Perturabo

In the void, the fleet gathered like a dark cloud.

That was Vashtorr's pride— the Ark of Omen Fleet.

Each one is a moving nightmare, each one has devoured the sparks of countless civilizations, and each one has evolved into something almost alive under the influence of Chaos.

They floated silently in the void, like a group of sleeping giants, waiting for their prey to arrive.

At the very heart of the fleet, deep within the flagship known as the "Unbound Scythe," three figures were circling the holographic star map, plotting the impending storm.

Vashtorr stood in the main seat.

His mechanical body glowed with a dark red luster under the holographic light. Complex tubes meandered through his flesh, and mechanical tentacles slowly writhed behind him, like the arms of some deep-sea creature.

His eyes burned with the flames of the Warp, and in those flames was reflected the colossal fortress on the star map— the Rock.

"The core fragments of Caliban are right there."

His voice was like the scraping of metal, harsh and cold, echoing in the holographic pod.

"Once I get it, I can complete the key."

Once I complete the key, I can become --

He paused, his gaze growing even more intense.

"An existence on par with the Four Gods."

Abaddon stood beside him.

Lord of the Black Legion, initiator of the 13th Black Crusade, Chaos Warmaster.

His massive Terminator Armour was etched with countless marks of victory, and his power claw, the "Worldbreaker," gleamed dangerously in the dim light.

His face was hidden in the shadow of his armor, only his eyes were exposed—eyes that held ambition, vigilance, and a certain distrust of Vashtorr.

You promised me that.

Abaddon's voice was deep and majestic, like distant thunder.

"The Ark of Omen Fleet will open up the Imperium Nihilus defenses for me."

This is our deal.

Vashtorr turned his head and looked at him.

There was a hint of barely perceptible contempt in that gaze.

But he concealed it very well.

"Certainly."

He said the voice was as calm as stating a fact.

"Once the Rock collapses, the heart of the Imperium Nihilus will be pierced."

Your Black Legion can advance unimpeded; no force can stop you.

Abaddon stared at him for a long time.

Then, he slowly nodded.

"Remember your promise."

He said that, then turned around and walked toward the communications station.

"Black Legion, prepare to take up battle positions."

His figure disappeared into the shadows of the hatch.

Vashtorr's gaze fell on the remaining figure.

Perturabo.

The Primarch of the Lord of Iron, Daemon Prince of Chaos Undivided.

He leaned against the edge of the cabin wall, arms crossed, staring at the Rock on the star map with an almost bored look.

His armor was covered in scars—marks of millennia of warfare, traces of countless sieges and defenses.

A gray flame burned in his eyes, a flame devoid of passion, containing only endless—weariness.

"You're just going to stand there like that?"

"Vashtorr asked, a hint of displeasure in his voice."

Perturabo shrugged.

"Otherwise what?"

His voice was languid and nonchalant, as if everything before him had nothing to do with him.

"Help you break the Rock?"

What fragment are you trying to steal?

"Will you become the fifth god?"

He paused, a cold smile appearing on his lips.

"That sounds boring."

A flash of anger crossed Vashtorr's eyes.

"Then what are you doing here?"

Perturabo thought for a moment, then said indifferently.

"So boring."

He straightened up, walked towards the star map, and flicked the holographic image of the Rock with his armored finger.

"Dark Angels."

First Legion

The offspring of a lion.

His voice carried a faint hint of nostalgia.

"Ten thousand years have passed, and they remain the same—hiding in the Rock, guarding those ridiculous secrets, waiting for their father who will never return."

He turned his head and looked at Vashtorr, his gaze filled with undisguised contempt.

"Your deal with Abaddon has nothing to do with me."

I came only because--

He thought for a moment, then shrugged.

"It's been too long since we've fought a war."

It's been too long since I've seen the faces of those Dark Angels.

It's been too long --

He laughed, a laugh that contained irony, amusement, and a hint of expectation.

I look forward to seeing how those self-important Dark Angels are utterly crushed in their holy land by a group of enemies they despise the most.

"What ever."

"Vashtorr said coldly."

"As long as you don't get in my way."

Perturabo raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"No, no, I won't bother you."

I'll just take a look.

A sly glint flashed in his eyes.

"See how you managed to steal his things before that Lion woke up."

Vashtorr's hand paused slightly.

He stared at Perturabo, his gaze filled with wariness, suspicion, and a hint of annoyance at having his thoughts exposed.

But he didn't say anything.

Because Perturabo is right.

Deep within the Rock, the lion sleeps.

If that lion were to awaken— Vashtorr dared not think any further.

He turned around and gave orders to the communications station.

"All units, move to attack positions."

Abominable Intelligence, Lock on the Rock Shield Generator.

Exterminator Gun, charge!

His voice echoed throughout the fleet.

"We must end this battle before the Lion awakens."

Deep within the Rock, Azrael stood alone before the Chapter Master's porthole.

Outside the window, there was only endless emptiness.

It is eternal darkness.

They are countless eyes peering into the darkness.

He heard soft footsteps behind him.

Ezekiel.

The Chief Librarian walked to his side and stood beside him, gazing at the same void.

"You felt it."

Ezekiel said that the voice was calm, yet contained a barely perceptible tremor.

"The shadow of Chaos is approaching."

Azrael did not answer.

He simply gazed out the window, at the stars that flickered in the darkness, and at the enemy.

"I know."

He finally spoke, his voice low and calm.

"My Psionic Energy have been warning me for the past three days."

Every meditation, every divination, I see the same image—

He paused, his gaze becoming deep.

"The Rock is burning."

Ezekiel silent.

He certainly knew what that meant.

As the Chief Librarian, his Psionic Energy were more acute than anyone else's.

For three days, he tried countless times to glimpse the future, to find the source of that Chaos shadow, and to fight for a chance of survival for the Chapter.

But each time, he saw the same sight—flames, blood, death, and that breached Nameless Gate.

Can we hold out?

He asked, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

Azrael finally turned his head and looked at him.

There was something in that gaze that sent a chill Ezekiel —not fear, not despair, but a deeper, more complex emotion.

That is the pride that the Dark Angels have inherited for millennia.