On Cadia, Perturabo remained behind the battlefield, coordinating supplies and planning the battle lines through the wealth of intelligence coming from the front. Here, he displayed outstanding strategic prowess and logistical capabilities no less impressive than Roboute Guilliman's.
Rogal Dorn led the Black Templars and Lamenters to the front lines, appearing on the most difficult battlefields and using the immense power of a Primarch to break the deadlock.
Suddenly, Perturabo sensed a burst of killing intent from behind him. He whirled around, only to see a plant planted by a Cadian officer trembling slightly.
"Mm..."
Perturabo eyed the grass suspiciously for a long time, silently training several automated turrets on it while also gripping the chair beneath him with one hand. Slaanesh had truly left him with some psychological scars.
"What is it, my lord?" a Lamenter asked, noticing Perturabo's tension.
Perturabo glanced at the Lamenter, then tapped his head. "No, it's nothing. Perhaps I'm just a little tired."
Perturabo turned back, trying to focus on the holographic tactical map. But he simply could not ignore the waves of chill creeping down his back. With an angry slam of his hand on the table, he aimed the bolter mounted on his arm at the harmless plant.
Wait... something isn't right...
Perturabo's hackles rose as he abruptly activated the Iron Wings behind him. Steel feathers whirled and assembled at high speed, forming an enormous shield at his side.
Then a longsword struck. The collision between blade and shield made everyone else in the command room's ears go numb. Through the feedback from the Iron Wings, Perturabo felt unprecedented pressure.
What happened? My chair didn't come alive either. Who is attacking me?
Gritting his teeth, Perturabo poured vast amounts of energy into the Iron Wings, attempting to drive back the attacker with