76: The End of Silence (Final)

As the saying goes, human strength has its limits. Throughout history, countless people have proven this through their own actions. They have used their lives and extinguished ambitions to demonstrate that human strength is indeed no match for natural disasters.

Perturabo disagrees, and he even has a direct piece of evidence to refute this claim.

The Emperor.

He can enable humanity to overcome natural disasters, overcome the greed and malice inherent in its nature, unite as one, break out of Terra, fly into the universe, and regain its former glory.

He proved that human will can overcome everything, as long as you are determined enough.

Or rather, crazy enough.

The Lord of Iron possesses both.

The tormenting illness could not break him, the agonizing pain of killing his own offspring did not change his expression in the slightest, and even being buried and devoured by the fungal carpet released by his enemies could not stop him from resisting.

Perturabo breathed in the virus-laden air and slowly began to stand up, his Warhammer providing him with tremendous assistance. The creep sensed his resistance and angrily closed in, pulling him down, trying to force him to kneel again.

Their surfaces seemed sticky and corrosive; after only a short contact, they had already chemically reacted with his Power Armour coating, hissing and emitting blue smoke. Could things get worse? Perturabo wasn't in the mood to worry about that for the moment.

He completely ignored these matters.

So the fungal carpet changed tactics. A heavy weight spread from above his head, forcing him to bend over abruptly, almost causing him to fall. They wriggled, unable to speak, yet expressing their most sincere malice through their actions.

Perturabo held his breath, gripped the Warhammer with both hands, steadied himself, straightened his knees, and began to struggle against the fungal carpet.

This was no easy task; only a tiny amount of air could pass through his swollen throat and into his aching lungs with each powerful breath. Fortunately, the fever persisted, meaning his immune system was still functioning.

He'll probably be able to break free from this state in a little while.

Perturabo began to think.

First, he recalled the shape of that thing—vast swarms of flies, far from the kind of flies that should exist in nature, a sight that evoked instinctive disgust. And no matter how many he destroyed, the flies themselves only increased in number.

This might be because there were too many insect eggs in the decaying remains on the bridge, and the damp environment and supernatural forces accelerated their birth, leading to this situation. However, this could also just be a symptom.

The fly swarm could not be reduced because he did not effectively kill the creature.

Perturabo squinted—physical means couldn't harm something like this; he should have realized it sooner.

But even if they had noticed it in advance, it would probably have been too late, as the Librarius within the Iron Warriors had already been abolished.

He then began to recall what the thing had said. Admittedly, it wasn't a pleasant matter, but he needed to think rationally and calmly.

The thing mentioned two names: the loving father and Rotigus. These were clearly two different things. It spoke of the former with great respect, but of the latter with far less so.

The term "benevolent father" is quite interesting. Why would someone use such a term? Could it be that this monster also has a father?

Perturabo pondered for a while, his back growing straighter and straighter. He remembered again, the thing said it wanted to leave—why?

He didn't even have the strength to stand up, so why did he leave at that point and give up victory? Perturabo frowned, began to analyze every word it had said, and quickly found the answer.

Hatred.

It mentions this word multiple times.

It says its heart is filled with hatred, and even mentions a "critical point." Could it be that excessive hatred could lead to some irreversible situation? It also says that its existence is a form of destruction; how should this statement be interpreted?

Never mind.

Perturabo slowly closed his eyes, clearing his mind.

There was no need to think further; that thing was undoubtedly his enemy, and also the enemy of the Imperium and humanity. If it believed that hatred would bring bad consequences, it would be willing to leave or hide from it.

As if by instinct, Perturabo thought of Eltelos.

He doesn't hate him.

He thought of those who died because of the 11th round of fines.

He didn't hate them, not at all.

He thought of Damnekos, who had grown increasingly distant from him before his death; Calliphone, who had once considered him a monster; Olympia, who had raised the banner of rebellion and internal strife.

Does he hate these people and this place?

No, the answer is a complete no. As clean and direct as a mathematically calculated answer, he doesn't hate these things; he hates someone else entirely.

He hated himself.

That's how it is.

He hated himself for not realizing the meaning of war sooner, for not insisting on carrying out the eleven-killing campaign, and for leading his legions to the most dangerous battlefields time and time again, without allowing them to gain honor.

He hated himself for telling Eltelos he would expel him from the Legion during their last meeting. He hated himself for drifting apart from Damnekos, for making Calliphone fearful, and for preventing Olympia from remaining a symbol of the Imperium.

So, essentially, he hates himself.

Perturabo opened his eyes, and he was no longer where he had been. The creeping fungus and the putrid air had vanished, and the main bridge of the Iron Blood had disappeared, replaced by a wasteland.

It was unbelievably desolate, covered with a thick layer of white ash. Perturabo crouched down, scooped up a handful, and quickly realized that it was all ashes.

He looked up at the sky again, and the dark red color, as if it were burning, made him frown. Just then, a cold wind blew by, bringing with it a burning smell.

He had smelled that odor before.

The Lord of Iron gripped his Warhammer, looked around, and sure enough, he spotted a figure on the rolling hills not far away.

He strode forward without hesitation. The man seemed unsurprised by his arrival, but did not turn back. His cloak billowed like a living thing, and the faint wails of the dead could be heard in his shadow.

Gritting his teeth, Perturabo managed to keep himself calm and called out his name.

"Karyl."

Then there's a question, a question I already know the answer to.

How did you get here?

"Actually, if nothing unexpected had happened, I should have stayed here," Karyl said. "But you should be asking another question."

He finally turned around, the skeletal mask firmly on his face, his eyes deep and unsettling.

"What?" Perturabo asked.

"Why did you come here?" Karyl said. "Think about it, and everything will fall into place."

Perturabo remained silent for a moment, offering no answer—he certainly knew the answer, but wouldn't it be a bit too absurd?

Could hatred alone have allowed one to escape that evil magic and arrive here?

Seeing that he did not answer, Karyl seemed to smile slightly. Perturabo had no evidence and could only speculate based on that slight laugh.

The laughter startled Perturabo, who immediately put the previous matter out of his mind and quickly turned to another matter.

"Where are you now? Nostramo? Set sail for Terra immediately and warn the Emperor that Horus has rebelled. And Typhon of the Death Guard —no, Typhus. I suspect that a portion of the Mars forces may have also rebelled with Horus. This is the worst-case scenario, but you must tell the Emperor all of this."

"He knows," Karyl said softly.

In the vast galaxy, almost only he, Konrad Curze Curze, and the Night Lords spoke like this. Soft whispers, like murmurs in the evening breeze. As always, this voice sent a chill down Perturabo.

"What?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

"He knew about Horus's betrayal; in fact, he knew much more. For example, Lorgar and Alpharius had followed him in the betrayal, and the Word Bearers were now ravaging the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, extinguishing every star and sacrificing them to the evil gods in the Warp to summon storms."

"There is no God in this world!" Perturabo said sternly.

"Indeed, there shouldn't be any gods in the world we live in, but here—"

Karyl bent down, reached out and grabbed a handful of ashes, letting them drift away in the wind. Vast numbers of souls silently appeared and disappeared in that wind.

"--no the same."

The tall skeleton slowly straightened up.

"This is the Warp, Perturabo," Karyl solemnly warned him. "Anything can be here—gods, demons, angels, monsters. You can throw everything from the myths you've ever read into this place."

Perturabo was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly took a deep breath. "Lorgar and Alpharius have betrayed us?"

"Yes."

What are the Word Bearers doing in the Five Hundred Worlds? Offering sacrifices?

"Yes."

"What about Roboute Guilliman?" Perturabo asked. "He only recently received orders from Horus to go with Lorgar to deal with that so-called Ork Empire. I guess that Imperium doesn't even exist, right?"

"Indeed." Karyl smiled genuinely, this time his laughter was quite pronounced. "That was just a smokescreen, a trap. His real purpose was to allow the Word Bearers' fleet to legitimately gather at Calth."

"In fact, the Battle of Calth has been over for some time. The sun was sacrificed, and the excessive radiation destroyed the ecological environment of Calth's surface, forcing the survivors to retreat into Calth underground cave system. Roboute Guilliman is currently leading a fleet in hot pursuit of Lorgar."

Once again, Perturabo gripped his Warhammer tightly. He was now extremely grateful that he had forged it; it was no longer just a weapon, but a force that propelled him forward, as powerful as the relentless hatred surging within him.

"Now, let's talk about you, Perturabo," Karyl said. "You've come here, which proves you've crossed some kind of boundary. Things shouldn't be this way, but unfortunately, the place you're in is rather unstable; the Veil of reality there has been torn apart."

"So?" Perturabo ignored his explanation, focusing on the only thing that mattered to him now. "How can I leave?"

This time, it was Karyl's turn to remain silent.

Taking this opportunity, the Lord of Iron carefully examined him for a while. He noticed that Karyl Lohars looked quite different from the last time he saw him.

The cloak appeared even blacker, completely devoid of the material a cloth should possess. It looked more like a pure shadow, swallowing up all the dim light that passed by. And so did the armor.

Perturabo had previously commented that it was impractical, and although he later learned who had forged the armor, he never retracted his assessment.

Because it is indeed true that if the wearer of this armor were not Karyl Lohars, it would absolutely be impossible for it to be practical.

Now, it is no longer as clearly black and white as before; the colors are mixed together, swirling like a vortex.

But the biggest change was the shattered crown floating above Karyl's head. This thing had never existed before; it was a dim red against the darkness, just like the sky and the flames burning not far away.

"There's only one way to leave here," Karyl finally spoke, his voice muffled beneath his mask. "You must swear an oath to leave. That's the rule, and even I can't change it."

"A vow? But last time..." Perturabo stopped himself from speaking.

He had realized that he wasn't here last time.

"Alright, the oath." The Lord of Iron clenched his fist; his fever had subsided, and his strength had improved considerably. "What kind of oath?"

"You'll find out, but before that, I need you to promise me one thing personally."

Perturabo frowned.

"Don't mention this to anyone," Karyl said slowly, raising his right hand and grasping the mask on his face with his fingers.

His slender fingers began to exert force, and muffled thuds like bones cracking began to resound one after another. Rage burst forth from his eye sockets and the gaps between his mask and skin, rising and surging. The immense, tangible pressure even made Perturabo take a step back.

The mask resisted leaving him, but Karyl's will was unwavering. The struggle lasted a long time before the mask was finally removed.

And the face beneath it.

Perturabo fell silent, momentarily forgetting to speak.

"Now you can swear an oath," Karyl Lohars said. "Swear an oath to me, and there won't be much of a problem."

Your face--

"--That's not important." Karyl interrupted him. "Whether it's broken or not is my own choice, and even if I could do it all over again, I would still choose the same thing."

"Swear an oath, Perturabo, and then return to where you belong. Remember, do not antagonize Horus for now; you cannot defeat him."

"But what... what should I say?" Perturabo asked, looking somewhat bewildered.

This was the first time he had shown such emotion. Faced with such a face, he couldn't help but feel bewildered. Everything was too heavy, too chaotic, like a scene from a nightmare, and Perturabo couldn't see any logic in it.

It's a miracle that he could still remain rational.

"It's about hatred, about Vengeance," Karyl replied heavily, and Perturabo noticed his rapid breathing. "You could even say just one sentence."

What did you say?

Looking into his eyes, Karyl said, word by word, "I will take my Vengeance."

--

After calling Perturabo for the fifteenth time with Vulkan, Mortarion heard a hissing sound coming from the communication channel. His pupils contracted, and he immediately held his breath, trying to figure out if the sound was real or not.

A few seconds later, the voice of the Lord of Iron finally rang out in the communication channel.

"I'm fine," he said hoarsely. "I'll assess the damage and the current situation immediately. Orders will follow; be prepared."

Update complete.