fight.

The metal that made up the Power Armour was rusted and rotten, and the skin and flesh exposed to air were covered with blisters and pustules. Some people had taken off their helmets and were vomiting. Internal organs and teeth were vomiting out of their mouths, and the stench was unbearable and gave off a horrifying smell.

The sight was so horrifying, yet the reason was simply because of a swarm of ridiculous flies.

"So resilient." The voice from the swarm of flies came again, its words sounding like the buzzing of fly wings. Very noisy, very annoying.

"Your resilience far exceeded my expectations, which is a real pity. If you could accept your father's love, how strong your body would become? Coupled with your indestructible will, you would be the end of everything."

It rambled on for a while, then ended with a dramatic twist, laughing incessantly, "What a pity, what a pity, you can no longer be blessed."

"Shut your mouth," Perturabo said coldly, swinging his Warhammer to end the suffering of an Iron Warriors. He watched the Primarch's Warhammer fall before dying, letting out a murmur of relief.

The Lord of Iron's words caused the buzzing flies to disperse slightly, and the voice rang out again, this time tinged with displeasure.

"That's really rude of you. I've been very sincere, and I'm even willing to tell you the whole story. Why are you still behaving so rudely?"

Perturabo remained silent, simply walking up to the next warrior and raising his Warhammer.

He had already issued orders through the warframe's built-in command system: from this moment forward, the main bridge of the Iron Blood would be under complete lockdown. He stated explicitly in the order that this was a case of sorcery contamination, and no one was to enter or leave without his permission.

The Warhammer crashed down, splattering pus and blood. A gaping hole appeared in the warrior's chest, and he let out a satisfied sigh, tapping his fingers on the ground.

Before he died, he kept staring into Perturabo's eyes.

Without glancing to the side, the Lord of Iron sheathed his weapon and continued walking toward his next target.

The crew was going crazy. The gas masks were completely ineffective against the flies; in fact, even if they were wearing protective suits, they probably wouldn't be able to keep out the flies.

The Primarch had witnessed firsthand how a swarm of flies had mysteriously burrowed into the armor of a Legionnaire just minutes before, and since then, Perturabo had a vague realization—these things only looked like flies. Nothing more.

This is merely a manifestation of them in the Materium, like a disguise. They are not flies; they are far more depraved, disgusting, and evil creatures, just like the eye he saw.

"Primarch." A warrior stood up, seemingly out of his mind, and staggered toward Perturabo.

His armor was completely rotten, mixed with his own flesh and blood. He had long since removed his helmet, and his face was covered with scratch marks. His skin and flesh had rotted away, and his eyes had fallen out of their sockets and were melting.

"Primarch," he called again. "Give the command—"

"The command is for peace," Perturabo said.

The Warhammer slammed down once more.

"How cruel," the voice from the fly commented. "You cut off his chance to reach the arms of a loving father. I take back what I said earlier; you're not actually strong, you're just brutal and cruel. It's hard to imagine what kind of person could be so heartless as to kill their own sons?"

Upon hearing this, Perturabo paused, his right hand gripping the handle of his Warhammer so tightly it creaked. He glanced up at the swarm of flies, then raised his left hand.

The Third Company- Heavy Bolter hanging under the arm armor immediately began to roar. The bombs were too large, while the flies were too small. This should have been a comical and absurd scene, until a series of cries of pain came from the swarm of flies.

"Stop hitting me!" the thing said angrily. "It hurts!"

Pain?

The Lord of Iron waved his left hand, and the explosives immediately ceased firing. A section of armor on the side of his arm guard popped open, and a portable Phosphex flame launcher immediately rose up.

Flames shot out, the swarm of flies crackled and popped as they were roasted, and the creature cried out in pain, finally letting out a furious roar.

"I'm angry!" it shouted. "You don't deserve respect!"

Perturabo remained silent, his flamethrower retracting into his arm armor. He reached for his waist, where his specially designed belt flipped open, ejecting two modified incendiary grenades.

The Primarch grasped them, pressed the trigger button on them, silently counted to two, and then hurled them. The arc and trajectory of their throw were calculated by him, hitting the moving swarm of flies with perfect accuracy.

The flames erupted again, and countless flies turned to ashes and fell to the ground, but the swarm of flies itself did not decrease.

And so, Perturabo spoke for the first time.

"Looks like you can keep me killing for a long time," the Lord of Iron said, raising his Warhammer.

"I'm not good at fighting—and this really hurts!" the thing roared. "You hateful creature!"

"Come out," Perturabo said indifferently. "Get out here and face me, or you'll be in even more pain."

"I don't want to, and I'll be leaving soon." The thing said, then suddenly changed its tone, adopting an extremely cautious manner. "Your benevolent father, what are you? How can a person harbor so much hatred?"

Hate me?

Perturabo almost laughed.

He turned and looked around; the diseased corpses lay scattered on the ground. Some had died in agony, but most had been executed by his own hand.

At the same time, he could feel a terrifying heat emanating from all parts of his body, indicating that his immune system was functioning abnormally. Clearly, he was not immune to these diseases.

Therefore, they cannot either.

Each legion is modeled after its Primarch; he is neither Vulkan nor Mortarion. They are equally resilient, but the Fourth Legion does not possess the same resistance as the Salamanders or the Death Guard, which can move with ease in extreme environments.

So it was my fault, Perturabo told himself.

Once again—once again you have failed your legion. You swore never to do it again, but you have broken your oath. A traitor is shameful.

"What do you think the reason is?" he asked softly to the swarm of floating flies. "Do you think hatred is an emotion that can be easily ignited, you filthy monster? You are the one who started it all."

"Me?" the swarm of flies asked hesitantly. "Rotigus didn't remind me of any of this, are you mistaken?"

Foolish. Perturabo described his enemy as a foolish, naive creature with the intelligence of a child. Despite behaving like a toddler, he could easily turn his bridge into a living hell.

On what grounds?

On what grounds?

"Um... I have to go," the swarm of flies said cautiously. "Keep hating, but don't cross that line. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen, I didn't expect you to hate me. I have to go, uh, you, you go ahead. I can't stay any longer, my existence is a disruption to the present."

"What are you?" Perturabo asked, looking at the swarm of flies.

"I am—" The thing took a deep breath, and a fly suddenly exploded. Its filthy fragments flew everywhere, creating a minor spread of plague on the bridge of the Iron Blood. Then another fly, and another, and the next.

Continuous, as if eternal.

The dark green poisonous fog and the corpses on the ground created a chain reaction, and a thick fungal carpet instantly covered the entire bridge. The extraordinary evil power exacerbated the burden on Perturabo's immune system, causing him to abruptly kneel down, his knees buckling, unable to stand.

His vision began to blur, and everything became ethereal and distorted. The Lord of Iron gritted his teeth, trying to stand up again—but human willpower has its limits, and he could not drive his body to do this by willpower alone. He could not even hear the rest of what that damned fly said.

A fungal carpet swept over him, enveloping him.

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