178 Interlude: Iron and stone

"How long?" Constantine Valdor asked.

"Nine centuries and seventy-five years," Rogal Dorn said.

The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal nodded, then remained silent.

His Auramite boots churned in the mud as he led the way, spear in hand. Not even Rogal Dorn could take this responsibility from him—he was the vanguard, but also the guide.

No one can take his place.

At this moment, the team was still small in number; however, compared to when they had just found Rogal Dorn, the team had actually expanded somewhat, with 341 more members joining.

Among these newcomers were those clad in jet-black armor with a cross emblem, others who looked not much different from the current Imperial Fists, but were far more menacing, and still others who wore a mix of blue and gold, and were few in number.

Interestingly, the differences between them are not merely superficial; the paint job on the armor is only the most obvious distinction.

Dorn didn't ask a single question about it.

He acted indifferently, not even bothering to ask anyone's name. Some people introduced themselves to him, and Stone simply nodded expressionlessly. Others stared at him, and he returned the same respect.

Nothing superfluous, not even a little. He seemed to have suddenly become a mirror. What you give him, he gives you back. But Alessio Cortés noticed that Rogal Dorn hadn't overlooked anyone.

He greeted and bowed to everyone, showing none of the arrogance one would expect from Primarch.

Realizing this made Alessio somewhat uneasy, for he had only just met his Gene-Father. Then he discovered that he actually knew nothing about him.

He had read many descriptions and histories about him, as well as numerous precious portraits that have survived. However, when he actually met him, Alessio discovered that these things only represented one aspect of Rogal Dorn.

They couldn't even accurately express just how amazing that aspect of the Primarch was.

However, if he had to choose a single word to summarize his character and describe what he did, Alessio would choose "unbreakable."

Rogal Dorn, indestructible.

They continued onward, led by the Adeptus Custodes, into the darkness once more. It was another similar, abstract journey. Everything in the darkness took on a different appearance, an ugly form entirely different from its true nature.

Stones sprouted mouths, the air turned into choking dust, and trees grew eyes and long tongues, tirelessly recounting every story from the past ten thousand years. Malice permeated it all, without any attempt to conceal it.

These things lurked in the darkness, watching them, but that was all they could do. Their words failed to sway anyone, and their distorted forms only evoked disgust on the faces of the warriors.

That's all. Did they fail?

Perhaps, but the road ahead is long, and they have plenty of time to do what they want to do—until Constantine Valdor raises his spear.

"Retreat! Annihilate!" the Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal commanded coldly. "In His name..."

The golden flames flashed and disappeared on the spear tip, followed by thousands—or tens of thousands—of screams from the darkness, then the stench of burning flesh and the hissing of grease under the intense heat.

From this perspective, no matter how blasphemous they may be, their forms still need to abide by certain fundamental laws. For example, they cannot resist the damage of fire.

The Sons of Dorn, clad in black and white armor, began to loudly praise the "God-Emperor," extolling His ruthlessness towards Daemon and His protection of humanity.

Their fervor immediately unsettled the other Sons of Dorn, but their father remained silent and remarkably calm.

In fact, he was indeed very calm. He simply noted down the word "God-Emperor" and the word "He" used by Constantine Valdor.

Where his sons couldn't see, Dorn began to think.

First, he thought of himself.

He is Rogal Dorn, the culmination of centuries, even decades, of painstaking effort by the Master of Mankind, the perfect conclusion to a project.

The Emperor created himself and his brothers in the laboratory, and for decades after they were found, war became their sole duty.

Some in the galaxy call them demigods, a title Dorn dislikes, because in his mind gods are usually associated with extreme hedonism with no repercussions.

He read many myths, and in those precious Ancient Terra myths, the gods sometimes resembled humans, sometimes were too human, and sometimes appeared devoid of emotion, merely a manifestation of rules.

And what about them?

If they were truly demigods, how would they be judged? Would they be seen as evil gods who neglected their duties, scorching the earth and causing immense suffering to mortals, or as righteous gods who would sacrifice themselves to control the floods or bring fire to mortals?

No.

Dorn shook his head—let's be human.

He temporarily put the title of God-Emperor out of his mind, and Constantine Valdor had already completed his duties. They left the darkness and returned to the surface of Terra —or at least what appeared to be Terra.

The sky was still burning, with black, dust-like snow falling. The ground was covered with a thick layer of ash, and the number of the dead was countless. The only difference was that the sky was filled with golden Radiance, and there were enormous warships that, which should have covered the earth, somehow failed to cast any shadows.

"I must go, Rogal Dorn," Constantine Valdor said to him. "My lord has another task for me to complete."

Dorn glanced at him and noticed Valdor's deliberate use of space in the subtle change in his posture.

He was surprised again for a moment, just as he had been when he saw Valdor's smile, and then he asked, "Is there anything else you want to say?"

"You're being a bit too direct, Rogal," the Adeptus Custodes Marshal sighed softly. "But..."

"What?"

"My lord has instructed me to decide this matter myself," Valdor said hesitantly. "He wants me to decide whether or not to inform you of this."

"I was puzzled by this. His attitude became strange; he wasn't so cold anymore, but I could feel his pain. He was screaming, every single second, Rogal."

His emotions were showing. Dorn caught his sigh and thought, "You've never been so human."

"You understand, Valdor," he said. "That's probably why he wants you to decide for yourself; life is made up of countless choices."

"Empathy?" The Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes was stunned. "But I—I have no emotions, no emotions whatsoever except anger. Strong emotions like sadness and joy are nothing more than cold academic words to me."

"But you were just grieving," Dorn pointed out bluntly. "And if we weren't here, I'm sure you would have cried."

"."

"And what do you want to tell me?"

The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal remained silent for a moment before speaking, "My lord has given me a new mission. He wants me to guide someone else, a man named Ollanius Persson. A shameless traitor, a betrayer."

"What kind of traitor?" Dorn asked.

"A traitor who betrayed him." Constantine Valdor frowned. "His existence and name are classified, but the lord just told me these things without any concealment."

Dorn nodded, appearing to understand perfectly.

"Then, he had you come and ask me."

Valdor nodded.

"So, it's clear he knows you'll have doubts and complaints about this, and he wants you to seek some advice or support from me that might be helpful. I must point out one thing, Valdor, you've never questioned his orders before."

"Occasionally, there are one or two times," Constantine Valdor reluctantly added. "Well, including this time, it's four times."

"Perhaps that's what he wants," Dorn said. "He wants you to question him, and then understand him. I think we've talked enough, Valdor."

Constantine Valdor nodded silently, then turned and left without a word.

His face still held a look of bewilderment, the kind of confusion a newborn child has, like a child who doesn't understand what their parents mean by "going to school"—please forgive me, Valdor.

Dorn pursed her lips.

I really couldn't think of a better analogy.

"Father."

Just then, a voice called out from behind him. Dorn turned around and called out the person's name, "Alessio, what do you want?"

"What should we do next?" Alessio Cortés asked, looking bewildered. In fact, he wasn't the only one; Dorn around and found that many people had similar expressions on their faces.

Dorn almost laughed.

How similar they are!

"We fight," Rogal Dorn said solemnly. "That's all."

He pulled out the Storm's Teeth, and they followed closely behind.

--

"We fight," Perturabo said. "That's all."

He finished his speech, and ten thousand faces, some similar and some slightly different, began to cheer, greatly encouraged.

They may have had names, identities, and families before. But now they are just loyal soldiers belonging to the Imperium. And just now, they also gained a brand new identity: Auxilia of the Iron Warriors.

The newly incorporated Auxilia lacks supplies, urgently needs training, and its military skills need improvement, but its morale is high.

Perturabo nodded – that's enough.

"You're giving a speech," his company commander Forrix, said. "I'm surprised."

Perturabo glanced at him. "You're trying to joke with me, and I'm surprised too."

"I swear I had no such thought, Primarch."

Forrix immediately raised his hands to show his respect and obedience. Perturabo impatiently pressed him down, but then took a shovel from behind his back and shoved it into the hands of his company commander.

"Trench, Forrix."

Seeing Forrix's slightly dazed expression, the Lord of Iron began to explain in a cold and forceful manner.

Instead of wasting your time talking to me here, you should go dig trenches. Every extra meter you dig before the enemy arrives will increase our chances of holding this position.

"Yes, Primarch." The company commander kept a straight face, reached for the shovel, and turned to leave.

Perturabo nodded slightly and took a step in the same direction.

At this moment, his armor was not transmitting any information to him, which was unusual. In the past, any war fought by Perturabo should have been accompanied by a wealth of real-time information and an overview of the battle situation.

But Terra is a bit different; communication devices seem to be "banned" here. You can try to communicate with people, and if you're lucky enough, maybe three or five out of a hundred sentences will get through, and that's the limit.

The Lord of Iron raised his head and glanced at the sky. His focus was not on the various warships that were still sending down to provide support and firepower, nor on the enormous pillar of fire that was faintly visible deep in the clouds.

He just stared at the black snow.

"Konrad Curze Curze," he said without turning around. "Did you find him?"

"Quite perceptive, Abo," the Shadow behind him chuckled softly. "But why should I go looking for him?"

The Lord of Iron calmly turned around and gently placed the Warhammer in his hand on a stone.

"It's not that you're perceptive, it's that you never even considered hiding yourself from me. I spotted you in the crowd during the speech, and you were alone again? You're clearly a Primarch."

As he spoke, he frowned and began to berate his brother.

"You're really that confident in your legion? I understand Night Lords's unique combat capabilities against Daemon, but the monsters on Terra are far beyond what ordinary Daemon can handle. Have you ever seen Daemon that survives five hits from an Autocannon?"

The Night Haunter helplessly raised his hands. Although his face was completely covered by the skull mask, his expression was probably not much different from that of Forrix not long ago.

"You shouldn't worry about these things, Abo— " He tapped the right eye socket of his mask with his right index finger. "I suggest you worry more about yourself."

"Why?" Perturabo asked. "I have already recaptured six positions on the western front of the Imperial Palace. All that remains is to rebuild the trenches and positions, and we can transform the war into the form we are most familiar with. I am confident I can recapture the entire western front of the Imperial Palace within twelve hours. I don't think I have anything to worry about."

"But Rogal and his offspring are also on their way here." Konrad Curze Curze lowered his hand and shrugged mischievously.

"So?" Perturabo looked at him calmly, reaching out to grasp the Warhammer. "What do I need to worry about?"

The Night Haunter did not answer, but chuckled and left. Perturabo turned to follow him, watching until he disappeared into the farthest reaches of his vision.

Then, just twenty-seven minutes later, Konrad Curze Curze's words came true.

Perturabo met Rogal Dorn and the group of Astartes behind him with surprisingly unfamiliar paint schemes.

A meeting between two Primarch should have been exhilarating, but given their identities and names, it brought with it a profoundly moving silence.

More than five minutes after they met, neither Steel nor Rock had said a word; they simply stood face to face, silently observing each other.

To the Warsmith Dantioch, who had been urgently recalled, his father now looked like an enraged bull, waiting for the right moment to strike. And to Alessio Cortés...

Well, he didn't really have any particular thoughts, just surprise and honor to see the steel and foundation of the Imperium standing together in the same trench today.

"Dorn."

Dantioch silently tensed up, reminding himself—the Bulls are attacking!

But his father's next words completely surprised him.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Perturabo said expressionlessly, uttering each word clearly.

Dantioch turned to look at Forrix, who answered his silent question with an indescribable expression, his shovel suddenly sinking deep into the soil.

Of course, they weren't the only ones puzzled by this; even Rogal Dorn himself showed some confusion.

"It's a pleasure to meet you too, Perturabo." Dorn paused before finishing the greeting.

Perturabo nodded indifferently, making a nasal sound as a response. This indifferent reaction made Dantioch and Forrix breathe a sigh of relief, but it also made Perturabo turn his head away silently.

"I don't think a simple meeting needs so many high-ranking officers watching," he suddenly said. "You can go about your business. I want to see at least five artillery positions set up within an hour, understand?"

"Indeed." Rogal Dorn nodded slightly. "Go do what you need to do, Alessio."

The crowd was dispersed, or at least moved away from the trenches. Black snow fell from the sky, landing on their armor and the mud, creating patches of inky blackness. After a long silence, Rogal Dorn spoke first.

"You've changed," he said cautiously.

"Indeed," the Lord of Iron replied with a cold laugh, completely unmoved by Dorn's caution.

Stone almost expected him to utter a sarcastic remark, causing the conversation to fizzle out as it had hundreds of times before—but Perturabo didn't. Miraculously, he used the second half of his sentence to make the atmosphere very peculiar.

"Just like you, you've changed a lot, Dorn," Perturabo said slowly. "What did you all experience on Terra?"

Dorn fell silent again.

"Struggle," he said, frowning. "And sacrifice."

"Please elaborate."

"Alright." Dorn nodded, and began a long narration.

"I have laid numerous fortresses and tactical traps along the Sol System, as well as hundreds of thousands of emergency reserves. I have deployed my legions and most of the Sol System's garrison along the way, making every possible preparation I can think of."

"But the enemy did not choose to wage war in a conventional manner; their arrival was silent and swift as Thunder, and war broke out in an instant. At first, the situation could be controlled, but with the arrival of the Vengeful Spirit..."

He fell silent; it was an absolute stillness. There were no shouts, no roars from the mist, no booming sounds from artillery firing. Only a gentle breeze blew by, making the stubborn stone face contort in the wind and snow.

Although it lasted only half a second, the pain was absolutely real.

"In war, the situation can change in an instant." The silence ended, Dorn continued, his voice still calm. "The enemy was prepared, at least they anticipated my reaction."

"It knows that in the first few hours of the war, I will treat this war with the same attitude I would use for ordinary warfare. I can predict the battlefield situation, but this is conditional."

"I was unable to make proper arrangements for this war, which I had never experienced before. It used this period of time, born from my defeat, to make the situation precarious, and then, in the twenty-fifth hour, it employed a tactic that could seal the deal."

"Strategically speaking, this was an absolute defeat. As the commander-in-chief, I must take responsibility for the soldiers and civilians who died. That's all I have to say."

"Not detailed enough," Perturabo said slowly, taking over the conversation.

The Lord of Iron's face remained completely expressionless, cold and icy, revealing an inhuman determination and hardness in the frigid wind. It was as if he were truly cast from steel, and beneath his skin lay not flesh and blood, but genuine, molten steel.

Dorn looked at him and felt a strong sense of unfamiliarity once again.

"You must analyze the reasons for your failures and correct them, Rogal Dorn," Perturabo said.

His words sounded like an accusation, a terrible criticism that "you haven't done well enough," but his tone was very calm, as if he were simply stating a fact.

"When faced with these challenges, you must analyze the reasons for your first failure and ensure you never repeat the same mistake. Our soldiers are extremely loyal; they will execute any order from their commander without hesitation. Therefore, we must do our best within our capabilities, even in the face of failure."

"In my opinion, the root cause of your crushing defeat can be summarized in one sentence—outdated thinking. Do you have any objections to that?"

"No," Dorn answered quickly, his expression focused, completely ignoring Perturabo's overly direct wording.

"That is indeed a fatal problem," he admitted simply and directly.

"And we've all made this mistake." The Lord of Iron sneered again. "Yes, just like you, Dorn, I made the same mistake."

"I once faced the so-called Horus and his pack in the Isstvan System. I had the chance to take a bite out of him, but I lost the victory, the fleet, most of the manpower, and..."

He stopped smiling and uttered a name.

"Mortarion."

Rogal Dorn's pupils contracted sharply.

"The evil from the Warp has ensnared us," the Lord of Iron stated calmly. "Perhaps it shouldn't be called evil, but rather an evil god. Have you ever seen a Venus flytrap, Dorn?"

"My flora and fauna reconstruction project on Olympia involved reverse engineering using ancient Terra texts, and this plant is one of our successes. It's an extremely patient hunter; its leaves are its teeth, and its carefully crafted cages for its prey."

Perturabo extended his right hand, slowly opening it until a patch of black snow fell into it, then he quickly closed his palm. A creaking sound echoed between the metal of his hand, sending a chill down one's spine.

"Even the fiercest beasts would be torn in two by this plant in an instant. And once it senses the presence of its prey, it will never leave before that moment arrives, nor will it close its leaves. That thing treated Mortarion with such patience, but its purpose was not to devour him, but to subdue him."

Perturabo poured out his pain in a low voice and with occasional, fleeting sneers.

"But he didn't. He fought to the death. If it weren't for him, you wouldn't see me here, or Vulkan. This is the price I paid, Dorn. I caused the deaths of my brothers, the loss of my flagship, and the turning of victory into utter defeat."

"The most crucial point is that I thought I had learned my lesson, but it wasn't enough. At least not enough for me at the time."

He shook his head and fell silent. Dorn, however, began to observe his brother, who had once been irritable and quick-tempered and had never been very patient with him, with absolute patience.

He cast aside his surprise, banishing even the brotherly affection he felt, leaving only the ability to "observe." With this detached, third-party perspective, he saw the immense pain Perturabo concealed in his sneers, blinks, or occasional deep breaths.

A question immediately followed, which he then asked himself, "What exactly have you been through, Perturabo?"

"Failure." The Lord of Iron uttered the word expressionlessly. "That's all, just like everything you experienced on Terra."

"Along the way, I saw many corpses, mortals, Astartes, tanks, Titans—their lives had come to an end. No matter how great their beliefs or how unwavering their courage, they were all dead."

"They were the cream of the crop in life, yet they fell like straws, buried in the mud and dust. And now, I see darkness enveloping Terra. Savage Cultists proudly flaunt their spoils, wrap their loyalists in skins, and slowly erect ridiculous inverted crosses, nailing the tormented defenders to them."

"They have no discipline whatsoever, partly due to their savage nature, but more importantly because those who could restrain them have become part of this degenerate savagery themselves. Therefore, based on these facts, I must conclude that this is not war, Rogal Dorn."

"The battle we are experiencing now cannot be called a war. A war should be a confrontation between two armies, a clash of tactics and strategies, a contest of courage and perseverance. And it will end."

"But what about those things? They won't give up, even if we're all dead. So this isn't a war, and you and I, being in it, should abandon our past experiences and pride and start learning from scratch. We are nothing, just two losers."

"They sacrificed their allies, shattered all hope, yet shamelessly continue to live on."

Perturabo raised his Warhammer dismissively.

"But we live," he said sternly. "Therefore, I call upon you by the ancient code to fight alongside me, Rogal Dorn."

"I answer your call," Dorn said slowly. "But which codex?"

He stretched out one hand and held it in mid-air. A few seconds later, that hand was tightly grasped by the other hand.

Behind them, artillery began to roar.

Perturabo grinned maliciously.

"The code of Vengeance," he said. "A code of natural justice, etched into the very bones of humanity."

7.3k, only one chapter. My pulpitis flared up, and I'm going to the hospital to have a tooth pulled tomorrow.

Let me calculate. I've already had root canals on two teeth, and I still have two wisdom teeth that haven't been extracted. Now I also have pulpitis, so I might need to have a healthy tooth extracted and then get an implant.

I'm numb.