Never before had anyone been able to gaze upon the Warp with such clarity and detachment. Yet, on this voyage, the Imperial fleet displayed not a shred of panic regarding the anomalies swirling around them. The objective of this expedition was vastly different from their usual ventures.
Countless times before, they had ignited their warp engines, plunging into that chaotic sea of souls with nothing but the shadow of the unknown and the biting cold of terror for company. Every previous transit had been a desperate prayer, a plea for a smooth journey, a desperate hope to encounter no enemies.
But this time, it was different. At the realization that they were the aggressors, initiating an active strike, the White Scars and Space Wolves felt a surge of exhilaration. Jaghatai Khan could feel the heightened spirits of his sons, yet his own gaze was fixed on a corner of the bridge that remained hidden from the displays. He understood well that this excitement stemmed not merely from the offensive nature of the mission, but from the raw, overwhelming might the Iron Men had unveiled.
The fleet began to sail in a manner that defied description. Space here was non-linear, riddled with jagged, disjointed faults. Suddenly, the Void Sword, positioned at the center of the formation, unleashed a furious barrage. Its terrifying beams lanced directly into a rift leading deep into the Immaterium, and for a moment, it seemed as if a cacophony of shattering glass echoed from the very heart of the void.
The peculiar nature of the Warp lies in its chaotic malleability of time and space. A fleet traveling in a standard formation often encounters inexplicable anomalies when crossing these spatial faults or drifting into discordant time-streams. A ship might vanish into thin air, only to reappear hundreds of kilometers away; or, while the rest of the fleet maintains a steady pace, a handful of vessels might find themselves caught in a localized temporal stasis, lagging as if frozen in time. The larger the fleet, the higher the probability of these bizarre occurrences. Moreover, standard warp-transit severely degrades vox-communication and sensor integrity, leaving crews unable to visually confirm the positions of their sister ships. Often, it is not until the fleet returns to realspace that they discover ships have been lost to the tides. In severe cases, the loss of an entire fleet to the endless shifting of the Warp is a common, grim reality.
But Axion had no patience for the inconsistencies of space. To him, spatial faults were simply folding and distortion, indicative of incorrect coordinates, while the temporal variance was merely a chaotic flow.
The Iron Men possessed the solution.
Titanic energies were unleashed to forcibly tear through the distorted dimensions, smoothing the folded space flat. Using the temporal-energy modules, the surrounding, erratic time-streams were harmonized into a singular, steady current. Though this subjected the entire fleet to a rhythmic cycle of acceleration and deceleration, it was a small price to pay compared to the intermittent disappearance of their ships.
The Imperial crews had never witnessed such stability within the Warp. In truth, Axion had already performed countless micro-calibrations to their trajectory. Certain warp-tides were larger than the Titan-class ship itself; while navigating through such colossal surges posed little threat to the Void Sword, it would have meant certain catastrophe for the smaller Imperial vessels. But, on the whole, their heading remained consistent, shifting only from a straight vertical dive into a gentle, sloping descent.
The Imperial crews remained oblivious to these adjustments. Even the Great Khan felt nothing amiss. The environment around them was a twisted, grotesque hallucination where up and down held no meaning. Projections of countless star systems orbited them, making it impossible to discern reality from phantom. Yet, in truth, not all these projections were illusions; true star systems do exist within the Warp. The sight of reality and nightmare bleeding into one another was a dazzling, disorienting spectacle.
"Master, we have identified several anomalous signals approaching. They bear the signature of Imperial vessels, yet we have never encountered this specific mode of communication."
"One of the targets is gargantuan. The dimensional feedback suggests it is a shattered planet?"
"Perhaps it is a piece of wreckage drifting from some battlefield. Shall we dispatch a fleet to investigate?"
Inside the majestic fortress of Medrengard, a low, brooding voice resonated.
"Intriguing. It has been a long time since I have seen any solid matter appear in this sector. Tell Berossus to take two Grand Battalions and investigate. Capture everyone on those Imperial ships for me. And identify exactly what that 'shattered planet' is."
A tall figure rose from the throne in the great hall. After issuing the order, he walked toward the window overlooking the abyss.
"The scenery here is truly not as beautiful as Father's star-seas."
For a fleeting moment, his tone carried a note of sorrow. "Father... why did you never value me? If not for Ferrus, I would never have been forced down this path!"
A dim bolt of lightning flashed through the chaos storms in the deep void, illuminating the window that even the light of a pale star could not penetrate, fully revealing the figure.
His massive suit of silver-iron armor was covered in crude welds, scars, and countless dents, each one a testament to his storied, bloody history. His face was bloodless, pale as a drowned corpse, bloated and sickly. Thick, ribbed cables pierced his skull, trailing back across his scalp like hissing braids. His pitch-black eyes were needles of cold, icy light, betraying the agony of his past and the sting of betrayal. Not far behind him, several towering automated sentries stood in silent vigil, their iconic design and mechanical lethality marking him unmistakably.
It was the Primarch-Traitor Perturabo.
Although Perturabo had accepted the ascension of a Daemon, he held nothing but disdain for the Ruinous Powers. He did not believe in the "power of Chaos." Unlike Mortarion, who deluded himself into thinking he was merely utilizing the Dark Gods, Perturabo outright rejected many of their so-called gifts.
The Iron Warriors did not slaughter to please the Chaos Gods; they killed for the sake of pure, cold retribution.
His father's indifference, the favoritism shown to his brothers… it was all an unbearable weight. No matter how hard he toiled, no matter how bravely he fought, his father had never once offered him a word of genuine praise. He envied Sanguinius, he envied Dorn; he envied those sons who had basked in the Emperor's favor.
As for Lorgar and Magnus, Perturabo held them in utter contempt.
Lorgar was nothing more than a pathetic, rabid fanatic. His pursuit of faith had devolved into madness, dragging his entire Legion into a vortex of chaos for the sake of empty doctrine. Did he truly believe that preaching those heretical dogmas would lead him to the truth?
And Magnus... humph. A fool. There were countless ways to resolve the mutations plaguing his sons, yet he made not the slightest effort to save them himself.
"The Emperor is indeed merciful," Perturabo whispered, "but that mercy did not extend to you. And it certainly did not extend to me."
Only I, Perturabo, have remained steadfast to my convictions! I have forged my path through iron and artillery. I seek raw, tangible power, power that cannot be broken on the battlefield.
I will not be consumed by suffering like Mortarion, nor will I fall into a fever of hollow faith like Lorgar, and I will certainly not be addled by the temptations of the warp like Magnus.
I will prove to the entire galaxy the name of the Iron Warriors in my own way. I will make all tremble before the iron and fire I command. And then, I will stand before my Father one last time. I will stand in the very spot where he once looked upon me, and I will ask him: Why?!