100 Burning of Five Hundred Worlds (Ten, 4k)

This is Perturabo's first time climbing the walls of Macragge. 🐲💞 🐙ඏ

The shadows cast by the skyscrapers and Roboute Guilliman's magnificent palace obscured him. The Lord of Iron's armor was still worn and tattered; he hadn't had time to repair it. He had landed when the sun was already setting, and now the sky was completely dark, not a single star in sight.

It is speculated that this is because the Word Bearers summoned Warp Storm, staining the stars with the blood of innocents, turning them into an absolute darkness. Such an event would undoubtedly shatter the simple understanding of the Imperial Truth for countless people.

And that is probably their goal.

Extremely despicable.

Perturabo thought with disgust and suppressed his emotions, preventing the disgust from developing into hatred—he had a theory, derived from facts, which could not yet be truly proven, but it was enough to extinguish the cold fire in his heart for the time being.

He couldn't bring himself to simply hate everything like that.

At least, not until he meets Konrad Curze Curze.

At this moment, smoke still lingered outside the city, and the drop pods and shuttles were being recovered. One after another, transport vehicles and airships entered the city through the wide-open gates, and maintenance teams were busy repairing the areas damaged by the drop pods in this city that blended antiquity and progress.

They were busy, not only because they had to work all night, but also because they had to drive away the civilians who were watching the spectacle.

No matter how much progress we make, the Macragge people will likely be unable to escape this tendency. A love of observation is human nature; otherwise, what would be the point of our eyes and empathy?

Perturabo pondered, letting his thoughts wander, calmly taking in everything without comment. He began pacing back and forth along the ancient city wall, its age easily estimated by the naked eye.

It has withstood at least six hundred years of wind, sun, and rain, yet the people of Macragge still allow it to stand here; the bricks used to build the city walls have even taken on a strange pale white hue.

The Olympia closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and smelled the burning smell, along with the pungent odor of the fire extinguishing agent.

He was familiar with this fire extinguishing agent; it was a potent chemical that, if used in larger doses, could even suppress the combustion of Phosphex to some extent.

Thinking of this, Perturabo's lips twitched slightly for no apparent reason.

A smile was not an expression he was familiar with, let alone a wry smile—a self-deprecating, consoling smile completely foreign to him. But he was certainly experiencing complex emotions; that much was certain.

I'm just daydreaming, completely wasting my time.

He simply opened his eyes.

"Approaching me from behind is not a good idea, Lady Euten," the Primarch warned calmly. "I am at war, and your quiet attempts to get close to me will only bring you bad results."

The short Macragge looked up at him.

"Taking anger out on others is a sign of weakness," she said. "I believe you wouldn't do that, sir?"

"That depends on just how angry I am." Perturabo narrowed his eyes. "But what about you? Did you deliberately leave Roboute Guilliman's palace just to provoke me? That was hardly a wise move."

"Of course not, Your Primarch." Euten bowed slightly to show her humility, but received a response completely opposite to what she had expected.

Although she had heard of Perturabo's character and witnessed it firsthand, who could have imagined that the Lord of Iron would say the following?

"Don't call me that," Perturabo said coldly. "I hate that prefix, and besides, you don't really respect me."

Why do you say that?

Perturabo looked at her, the corners of his mouth clearly curving downwards in a mocking manner. In a sense, his expression was perhaps his answer.

Some people spend their entire lives honing their speaking skills, being cautious in their words and actions, and approaching every conversation with a sincere attitude, all so that they can be a source of comfort and warmth for everyone.

Others, however, choose to treat the world as they see it, and everyone in it, in a crude, simple, and direct way.

For them, one is one, and two is two; success always outweighs failure.

"Would you respect a loser?" Perturabo asked sincerely. "A loser who watched his brothers die and was powerless to stop it?"

"You shouldn't say these things to me, Lord Perturabo, and besides, this isn't the truth," Euten replied cautiously, slowly walking to the edge of the city wall with his cane.

She wore a thick coat, her white hair fluttering in the burning night wind. In the distance came the loud laughter of a group of children; perhaps childhood is forever like that.

They are still in a daze. In their world, the shooting stars that streaked across the sky today are probably just beautiful dandelions created by their imagination, scattered by the wind, nothing more.

War does not exist in their world, nor should it exist.

"I know," Perturabo said. "But I need to vent. Based on the assessment and calculations, you are the most suitable candidate out of everyone right now."

"Can't Vulkan bear your occasional emotional breakdowns?"

"He is too kind, and his suffering is no less than mine. I will not add to his burden at this time. A grieving dragon is still a dragon; on the battlefield, it can still burn its enemies with flames. But being overwhelmed with grief is a different concept."

Perturabo answered calmly, then looked away, gazing up at the defensive barrier of Macragge City. The pale blue energy shield had a strange, dreamlike quality against the night sky.

Gazing at this scene, he suddenly understood why Macragge had so many poems praising the night sky. If the Warp Storm hadn't obscured the stars, the night sky would probably be so beautiful that it would be impossible to look away.

What a pity, what a pity.

Your remarks were amazing.

"The same to you."

"Grown ups?"

"So that's how Roboute Guilliman makes praise sound so harsh—he learned it from you." Perturabo looked at her with a hint of sarcasm, raising his chin. "Excellent, ma'am."

"Is that how you see him?" Euten frowned.

"Otherwise what? Roboute Guilliman, Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds, the Great Space Sovereign--!"

Perturabo burst into laughter, spreading his arms wide, even using an aria. He looked at Euten with an extremely provocative gaze.

"I can tell you're a mother who's both lenient and strict, so I understand your special bias towards him. Roboute Guilliman is probably perfect in your eyes, isn't he? I'm sorry, ma'am, but he's not like that here."

"He was a proud megalomaniac, outwardly polite to everyone, yet always managing to subtly reveal his characteristic Macragge arrogance in the smallest details. On your Throne, do you know how many times I wanted to grab him by the collar and tell him to stop talking to me like that?"

It was obvious that Euten was overwhelmed by the barrage of accusations; she was confused, angry, and at a loss—all of which vanished within seconds.

In the night breeze, her expression returned to calm, and she even had the strength to sigh.

Looking at her, at those eyes so similar to Roboute Guilliman's, Perturabo knew in his heart that his plan had failed.

"Sir, your method may be ingenious, but it won't work on me." The white-haired woman smiled and tapped the floor tiles with her cane. "Roboute Guilliman has countless times deliberately feigned ignorance so I'd give him a good scolding."

"For example, in the period immediately following his father's death, he would deliberately get drunk and yell at me. He wanted me to scold him so that he could legitimately sober up from his grief."

"At that time, Macragge was in dire straits, destabilized by the death of a monarch and the scandal of his assassination. He understood what kind of Roboute Guilliman the city needed, but he couldn't get over the hurdle in his mind, as if seizing power immediately after his father's death was some heinous crime. You are just like him, sir."

"No," Perturabo said. "Not at all."

"Really? But don't you both like to use data to speak for yourself? And that command style that's famous throughout the galaxy? He and you both seem to like using data, analysis, and multi-threaded command to make war feel like a seminar."

"I'm far more extreme than him," Perturabo told her. "No more than five people in my army would offer me advice, and I won't treat war like a game like he did."

"Game?"

"Yes, Game. I know what he's doing. We've worked together a few times, and I've gleaned some of his habits and his hidden tactical intentions from those battles."

Perturabo waved his right hand gleefully and began to belittle a mother's son in front of her with a boastful attitude.

"He always leaves the truly difficult tasks to himself, then selects the simpler ones from the remaining problems and hands them over to his staff, even proceeding step by step. What is he doing? Playing a simulation game? I wouldn't do that. War is not child's play."

"But you—" Euten suppressed the urge to sigh—" have changed, haven't you?"

"Ha."

"Grown ups?"

"What are you doing?" Perturabo asked rudely.

Were you laughing just now?

"Yes." The Primarch nodded indifferently. "A sneer, a mockery, a sneer—I was indeed laughing, but there was no good in that laugh. Don't misunderstand me, Euten. You won't understand the price paid for this change."

"Usually, when people say 'Don't misunderstand me,' it's to avoid being seen as a bad person. It's strange that you don't want to be seen as a good person," Euten muttered. "What a powerful mind."

"What did you say?" Perturabo demanded sharply.

"It's nothing, sir. Your hearing is excellent."

"I'm warning you, that's the last time you—"

"--What did I say?" Euten looked at him defiantly, raising his chin. "I didn't say anything; you know the answer yourself."

Perturabo stared at her, and after more than three seconds of this oppressive gaze, he suddenly looked away.

"How many servo technicians are there on the Macragge orbital defense system? And the ground weapon launch platforms?" he asked, his posture becoming focused, even his voice becoming calm.

Euten, as if anticipating his question, answered it quickly, just as readily. She answered with great familiarity, even offering additional information, truly deserving of the title of housekeeper.

She rattled off number after number without a pause, clearly having memorized the information perfectly. Only after she finished did Perturabo speak, displaying remarkable patience—a stark contrast to his earlier demeanor.

"Terrifying defensive capabilities," the Lord of Iron commented. "I don't believe anyone can take Macragge in a direct assault. But you've overlooked one thing."

He squinted.

"If Rogal Dorn were here—" he said coldly, "Even he would agree with me that the strongest fortresses are often breached from within, Steward, do you understand?"

Euten nodded seriously. How could she not understand? Some things can be answered by the stories and proverbs of our ancestors; that is the significance of history.

"And the Word Bearers happen to be very good at this, or rather, the evil force that drove them here is very good at it. You think you're fully prepared for war, but they won't wage this war the way you're familiar with."

"So, in your opinion?" Euten looked at him inquiringly, hoping for a follow-up answer. But the Lord of Iron didn't continue, instead shaking his head at her.

"Leave this to the professionals, Ms. Euten," he said. "Summon your Invictarii, and all the high-ranking officers—I mean all of them, Ultramarines, Iron Warriors, Salamanders, Death Guard. I need every officer with command authority present. This is no laughing matter. Do you have a suitable venue to conduct this?"

"Of course, sir," the steward replied quickly, raising his cane and pointing. "There is a room in the palace that meets your requirements."

"In addition."

"What, sir?"

"Does this flower exist in Macragge? It's pale purple, about five centimeters long and three centimeters wide, with purple petals."

Euten was momentarily stunned; she didn't understand why Perturabo would ask such a question. However, that didn't stop her from answering.

"I think so, sir."

"Very well, please bring me one, just one will do."

The Lord of Iron nodded slightly, stepped past her, and entered the deep darkness. His armor was mottled, gleaming with silver light. His voice drifted through the darkness, like a whisper in the night wind.

There's still 7k left, making a total of 11k today. Don't stay up late, remember to get some rest.