Perturabo's laughter was somewhat forced.
On one hand, he truly admired the Iron Man before him, who spoke eloquently and displayed extraordinary debating skills and exceptional intellect. The Lord of Iron saw a reflection of himself in Adam.
Back on Olympia, he had been the finest engineer, inventor, diplomat, artist, and philosopher. He despised war and slaughter, for such barbaric things always reduced all that was beautiful to ashes.
Now, as Adam displayed formidable combat power and the brilliance of reason before him, Perturabo could no longer restrain his possessiveness.
He desperately wanted this extraordinary Iron Man—to study him, dissect his secrets, and master the wisdom and power that had created him.
Yet on the other hand, it was precisely because Adam was too outstanding that his incisive analysis and mockery truly struck the most sensitive place in Perturabo's heart.
He had always wanted others to see him as a hero who sacrificed his lesser self for a greater cause, thereby earning everyone's respect and admiration.
But he did not want anyone to discover that he deliberately did these things to gain admiration and praise. He preferred to appear before everyone as a selfless philosopher-king, rather than let them see his vain nature.
Perturabo's toes, encased in power boots, curled tightly together, nearly enough to build a villa in that tiny space.
Every muscle in his body was taut and twitching. The fingers beneath his power gauntlet clenched tightly, producing a faint, heavy grinding sound.
Yet outwardly, he still maintained that carefree, broad-minded appearance, as though victory and loss meant nothing to him.
The Lord of Iron cared deeply about saving face, but he had to pretend not to care for such vain things.
Clearly, Adam did not understand such subtleties. Though exceptionally intelligent and rapidly improving, he could not