The Iron Warriors carried out their war of extermination in an orderly fashion. Faced with civilians utterly incapable of resistance, their steps were as light as students on a spring outing.
A group of citizens had been fitted with shackles and iron chains, dragged onward by Warsmiths. They would be used to replenish the Legion's slave labor force. A woman wept by the roadside, cradling a mangled body in her arms. Judging by its shape and size, it was likely her child, struck by a bolter round.
Perturabo could hear the wails of the entire city amid the flames of war, yet when he turned his attention to the suffering individuals within it, he could hear nothing at all.
Of course. This was merely a scene simulated from his memories. He had not paid attention before; no matter how faithfully it was recreated, it could never show what he had failed to remember.
Then what was the point of all this? Redemption, or torment?
Perturabo watched molten metal and flames, emptying his mind until he desired nothing. His face held only a heavy expression.
"I am them... they are me..."
Perturabo thought of Horus, of The Emperor. He had believed that switching to the other side would earn him respect and recognition, but what he received instead was still endless toil.
Throughout the long war of the Siege of Terra, the Alpha Legion had constantly fanned the flames from both sides. No one knew whether they had truly betrayed or remained loyal.
That idiot Angron, whose brain had turned to mush, displayed his slave nature to the fullest. In every offensive battle, he was the dumbest and most foolish one.
And what did ascending to daemonhood change? He still ended up blasted into an immobile puddle of flesh beneath artillery