"Judging by your tone, it doesn't seem like you're particularly happy about my return. Did my uninvited arrival catch you off guard?"
Seeing the Emperor's less-than-pleasant expression—and the somewhat tense faces around him—Perturabo spoke calmly.
"Perhaps I was a bit too hasty. In that case, we can talk once you arrive on Olympia. I'll prepare a banquet for you there."
The Primarchs had intended to exchange a few words with this brother who clearly wasn't easy to deal with—
But Perturabo's figure had already begun to fade once more.
"Oh, right. I would prefer that my sons not be treated like this. I hope you release them before you reach Olympia… otherwise, I can't guarantee what I might do."
Those were his final words before disappearing.
Yet the deep frowns on the Emperor's and Malcador's faces eased somewhat.
Though the Fourth had deviated drastically from the path they had expected—
He still chose to stand on humanity's side.
And that… was enough.
As for his transgressions—
They could be addressed after reaching Olympia, after his formal return.
"This brother of ours is dangerous. No wonder you summoned all of us, Father."
Horus stepped forward, coming to stand beside the Emperor.
He hadn't pinpointed anything specific about Perturabo—
But it was clear enough: this was not someone who would get along easily with them.
The Emperor nodded—
Then shook his head.
"No. His willingness to return proves he has no intention of opposing the Imperium. But his return… may not be like yours."
That answer left several Primarchs puzzled.
"You mean… he might not acknowledge the Imperium—or you, Father?"
Guilliman's words were startlingly direct.
Vulkan blinked, momentarily unable to follow—
But most of the others quickly grasped Guilliman's implication.
And each reacted differently.
Sanguinius thought: this brother is powerful. Even if he chooses not to align with the Imperium, the fact that he is willing to return suggests he still possesses a strong sense of right and wrong. If so, why not befriend him?
Magnus, far more carefree, simply felt that although their first exchange had been somewhat unpleasant, they would surely become good friends. Perhaps they could even participate in the Great Crusade together—exploring knowledge and technology across the galaxy.
From that overwhelming psychic strength alone, Magnus could tell—
Perturabo's understanding of the Warp likely surpassed his own.
That alone was enough to excite him.
He was already eager for a private conversation—one where they could talk for ten days and nights without pause.
Ferrus and Dorn, meanwhile, sensed something different—
A resonance.
This brother… seemed unusually compatible with them.
Ferrus, however, was already thinking ahead. Cooperation. Mutual benefit. He had even begun considering forging a weapon as a gift to earn Perturabo's friendship.
Dorn's thoughts went elsewhere.
The Fourth and Seventh Legions shared striking similarities. He realized that this brother's role, as defined by the Emperor, might not differ much from his own.
A quiet competitive fire ignited within him.
He resolved to demonstrate the Imperial Fists' strengths to their utmost in the Great Crusade to come.
Russ, too, had shed his usual carefree demeanor.
His rugged face was set in grim silence.
The role the Emperor had given the Space Wolves made him particularly sensitive to Perturabo.
This brother was not only powerful—
Even the Emperor himself might not be able to subdue him.
Russ knew well how strong the Emperor was.
And yet, in that brief encounter, he had felt the hairs on his body stand on end. His heightened, beast-like instincts told him plainly—
This was not an opponent he could overcome.
Even so—
His duty, and his loyalty to the Emperor, compelled him to raise the Dionysian Spear—despite his distaste for it—and stand guard.
Lion El'Jonson's reaction was simpler.
He sensed danger.
The First Legion—serving as the Emperor's hidden blade—had always been entrusted with the most secretive and critical tasks, a final safeguard against a grim future.
But after Perturabo's appearance aboard the Imperator Somnium, the Lion began to question whether his Legion's role had been as clearly defined as he once believed.
---
Horus felt conflicted.
He had intended to act as a guide—a good elder brother—to ease this newcomer's return and shoulder his father's burdens.
But now…
That plan seemed unlikely to succeed.
Guilliman, ever perceptive, sensed that this brother might stir upheaval within the Imperium in the future.
Still, the situation was not yet clear.
It was too early to draw conclusions.
He decided to observe further once they reached this brother's homeworld.
With his innate political acumen and a rationality rivaling Ferrus, Guilliman's thoughts expanded rapidly.
In his mind, he had already drafted no fewer than thirteen broad strategic frameworks—only the finer details remained to be filled in.
Fulgrim, for his part, felt something familiar in Perturabo—
The same initial distaste he had once felt upon meeting Ferrus.
Yet Ferrus had since become his closest friend.
Even the name "Gorgon," once a barbed insult, had taken on a different meaning when spoken by Fulgrim.
Because of that—
Fulgrim harbored no particular hostility toward Perturabo.
But neither did he act, nor voice any opinion.
Vulkan was the simplest of them all.
He truly didn't understand these undercurrents.
Though this reunion had begun on uneasy terms, the Lord of Drakes sincerely hoped for harmony among brothers—
And that together, they could protect humanity.
The Emperor nodded, acknowledging Guilliman's earlier statement.
Perturabo's defiance posed a challenge.
This was the first time they had encountered such a situation—
Even the Emperor's personal intervention had failed to bring a Primarch fully into line.
"My lord, the Fourth has deviated far from his intended path. What are your plans?"
The moment Malcador spoke—
Nearly every Primarch felt an instinctive discomfort.
Even Alpharius.
Only Dorn and Russ remained unaffected.
"The Fourth still stands with us. That is enough. We will decide after we arrive."
The Emperor gave no further explanation.
But Horus could not remain silent.
"Regent, mind your words. He is our brother—our father's fourth son—not some 'Number Four.'"
Among the Primarchs, Malcador was deeply disliked—if not outright despised.
Every time they conquered a world, this Regent would descend upon it like a carrion hound, installing civilian bureaucrats over territories they had bled to win.
And every time—
Heavy taxes followed.
Many Primarchs found this intolerable.
Worse still—
The decree that Primarchs and Astartes were forbidden from participating in governance had been decided jointly by the Emperor and this frail old man.
That only deepened their resentment.
They had reclaimed these human worlds—
Yet had no say in their future?
How could they accept that?
They might endure it—
But what about their sons? The legionaries who fought and bled on the frontlines of the Great Crusade?
This was a thorn in every Primarch's heart.
And Malcador, for his part, held little affection for them either—frequently leveraging the Emperor's authority to extract more from them in the name of the Crusade, the Imperium, humanity.
After every campaign, civilian officials would arrive with uncanny timing, seamlessly taking control of newly conquered systems.
Yet when it came to logistical support?
Never on time.
Always delayed. Always insufficient.
The excuse was always the same—Warp travel difficulties, administrative misallocation, severe resource shortages.
Since the Crusade began—
Not once had supplies arrived as scheduled.
And receiving even half of what was promised was considered fortunate.
What commander could tolerate that?
After repeated, fruitless complaints, they had no choice but to solve such problems themselves.
Sanguinius had much to say on that matter.
So did the Fourth Legion.
"My apologies, my words may have been inappropriate. I ask for your forgiveness, my lord."
Malcador showed no desire to argue.
Yet the cold indifference in his tone was unmistakable.
He did not regard the Primarchs as equals.
What angered them most—
Was the Emperor's silence.
This old schemer must have used some trick to sway Father!
A dangerous glint flickered in Horus's eyes.
Guilliman frowned.
Even the usually gentle Sanguinius and Vulkan felt their patience wearing thin.
Ferrus clenched his fists.
Fulgrim said nothing—but standing behind Ferrus, his sideways glance toward Malcador spoke volumes.
The Lion was the most direct—
He turned fully toward Malcador, greatsword already on the verge of falling.
Dorn stepped in to restrain Magnus, whose temper was also flaring.
Russ simply grinned, watching the scene unfold.
He knew the Emperor would intervene.
---
"Enough. Calm yourselves. Prepare to receive your returning brother. He is… unusual. Perhaps once you arrive, you will gain new understanding."
The Emperor redirected their attention.
Perturabo's actions were commendable in many ways—
But his use of Abominable Intelligence had crossed an absolute red line.
This was something neither the Emperor nor the Imperium could tolerate.
The horrors of the Men of Iron must never be repeated.
Even the Emperor found himself at a loss for how to define the Fourth.
He had never imagined—
That this son could carve out a place within Chaos itself, while still maintaining a physical form in realspace.
…Better to see it firsthand.
The Emperor's clear favoritism—and his tolerance of that ever-calm, reed-thin old man—
Only deepened the Primarchs' anger.
But since the Emperor had spoken, they could not press the matter further.
---
The journey itself was not long.
But the atmosphere aboard the Imperator Somnium was so heavy that even the Custodians controlled their breathing to near silence, their helm systems regulating every sound.
The Space Marines accompanying their gene-father were no different.
As for the mortal crew—
They trembled in fear.
A fleet of such magnitude could not move quickly.
The warships of the Fourth Legion followed behind the Imperator Somnium, which improved Perturabo's mood—if only slightly.
"Perty, the banquet is ready."
"Mm. Thank you, sister."
"It's nothing."
Stephanie looked at him, hesitating.
"They don't look like they're here to welcome you back."
She hadn't wanted to say it.
But the Emperor's conduct—and that of the others—
Felt anything but friendly.
So in the end—
She spoke her mind.
"Not at first—but now, whether they like it or not, they'll have to be. Don't worry, sister."
The casual ease in Perturabo's tone reassured Stephanie.
Behind them stood the forces he had cultivated over the years—mechanized troops, Iron Rings, and a number of gene-enhanced warriors.
These were the Iron Guard—Perturabo's personal troops on Olympia. Veterans who had followed him since the earliest city-state wars.
Their bodies had been modified to the point where they nearly rivaled Astartes.
Standing at over 2.2 meters tall, clad in high-grade armor and wielding advanced weaponry—even in a one-on-one confrontation, their performance metrics could surpass that of a Space Marine.
There were thirty thousand of them.
Now, under Stephanie's command, they stood in full formation along the reception route—fully armed, a deliberate display of strength.
Above, massive warships hovered in formation, arranged into deliberate "patterns." The entire world of Olympia had been extensively "decorated."
Under the rule of the Lord of Iron—
Such a display was almost inconceivable.
But who would dare question it?
They could only obey.
---
Andos was still overseeing the preparations within the banquet hall. He treated his brother's instructions with utmost seriousness, ensuring that not even the slightest mistake would occur.
There were no overly extravagant decorations—
Yet the scale and precision of Perturabo's reception were unquestionably of the highest order.
The Imperator Somnium and the accompanying fleet docked within the orbital ports of Olympia and nearby planets.
This alone disrupted Olympia's shipping routes significantly, reducing efficiency.
Yet—
The Primarchs were astonished.
Even Dorn, upon his own return, had not elevated his world to such a level.
And the starports themselves were even more shocking.
Their sheer capacity—and the flawless organization with which they operated—surpassed the vast majority of Imperial worlds.
Even Terra could not compare.
Not as an insult—but anyone who had been there knew.
With its already limited space crammed with massive traffic routes, Terra's congestion was so extreme that even Horus couldn't help but complain.
But what shocked them most—
Were the ships.
Every vessel docked in these ports seemed superior to those provided by the Mechanicum.
Even the escorting aircraft felt… familiar.
Stormbirds?
And not just that—
They were larger, more advanced than the Imperium's own.
There were also smaller fighter craft—equally impressive.
Every Primarch could immediately recognize their strategic value.
The warships, too, were no less capable than those of the Imperial Navy—
In fact, they seemed superior.
But—
This brother had not yet returned to the Imperium.
So how could he possess—and produce—such technology?
They had no answers.
But when they saw the Emperor board one of the Stormbirds, accompanied by Malcador and Valdor—
They followed.
The mortals aboard showed a flicker of surprise at their towering forms and striking appearances.
But only for a moment.
Soon, they resumed their duties.
That alone intrigued the Primarchs.
Few mortals could witness them and still remain so composed.
As the Stormbird flew, guided by onboard personnel, the Primarchs observed Olympia below.
It was powerful—
Yet oppressive.
They could feel it.
And when they heard descriptions of Perturabo's "harsh" rule from the locals—
Russ was the first to react.
A son of Fenris, who valued freedom above all, he had no tolerance for such oppression.
Vulkan followed closely behind.
With his compassionate nature, he could not accept such heavy-handed rule over humanity.
Ferrus, however, took a different view.
He considered whether such a system could be integrated into Medusa's own governance.
To one who believed in survival of the fittest, such concerns were secondary—
In fact, he felt Perturabo might even be too lenient.
This system could be made even more efficient.
---
Guilliman and Horus withheld judgment.
Given the current state of the Imperium, criticizing Perturabo outright would seem almost hypocritical—
Though Guilliman, personally, did not approve of his methods.
Fulgrim found it difficult to tolerate.
Having grown up on Chemos, he instinctively rejected such a regime—
But he restrained himself.
Lion listened quietly as mortals and his brothers spoke, his gaze sweeping across Olympia's grand, hive-like structures.
For some reason—
Despite its magnificence—
This world made his instincts bristle.
He had felt uneasy since entering the Warp.
At the Mandeville Point—
And even more so now that they had arrived.
---
Magnus, initially intending to search for libraries, extended his psychic senses freely—
Then suddenly froze.
His expression changed drastically.
A flicker of fear crossed his eyes as he looked toward the Emperor's somber face.
This brother…
Had committed a grave taboo.
And not even bothered to hide it.
Perturabo had openly trampled upon the Emperor's and the Imperium's authority.
Those systems—those weapons, those infrastructures—
All clearly operated by Abominable Intelligence.
Automata patrolled the streets openly.
Even a powerful central intelligence governed the entire world—
And none of it was concealed.
Magnus could feel his heartbeat quicken.
Even his normally vibrant crimson skin seemed to dull.
"What's wrong, Magnus?" Guilliman asked, noticing his expression.
Magnus glanced at the Emperor.
Seeing no intention to explain—
He dared not speak further.
"Nothing."
Nothing?
No one believed that.
But since the Emperor remained silent, they chose not to press the matter.
It was likely Magnus had seen something through psychic means—
And if the Emperor did not object, then either it was not a major issue—
Or it had been tacitly accepted.
Yet as they approached the dome—
Even the Primarchs' expressions grew darker.
What was this brother planning?
---
Perturabo stood waiting with his siblings.
Stephanie, watching the faint curve at the corner of his lips, couldn't help but feel—
There was a trace of mischief in him.
What could have put him in such a mood?
She didn't know.
She had intended to ask—
But the Stormbird had already landed.
And as the figures stepped out—
She found herself unable to look away.
At the forefront stood a man clad in golden armor.
He was nearly as tall as the Lord of Iron.
And for some reason—
He exuded a presence that inspired instinctive trust and reverence.
Behind him followed others—
Each wearing distinct armor, each possessing extraordinary bearing and presence.
Even their guards—
Golden-armored giants, taller and stronger than the Iron Guard—
Were awe-inspiring.
These…
Weren't these the figures Perty would sometimes craft during his idle moments?
Stephanie remembered them.
And yet, seeing them in reality—
Felt surreal.
Just like when she had suddenly realized that every ship in that massive fleet had seemed strangely familiar.
Merely looking at them stirred something indescribable within her.
But their armor—
Their presence—
Made one thing clear:
They were not inherently benevolent.
Perhaps Perty had done something to temper that danger.
"...Heh."
A faint scoff escaped Perturabo's lips the moment the Emperor appeared.
Just as he expected—
The Emperor loved to rely on psychic influence.
Even now, he was subtly projecting his presence—shaping the perceptions of those on Olympia.
As they came face to face—
Stephanie and Andos felt the overwhelming pressure emanating from the Emperor and the Primarchs.
Only then did they notice—
Beside these towering figures stood a frail, silver-haired old man.
"So—you enjoy doing this sort of thing?"
Perturabo's first words to the Emperor caught everyone off guard.
"I thought the Imperium was cautious about psychic power. Yet you seem rather fond of using it."
The Emperor did not engage with that point.
Instead, he struck directly at the issue:
"And I forbid Abominable Intelligence—yet you use it regardless. And so openly."
"The logic engine is quite useful," Perturabo replied calmly.
"These automata and Iron Rings outperform even my Iron Guard in many respects. Even your Custodians… may not necessarily be more effective."
"And besides—Abominable Intelligence took a very long time to rebel. Humanity, on the other hand, has spent far longer waging war against itself… and far more often than certain individuals who constantly inspire betrayal and abandonment."
That last remark—
Even made the Emperor's expression darken slightly.
But before he could respond, Perturabo changed the subject.
Turning to the Primarchs, he said:
"Welcome, brothers. I've prepared a banquet for you."
"Come. Whatever you wish to discuss—we can do so inside."
With that, Perturabo turned—
And began walking toward the palace.
Stephanie and Andos exchanged uncertain glances.
Unsure how to proceed—
They could only step forward and invite the guests to follow him inside.