My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 378: Father and Son
The Iron Blood drifted silently in orbit at the very edge of the star system. The fifth patrol flotilla dispatched into the warp was still pitching amid the Empyrean's tides.
At first, Perturabo had worried that the boundary between the warp and realspace would sever his control over the Iron Warriors. Now he realized that this concern had been unnecessary. Distance, so far, had not become a factor that weakened his command over the soldiers.
Tens of millions of real-time tactical maps unfolded within his mind—but they were no longer projections or simulations. They were events truly happening. At every moment, the Lord of Iron savored this process. At last, he no longer had to endure his subordinates' failures.
In the gaps between thoughts, the Lord of Iron sometimes remembered those Iron Warriors he had exiled to garrison worlds. He tried to recall them—but their data did not surface naturally. He could not command them.
That might be a good thing—or a bad one. The Lord of Iron had hoped to test his ability on these forgotten sons, to gather data, to make everything efficient, the sole cost being the erasure of personality.
On some level, Perturabo felt regret for a few warriors he had once admired. But such emotions were swiftly erased. As a Primarch who had once decimated his Legion through decimation, he would not invest excessive, unnecessary sentiment in his sons.
Now, within the Iron Warriors' fleet, the warriors quietly carried out their tasks, like… like the dolls his sister once owned.
Perturabo realized he could expend surplus effort to make them seem "alive," but at present, that was unnecessary.
He had more important matters to attend to.
The Iron Warriors' fleet was colonizing within the Eye of Terror at a terrifying pace—seeking resources, building infrastructure, laying transport routes. Perturabo was not entirely certain why he was doing this, but he wanted to do it. That was all.
In this brief moment of respite, he did what he wished to do—as an architect. He built, he created, rather than destroyed. His newly realized ability made construction even more engaging. He participated "personally" in every minute detail of assembly.
Of course, driven by a more concealed and barely perceptible impulse, Perturabo did not choose to construct cultural edifices—lecture halls, bell towers. These were unnecessary. There was no one to enjoy them.
Instead, he chose structures so familiar they were numbing: trenches, airfields… the kinds of constructions that had shaped him into a machine of war.
This was preparation for dangers that might yet come, Perturabo told himself. He repeatedly confirmed that he was in realspace. Until he was sufficiently prepared, Perturabo would not lightly step into the warp again.
Nothing could interrupt the Lord of Iron's work—
Except—
For the first time, Perturabo rose from his Iron Throne. He stepped out into the corridor.
No one informed him. The busy figures passed silently by his side. Under normal circumstances, he would have been angered by such discourtesy. Now, he was not.
He walked onto the deck of the Iron Blood. At the exact moment the Lord of Iron came to a halt, the object was set down on the deck by the elevator of the Fifth Exploration Team.
It had almost been delivered to the Fifth Exploration Team's vessel by the warp's turbulent currents themselves. The apparatus emitted a steady hum, the liquid inside gurgling softly.
Perturabo stared at the incubation pod. The veil began to ripple. This might be a necessary price—if he wished to keep it here, then he would have to endure this.
He stepped forward in silence. Everyone working on the deck froze. They turned their heads and stared at the smooth, docile, silent incubation chamber.
Perturabo felt his heart rate accelerate—pounding at an unbelievable speed. He felt dizzy, overwhelmed by disbelief. Even now, he felt as though all of this were unreal—yet the Iron Warriors' fleet had already been building within the Eye of Terror for three years.
Nothing had happened. No rust. No monsters of iron and fire. Not even his sons.
For these three years, Perturabo's entire world had contained only himself.
And now, it still contained only himself.
In disbelief, Perturabo made an impulsive decision. He did not command the soldiers to step forward and operate the machinery—he went over himself, staring at the small, faintly writhing mass of flesh.
He smashed the transparent casing with a single punch. His hand churned through the viscous fluid, and with an uncompromising, overwhelming strength, he dragged the child out—ripped him from his protective shell.
When he touched the child's skin, it felt as though he were being burned. Perturabo knew this was an illusion, yet his hand still spasmed. With a sharp slap, he involuntarily let go, and the infant slammed heavily onto the deck of the Iron Blood.
He watched the child struggle. The baby was soaked all over. He opened his eyes and stared at Perturabo in terror.
At the instant the infant opened his eyes, everyone who had been frozen aboard the Iron Blood resumed their work. The deck officers shouted loudly, waving their batons; warriors changing shifts bumped fists in greeting; returning explorers laughed and talked among themselves.
Perturabo stared at him.
"You are called Perturabo."
He spoke slowly. His voice was insignificant amid the clamor of the deck, yet something within him was growing wildly.
"Now stand up and follow me. If you show weakness, I will kill you."
Little Perturabo watched as the colossal figure turned away without a trace of hesitation. He considered, for a moment, the possibility of running away. In the end, he chose to stagger after him.
His long, still-wet eyelashes trembled. The child looked around the deck in confusion and fear. The people there automatically ignored the two of them.
. . .
Little Perturabo sat silently on the floor. The vast, empty room contained no furniture at all. He had been given only a pen, and beside him lay a stack of books piled higher than he was tall.
He quietly wrote and sketched in the books. Formulas flowed from his pen. In the many dim, lightless days of his life, time passed like this.
Once again, he had disappointed his adoptive father.
The thought brushed against Little Perturabo's consciousness without warning, and his heart convulsed violently—so violently that his body nearly shook with it. But ever since the first time he had been forced into a water basin and nearly suffocated for showing weakness, he had learned to suppress, as much as possible, any action that might reveal fragility.
Iron within, iron without.
Little Perturabo repeated the words in his mind. He hoped that this time he was prepared again, rather than disappointing his adoptive father. In most cases, his adoptive father did not physically punish him; instead, he simply ignored Little Perturabo—ignored him completely, giving him not a shred of attention.
Little Perturabo longed for his adoptive father's notice. How had this desire taken root and grown so deeply within his heart? He did not know. By the time he became aware of it, he was already doing everything he could to please his adoptive father.
His adoptive father was not an unreasonable man, Little Perturabo thought, his pen unconsciously scratching messy lines across the page.
On the contrary—he must truly love him, Little Perturabo believed.
Otherwise, he would not absentmindedly pat his head after a task was completed; he would not promise him new formulas and books; he would not teach him combat techniques without reserve; he would not spend vast amounts of time and effort examining his body; and he would not tell him stories of great architects.
His adoptive father wanted him to grow strong—strong enough, iron within and iron without.
He needed to meet his adoptive father's expectations. Then Little Perturabo would gain something—perhaps an outing, perhaps a new book—instead of the coldness and neglect that followed disappointment. Perhaps more than those rewards, Little Perturabo simply wanted his adoptive father to look at him.
In his world, only his adoptive father ever acknowledged him. Everyone else would forever ignore Little Perturabo. They, too, were merely appendages of his adoptive father. They would never change or influence anything.
This world did not belong to them.
After many attempts, little Perturabo gave up on trying to draw the attention of those people. He did not need them, just as they did not need him.
Once, using the reward he had earned from a successful mission, he asked his adoptive father a question. His adoptive father's answer was that there was no need to pay attention to the weak. This world belonged only to the strong; the entire world revolved around the strongest one. If you could not become the strongest—then at the very least, you had to learn to crawl beneath the strong.
Little Perturabo's life experience told him this was correct. No one ever defied his adoptive father. Other people had no value; only his adoptive father did.
Only the strongest had value. Only his father had value.
So he thought.
. . .
Perturabo was now clearly aware that he was mocking his own soul. He could see, with painful clarity, how all of this had come to be—how he himself had become what he was today.
He gave the child insignificant rewards, watching him secretly rejoice over those scraps for a long time.
If he was in a good mood, he would casually call the child over to talk for a bit, then dismiss him the moment his interest faded. If he was in a bad mood, he would ignore the child for days, even months, deliberately turning his attention back to the fleet's infrastructure and leaving him unseen.
Little Perturabo needed iron within and iron without. His inner self needed tempering as well.
This was what Perturabo told himself in his heart—but he knew perfectly well that this was not the truth. A twisted sense of satisfaction grew inside him. He thought of the Emperor. Had the Emperor originally thought in the same way when dealing with him?
The Emperor had casually cast his sons aside in remote places, assigned them tasks nearly impossible to complete, forced them to abandon what they loved to do—then, when the sons waited with hearts full of longing for his attention, rewarded them with a few scraps. That alone was enough to placate them.
Perturabo burst out laughing.
He felt it was laughable. He felt it was absurd. And yet, he truly was immersed in this ocean of power and domination. He took satisfaction in feeling little Perturabo scrutinize his every move, trying to please him, trying to earn his attention—and as a reward for wagging his tail so earnestly, Perturabo would grant him a single glance.
How strange, Perturabo thought. Why had he never felt the pleasure of domination from others? Even when he had gained control over an entire fleet, all he had felt was relief at finally being rid of incompetents, and a sense of having gained the world.
He had never known that his desire for domination was so lush, so vibrant with life. He indulged himself, watering this greedy flower with the violence he inflicted upon his former self—
How he despised this little creature, who could only live on the rewards and words of others!
Ha… hahaha! Ha!
Every single time—every time he spoke to his former self, praised him, punished him, neglected him—Perturabo's soul seemed to be torn in two. One half let out a sated sigh; the other half trembled and roared: Why are you doing this to him?! Why?!
Why was he doing this to him?! He shouted at that figure. Was this how he had once thought too—to dominate his offspring, to take pleasure in it, to satisfy his own lust for power?
He was madly imitating the Emperor's atrocities. Perturabo did not know why. By the time he realized he was retracing the Emperor's path, he had already walked it for far too long. He subconsciously used his attention as reward and punishment upon himself. Ha—so he, too, was one of this world's cruel beings!
Shh… no.
Perturabo told himself he was not. He was far less cruel than the Emperor. At the very least, he would not use bloodline, would not use flesh itself, to force loyalty upon them.
Perturabo let out a low, self-mocking laugh. If he were to knock out his own loyalty gene, would he still bow before him? Would he still desperately dig out his heart's blood just to make him look at him once more, praise him once more? Would he still secretly envy the praise given to other brothers?
Emperor—you are far from deserving of this!
You are unworthy.
Perturabo thought angrily: how could someone who committed such atrocities still so brazenly enjoy the tributes of his sons, enjoy their constant fear over his every move? Unless this was his nature—greedy, cruel to the core.
Perturabo had already made his decision. Emperor—if you are truly noble, then you would have no need to shackle them with genes and flesh.
He listened to the footsteps approaching outside the room, and again felt a sense of bitter irony. Yes, the Emperor was greedy and cruel—otherwise, how could his sons possess such brutal and absurd natures?
The footsteps stopped at the door.
"Come in," Perturabo said lazily, his voice hoarse.
The door was pushed open carefully. With grim amusement, he watched little Perturabo enter as upright as he could manage. The child stared at him in shock. He was already a few years old, yet still very much a child—Perturabo's partial gene knockout had impeded the Primarch's own growth.
Little Perturabo sucked in a small breath.
His adoptive father was leaning bare-chested against the cold, inorganic back of a medical chair. Countless tubes were inserted into his upper body; through some of the translucent conduits, little Perturabo could clearly see crimson fluid flowing.
"You know how to operate this. Come over and do it."
The adoptive father gave the order. Little Perturabo walked forward without hesitation and began operating the massive machine. His adoptive father had taught him before. He was afraid, but he skillfully buried all signs of weakness deep in his heart.
What… what was this for?
Little Perturabo listened in silence to his adoptive father's labored breathing. The thick stench of blood coiled around his nose. Shreds of flesh splattered down; sweat ran down little Perturabo's forehead.
"It's done," he said as calmly as he could.
Little Perturabo stepped back from the machine, retreating a pace. He tried to hide his hands behind his back—as he realized he might be hurting his adoptive father, his hands began to tremble slightly.
He turned to look at him. He had never seen his adoptive father like this before. His eyes were openly filled with the gaze of a dominator, rather than the usual expressionless calm.
"Good child," his adoptive father said.
"Now come here."
Little Perturabo walked over, obedient, terrified, and yet expectant. He had completed the task perfectly; he awaited his adoptive father's reward. But his strange condition, and the blood splashed across the floor, frightened him.
His heart pounded violently. His adoptive father forced himself upright; a warm yet iron-hard arm reached out to him.
His adoptive father gave him a hug.
Little Perturabo's mind went blank for a second. He heard his adoptive father's low chuckle—mixed with self-mockery, sorrow, greed… and release.
"…Fa—"
Crack
Perturabo released his grip without expression. He watched the body slide limply to the floor, the neck slack and lifeless. Soldiers were already waiting outside the door. The partial gene knockout on little Perturabo had long since been completed; next would come the erasure of memory, and then he would be casually tossed—along with his incubation pod—into the Warp currents.
Perturabo thought calmly: his little clone would return to Olympia. He would forget everything—remembering only the Eye of Terror, remembering only the knowledge Perturabo had given him. He would continue to bow before those above him, until… until this Möbius loop finally reached its end.
Perturabo took a deep breath and let his thoughts reach toward the Emperor. He realized that the Emperor no longer seemed so towering, no longer so sublime—he was nothing more than a king, after all.
He would no longer wag his tail for him.
No—never again.
He was himself. He was Perturabo. He would satisfy only himself, and he would never again bow his head to that liar, that tyrant.
. . .
Vashtorr walked in silence through the corridors of the Iron Blood. The Iron Warriors had successfully colonized many worlds within the Eye of Terror. By replicating the indigenous populations of those planets, Perturabo had already completed the expansion of his armies. His power required no instruction—only the implantation of a seed, and Perturabo would gain a new set of data.
Perturabo had even, without a teacher, mastered part of the operational methods of the Blackstone Towers that once stood on those worlds—knowledge Vashtorr had originally intended to teach him in the future.
How terrifying… Vashtorr thought. This was the monster They had nurtured—the unchained aberration tacitly permitted by the gods.
It entered the grand hall and saw the monster seated upon the Iron Throne. He belonged only to himself; he served only his own desires.
And now, quite clearly, their desires aligned.
Vashtorr laughed. Furnace-fire spilled from its mouth as it bowed with elegance. The creature of iron and flame spoke in a low voice:
+Congratulations on your freedom, Lord of Iron.+
+Now, may we discuss the true contract?+
Vashtorr took satisfaction in knowing it had gambled correctly. As for the consequences of Perturabo's earlier breach of contract…
It was very glad he had broken it.
<+>
Note: Basically, Perturabo made a clone of himself, Little Perturabo, and by the end of it, it erased all of the childhood memories that Little Perturabo had gained, leaving behind the memory of the Eye of Terror and the knowledge that he had given the clone, and then sent it to Olympia of the past.
Basically, he's creating a mobius stripe of himself.
<+>
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