Little Perturabo

After Perturabo brutally suppressed the rebellion on his homeworld of Olympia, the gloomy primarch threw in his lot with Horus.

He ran himself ragged for Horus, contributing every ounce of strength he could.

The massacre at Isstvan V, the Battle of Phall, the assault on the Five Hundred Worlds, and the siege of Terra—all bore the mark of the Iron Warriors. He had truly been a backbone of the entire Great Rebellion from beginning to end.

And all of it had been for this very moment.

At last, he had an opportunity to face Dorn before the Imperial Palace, before their father, and settle the score.

Perturabo had simulated this confrontation countless times in his mind. The Forgebreaker warhammer in his hand traced a perfect arc as it smashed toward Dorn with unstoppable force.

His strength, speed, and skill were unparalleled. Only a warrior who had mastered his body and weapon to the utmost could display such ability.

Violent pale lightning burst forth with the hammer's movement. Like a god of thunder from ancient Terran myth, Perturabo delivered judgment upon his sworn enemy.

This was not lightning born of technology, but a manifestation of pure psychic power.

Perturabo had always kept his abilities hidden, but ever since Fulgrim had viciously tricked him, he had been exploring how to use the power buried within him.

All primarchs were psychic beings. Strictly speaking, every primarch possessed the ability to wield psychic power.

As for a certain Macraggean being a psychic idiot who knew nothing at all, it was very likely because his psychic power was too great. When he denied himself, he had somehow truly suppressed his own psychic gifts.

It was as absurd as an ordinary person believing oxygen to be highly toxic, then genuinely suffering poisoning symptoms after inhaling it.