80. Memories of the Fire Dragon

Perturabo thought it was an offer of surrender, but he was wrong.

If he had listened to Horus, he would have discovered the truth, but he wouldn't have listened. It was his nature; steel instinctively rejected anything harmful to it, and it was stubborn, only to be destroyed by fire or greater violence.

There is no other way; ordinary people cannot twist steel with their bare hands. But Mortarion is different. He is just as stubborn, but not so stubborn that he refuses to listen.

He listened with resentment, wanting to know what Horus Lupercal was trying to say, and that's how he discovered the truth.

The truth is--

"Typhus is on his ship," the Lord of Death said grimly. "I threw him into space from the Vengeful Spirit, and I saw it clearly. He died, then went into space and ended up on Horus's ship, even able to use his ship's broadcast to declare war on us."

"He declared war on you? What a pointless move," the Lord of Iron asked, his tone as calm as if nothing had happened. "I thought it had already occurred a long time ago."

"He declared he would throw me into a cauldron, he sent me to the Vengeful Spirit, or he would utterly destroy my legion," Mortarion said, smiling, his expression hidden behind his respirator.

This should have been a secret, but anyone could hear the chilling laughter in his voice.

"Crucible."

Vulkan's deep voice rang out from behind the two of them. The Lord of Drakes strode in, carrying the Thunderhead, his dark face full of rage.

"So, what exactly has the war turned into?" he asked the other two people present.

"First vines, then crucibles—these two words together only remind me of evil sorcerers from barbaric worlds. They would squat in front of huge cauldrons, brewing herbs they themselves didn't understand, and then, in a year of good weather, distribute these potentially poisonous concoctions to those willing to pay them."

"Your description is very accurate." Perturabo put down the Dataslate and nodded at him. "But Horus is not a foolish and cruel wizard; he is a hundred times more cruel and a thousand times more intelligent than them."

He raised his hand and tapped the command platform of the Cold Iron a few times, and the scene behind the warship was projected onto it—at least several hundred densely packed warships were following closely behind them, all the cannons were preheated, but they did not fire for a long time.

The red or blue lights, representing danger, flickered faintly on the warship's hull. The image capture could not possibly show the exact position of the cannons, but it only made the scene more intimidating.

These dense rays of Radiance were like thousands of eyes representing death, staring down at them.

"He's threatening us," Perturabo said expressionlessly. "In the thirty-two minutes since we rendezvoused, the Vengeful Spirit has sent six broadcast signals. I haven't listened to a single one, but I suspect he's trying to get something from us, which just doesn't make sense."

"Because he could easily have taken it himself." Mortarion turned his head away in disgust. "A few volleys will slow us down, the Void Shield will be damaged, then the hull, and if we're unlucky, the engines might even be hit directly."

Yes, it simply doesn't make sense. The Lord of Death's words hit the nail on the head—everyone, doing anything, should have at least one reason, but what Horus is doing now is completely illogical and contrary to his nature.

Suddenly, no one spoke; only silence and stillness remained.

In quiet contemplation, Vulkan's thoughts began to wander.

He felt as if he were back beside one of his favorite furnaces, wearing a blacksmith's apron, wielding a forging hammer to strike iron billets or ore. He even closed his eyes and let himself truly imagine his workshop.

The fireplace, the piled-up firewood, the ore, the leather—his skin began to feel comfortable; he had truly returned to that comforting heat. But this did not mean escape; this was Vulkan's favorite place, but not his safe haven.

This is where he manufactures weapons.

In his imagination, he silently took a step, walked to the furnace, and reached out to grasp the forging hammer. The flames in the furnace immediately rose, and the bellows began to operate on their own. Vulkan bent down and picked up a rough piece of ore, holding it in one hand and examining it closely.

The rough surface still bore the marks of a pickaxe's blows. Vulkan's thoughts continued to wander; he began to imagine who had discovered the ore and how it had been brought here.

His imagination began to grow stronger and stronger, and his mind began to relax more and more. In a daze, a gust of wind swept over him from behind.

Horus Lupercal's voice came from behind him, accompanied by the sound of a door being pushed open.

"It's really hard to find you, brother," Horus muttered as he threw down his fur cloak and closed the workshop door.

Do you know how long it took me to get here?

Vulkan put down the ore, picked up his forging hammer, and silently turned around. He examined Horus, who relaxed and opened his arms for him to inspect, but continued talking.

"You should know that I'm just a figment of your imagination, shouldn't you?"

"Yes," Vulkan said, his expression not particularly sad, but his eyes were very dim. "I understand."

"Therefore, I can only know what you also know." The Wolf God smiled slightly. "You and I both understand that this doesn't apply to that thing. My way of thinking belongs to Horus Lupercal; I am the Primarch of the Luna Wolves, not the monster that is hunting you."

"But at least it gave me some inspiration."

"Perhaps," Horus said noncommittally. "I do wish I could help you; you're suffering so much, Vulkan, I can't bear to see you like this."

I am not in pain.

"I come from your memory; in a sense, I am a partial projection of your mind. Are you really going to lie to yourself?" Horus laughed.

"Admit it, it's nothing. We all know that Father poured too much humanity into your nature. He always wanted you to be a bridge between the Primarch and the world. You are the kindest of us, and you even grieve over things we wouldn't care about."

Holding the forging hammer, Vulkan sighed, "Don't mock me, brother."

Horus looked at him and suddenly took a step forward.

The flames in the furnace immediately went out, and the workshop became unbearably cold. The face of the Wolf God was gradually obscured by shadows, his eyes turned into pure black, his veins bulged on the surface of his skin, and his teeth began to fall out, like a long-decayed dead man buried deep underground.

"Instead, you should stop this self-condemnation and self-punishment," the Wolf God said coldly. "Imagining me at this time is only punishing yourself; my death has absolutely nothing to do with you."

Vulkan didn't speak, but just looked at him wearily. After a long while, he slowly opened his mouth.

"So much has happened, Horus," said the blacksmith of Nocturne. "And I was powerless to stop it all; I could only watch it all unfold. The legions of Perturabo and Mortarion were decimated, yet the Salamanders remained intact, and that fills me with guilt."

"If that's what you think, you're being incredibly foolish," Horus frowned. "Would any of them hold you accountable for this?"

"They won't, but I will," Vulkan replied painfully.

Horus shook his head and even made a joke, "It seems that kindness is an unnecessary burden in the world we live in. Brother, you're being held back by your own personality. Luckily, you still have me."

Horus Lupecal laughed, the flames reignited, and his former face returned—along with that focused concentration unique to Horus Lupercal. He crossed his arms and began to contemplate with the very fighting spirit that Vulkan had deliberately avoided.

"First of all, he could kill you all at any time without paying any price," Horus said solemnly. "But he claims he doesn't want to, he doesn't want to kill you, and he doesn't want to kill Father. And that's absolutely not the reason he hasn't fired, brother."

"I'm more inclined to interpret his current actions as a siege, like a siege warfare. He wants you to collapse from within without a fight."

"But we are retreating," Vulkan said. "If we successfully sail to the edge of the Five Hundred Worlds, how will he deal with the self-defense system of the Macragge Five Hundred Worlds?"

"So he must have some way of preventing you from leaving," Horus said, his pupils reflecting the firelight, illuminating half his face like an oil painting.

"Remember those giant vines?" he asked. "Something like that is probably his trump card. He has similar methods, or backup plans, to prevent you from escaping. Then he'll surround you, leaving you without supplies."

Vulkan gripped his forging hammer again.

"Then," Horus said gravely, "He will send another broadcast so you can hear it, and it will most likely be the same old story. Six broadcasts, you heard them all, didn't you? He demands you stay and speak with him face to face. But believe me, brother, once you're on that ship, there's no going back."

Vulkan tried to reject this argument, but on what grounds could he refuse?

"You cannot refuse," Horus said.

"The part of your nature that you've been running from, and your sensitivity to war, are gradually awakening, Vulkan. Your humanity can mask violence, but violence will eventually reveal itself, just as it is in our nature. We are weapons in human skin, carefully numbered blades in Father's hand."

"I am not--"

" --Ferrus once thought you were a god of destruction in battle. You said his assessment was biased, is that true? Is that really so? Would Ferrus Manus deliberately slander one of his brothers?"

The Wolf God looked at him meaningfully, Vulkan closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

"Accept it," Horus said. "You've already thought of a solution."

--

Vulkan opened his eyes.

"We'll charge into the Warp," he said suddenly and resolutely. "It's better to fight to the death than to be surrounded and forced to surrender."

"What?" Mortarion looked at him in astonishment. "What are you talking about, Vulkan?"

"He wants to surround us," Vulkan said. "And then make us surrender. If things get to that point, it won't really matter whether we surrender or not. That's why he hasn't opened fire—deterrence, coercion, driving us away—can't you see that?"

"How is he going to surround us?" Mortarion countered. "Destroyers might catch up with us, but they certainly can't stop us. The only way he can stop us is to open fire, but he's not firing yet, so sooner or later we'll be sailing to the edge of the Isstvan System."

"He has another way," Vulkan said, looking into the Lord of Death's eyes, his tone perfectly calm. "Like those vines, Mortarion. He must have another way to achieve this."

Mortarion opened his mouth, then fell silent. He seemed to want to object, his brows furrowed, as if he wanted to say something, but his expression grew increasingly serious with the silence.

"You're right." After a long period of thought, Perturabo said this.

"Indeed, that's the most likely explanation, Vulkan. The enemy can't possibly pin their hopes of victory on a tactic that can only be used once, like orbital bombardment or mass assaults. They're so effective in war, there's no reason to use them only once."

The Lord of Iron exhaled coldly, plucked a tulip from his armor belt, and examined it in his hand. The scene should have been comical, as his fingers were much larger than the flower, but the complex emotion on his face masked it all.

"But, rush into the Warp?" Mortarion couldn't help but ask. "There's no Mandeville Point here. The fleet would be thrown in, we'd scatter, and we'd appear anywhere."

"Even throwing me onto a planet overrun by Orks would be better than being here." Vulkan's speech quickened. "Besides, we have no better option."

"Sail on, hoping he's turned into an idiot, won't fire, and will let us go. Or turn around and fight a war we can't possibly win? That's the only possible way, even if it is."

"Even if what?" Mortarion pressed.

"Even if he actually wants us to rush into the Warp, we probably have no choice but to do so," the Lord of Drakes said resolutely. "He couldn't possibly be unaware of our reaction. He has had ample time to pre-construct tactical models and war scenarios. This matter must have been mentally rehearsed thousands of times, and rushing into the Warp is definitely within his expectations."

"But he can't control everything. Like that place, can he really turn the Warp into one of his royal courts?"

Vulkan concluded with these words, gazing at his brothers as he awaited their decision. Whether they agreed or disagreed, the Lord of Drakes already knew the answer.

A few seconds later, Mortarion let out a long sigh. Perturabo then turned around and began issuing orders from his command platform.

They will rush into the Warp.

One more chapter.

By the way, the relationship between the Four Gods and the Warp is not that of a master and a house; they are at most tenants.