Burning of Five Hundred Worlds (15)

"I think you should take a look at this.◦•●◉✿ ✿◉●•◦," Perturabo said.

Vulkan did not answer him; the Lord of Drakes looked as if he were in the midst of a storm. Sunlight streamed in from the French windows, striking him like bullets.

Before him stood the Rock table, carved from a single block of stone, surrounded by twenty-one chairs, each draped with a flag.

Their size clearly indicates who they were made for—or rather, for whom they were made.

Perturabo walked to the head of the long table and took the banner draped over the back of the chair. This chair was larger than the other stone chairs, and its design did not belong to any Legiones Astartes; golden Aquila and Terra shone brightly on it.

"Eighteen in total." He gripped the flag tightly and spoke slowly. "He's really thoughtful; he considered everyone, even the two that will never appear again."

Following his words, Vulkan looked at the two chairs draped in white cloth and couldn't help but sigh.

"Don't grieve for them," Perturabo said coldly. "Do you think they deserve your pity, brother?"

"I won't question my father's decision, but I am truly saddened that they will be forever absent from this event."

Perturabo snorted but said nothing. He walked behind his chair, picked up the flag, unfolded it and examined it closely before beginning to fold it meticulously.

Vulkan looked at him, puzzled, and asked, "Why did you do this?"

"Political purposes," the Lord of Iron said calmly.

"Politics? Is someone against you?" Vulkan frowned. "Who would do such a thing at a time like this? And isn't Ms. Euten's opinion enough to shut them up?"

"Politics is not a one-man show. Vulkan Tarasha Euten may be widely respected, but he could never be liked by all the bureaucrats in Macragge."

"What do you mean?" the Lord of Drakes asked cautiously.

"Some people might express their admiration for her privately, but publicly, they would firmly oppose her and occasionally raise objections to Roboute Guilliman."

"The game called politics is essentially nothing more than an exchange of interests, and Roboute Guilliman clearly has the ability to break this exchange of interests that has lasted for thousands of years. Whether it's him or us—"

Perturabo lowered his head and carefully tucked the flag into his belt, his voice remaining calm.

"--Actually, everyone has the ability to turn politics into a one-man show; the only difference is whether they want to or not. Roboute Guilliman certainly wouldn't do that; he's willing to make some concessions to turn Macragge into a so-called progressive democratic capital. I'm different. To me, these opponents should all go to jail or beheaded, regardless of whether they are or not."

He paused.

"Willingly."

Vulkan remained silent for a long while before answering him, "Macragge hasn't been renamed Olympia yet, has it?"

"Hmm?" Perturabo squinted at him. "What do you mean?"

"I just find it a little strange—" Vulkan explained with difficulty, "I mean, I understand every step you've taken in modifying Macragge, I fully understand their necessity."

"But isn't it a bit too much for you to just walk into Roboute's locked private room and brazenly take what he prepared, all to find a legitimate reason to kill someone?"

"You're being a pushover again, Vulkan," Perturabo sighed, turning and walking out of the room.

Vulkan quickly caught up with him, still remembering to close the door. The Victrix Guard nodded to him, but the Lord of Drakes covered his face and quickened his pace.

In the court of the Lord of Macragge, two Primarch began to walk, talk—or rather, chase and argue.

"What do you mean by 'you've fallen into the trap of being a nice guy again'?" Vulkan and pressed. "I simply don't see the need for you to do this. Even if they oppose you, what can they do?"

"Valentius and Invictarii Euten stand firmly with you. The two forces you most need to win over are now behind you. What do you have to worry about? Why risk cutting off their heads?"

"I have a reason for everything I do," Perturabo replied curtly.

"Then at least explain it to me?"

"I don't see the need to do this," Perturabo said, turning his head to the side.

His words caused the Lord of Drakes to abruptly raise his hand, grab his shoulder armor, and forcefully stop him. The two Victrix Guard following behind them turned their heads without looking to the side and began to gaze into the distance through the windows of the palace's wide corridor.

Vulkan stared intently into his brother's eyes and asked one last question with utmost sincerity.

"I'm not accusing you of anything, Perturabo. I just really don't understand why politics in the secular sense would affect you. You yourself said that you are a Primarch, capable of turning politics into a one-man show."

"Besides, you have the support of Valentius and Invictarii. Euten. What exactly are you doing this for? There are boundaries to everything. You can reform Macragge because it's necessary for the war, but why would you kill someone for no reason just because of a few words of opposition? What do you think Roboute would think if he knew?"

"He'll thank me," Perturabo said, both helpless and annoyed. He couldn't stop sighing.

"What?" Vulkan astonishment, his eyes looking as if his brother had finally gone mad.

"He'll thank me," Perturabo repeated. "And I'll forgive you, because you haven't been with me behind that damn tactical table for the past four days. You have no idea what I've gleaned from those documents."

Vulkan looked at him with a slightly embarrassed but increasingly puzzled expression.

"In ten minutes—no, nine minutes— Valentius will bring two men into the reception room I'm about to go to."

"A man named Mog Srelt is a powerful Rogue Trader from Macragge, specializing in selling their local specialty wines across galaxies."

"The other person is named Elam Santyafoss, the foreign correspondent for the Macragge News Office. He returned to Macragge six months ago after completing his overseas assignment."

"These two people's lives had never intersected until six months ago. Do you know where this esteemed businessman and this diligent overseas director came from?"

"Where?" Vulkan asked, a hint of unease in his voice.

"Isstvan," Perturabo replied coldly. "More coincidentally, they happen to be among those who oppose me—and are strongly demanding a meeting with me."

His words caused Vulkan's pupils to shrink sharply.

"You mean--?!"

"Better to kill the innocent than let the guilty go free," the Lord of Iron declared, and began to stride forward again.

--

Looking at the scene before him, Valentius couldn't help but frown. After a moment of silence, he finally couldn't help but ask, "Mr. Mog Sleit, is it really necessary for you to bring so many servants?"

"Of course, Lord Invictarii." The man, wearing a striking deep purple cloak and sporting a neatly trimmed mustache, answered his question without looking up, his attention still focused on the swirling wine in his glass.

"Besides, is that really a lot? Ten followers are enough, and they're not even armed."

His tone was extremely arrogant, like that of any wealthy and powerful Rogue Trader, filled with the sense of superiority that came with privateering warrants and enormous wealth.

Valentius suppressed his anger and looked at his ten followers, who were dressed in uniform beige military robes and had the same shaved heads for easy helmet wearing.

They were indeed unarmed, but Valentius could glean something from their posture. They were too professional; it was clear these men were the Rogue Trader's private army.

"Foolish coward," Valentius thought. He righteously opposed him, believing he was undermining Macragge's civilization and progress. His demands were met, he was allowed to meet him, but he had to bring these useless private soldiers.

If a Primarch wants to kill you, what can these fully armed people do?

"Then do as you please," Valentius said. "And you, Director Elam?"

"Huh?" The person whose name was called looked over in alarm. "Wh-what is it, Lord Invictarii?"

"Why do you request a meeting with Lord Perturabo?" Valentius asked, reciting the same question he had just posed to Mog Sleilt.

The latter's answer, though foolish, was also reasonable— the Rogue Trader believed that Perturabo's martial law policy was preventing him from leaving Macragge, threatening his personal safety and business opportunities. That was why he opposed the Lord of Iron and demanded a meeting with him.

So, what about this person?

Valentius looked at the trembling foreign press chief and a growing sense of unease began to creep into his mind.

He had never met the other before, but he didn't think a normal Macragge would be so uneasy in the face of an Ultramarines.

This could perhaps be explained by his upcoming meeting with Perturabo; after all, it's Perturabo, and it's understandable that he'd be worried about his personal safety. But why did he keep glancing back?

Valentius looked behind Elam Santiafos.

There was a young assistant holding a camera, carrying the still-unstarted equipment, calmly staring ahead. Noticing where his gaze fell, Elham Santyafoss's trembling intensified.

Invictarii narrowed his eyes, his hand already reaching for his waist. Just then, he heard a sigh from Elam Santyafoss's assistant.

"You useless idiot," he cursed, throwing the camera down.

A thousandth of a second later, a violent explosion suddenly erupted.

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