Perturabo's return was enough to shock the Imperium—but the welcoming ceremony was pitifully minimal. Aside from a group of Imperial officials arriving on Olympia to deliver formal notices, the Mechanicum was already en route, and the Fourth Legion's fleet remained stationed in the starport.
Perturabo did not choose to return to Terra, and the Emperor did not keep him at his side for instruction. They came swiftly—and left just as swiftly.
By the second day, preparations for departure were already underway.
The sky above Olympia was not bright. Countless artificial satellites and several massive orbital rings had completely obscured it.
But Perturabo's vision was not so easily hindered.
The Imperial fleet lay silently docked within the starport.
He stood upon a high platform outside the palace, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze piercing through the scattered lights toward the distance—where his brothers were… and where his sons were as well.
What was Horus thinking aboard the Vengeful Spirit?
Was the Lion still scrutinizing every inch of Olympia's defenses with those razor-sharp eyes?
Had Russ already finished his mead and fallen into the deep slumber unique to Fenrisians?
Ferrus was surely still in the forges, eyes gleaming at the sight of those plasma furnaces…
Perturabo imagined what each of them might be doing.
Then he turned and walked deeper into the palace.
His footsteps echoed through the empty corridors—precise, rhythmic, like a metronome.
On either side, vast mathematical formulas and engineering schematics glimmered coldly under dim lighting. The murals and reliefs stood silent—this was his language, his faith, his world.
He paused as he passed his workshop.
Everything inside remained exactly as it had been. The selected material still rested upon the workbench, untouched.
The walls were lined with his creations—bolters, power swords, weapons he would never admit were his "art."
And in the innermost display case, the figurines waited quietly for their master's return.
Perturabo stepped into the collection room, his gaze sweeping across familiar faces.
Horus stood amid the ruins of Cthonia, holding the Warmaster's mace, eyes fixed forward.
The Lion stood in the forests of Caliban, sword and shield in hand, the banner of the Dark Angels behind him.
Russ drank deeply of mead, two great wolves howling at his side.
Ferrus stood before a forge, metallic light flowing along his silver arms.
Fulgrim stood upon the stage of Chemos, adjusting his appearance before a mirror.
Vulkan held a small girl in his arms, his broad back shielding her from incoming fire.
Dorn stood atop massive scaffolding, holding architectural blueprints.
Guilliman sat amidst mountains of paperwork, quill still moving across parchment.
Sanguinius spread his wings like an angel descending to the mortal world.
Magnus held a great tome, the pyramids of Prospero rising behind him.
…
Then Perturabo's gaze shifted to the "special collection."
His private secret.
There was Dorn on a precarious scaffold. Guilliman buried under documents. Sanguinius admiring himself in a mirror. The Lion "snorting" at Guilliman…
And then—
The "Dark King."
A sinister, imposing figure. Another side of the Emperor—one unknown to the Imperium.
Perturabo's gaze lingered on it for a long time.
Had everything tonight… also been within his expectations?
He did not dwell on it.
Sealing the room, he turned and left.
---
Olympia Standard Time: 06:00:00.00
Perturabo opened his eyes precisely on schedule.
Neural cables descended automatically, connecting seamlessly to the ports on his head.
Status readouts appeared at the edge of his vision:
Sleep duration: 4 hours 23 minutes…
All physiological indicators normal. No anomalies.
He sat up.
The Iron Ring had already prepared his nutrient paste and daily briefing. He finished eating in 3 minutes and 47 seconds while simultaneously reviewing data compiled by the logic engines.
The Imperial fleet still remained in port, though several warships had begun departure procedures.
The first to leave would be the Legions of Ferrus, Dorn, and Guilliman. Each had campaigns to resume.
Ferrus had already spent six hours in the forge. According to reports, he had activated seventeen plasma furnaces, analyzed thirty-four alloy compositions, and conducted forty-three technical exchanges with the forge's logic systems.
Dorn's people were already waiting outside the palace, carrying a massive data-slate containing the fortress schematics he had promised—along with additional materials he would personally deliver.
Guilliman had sent a message through official Imperial channels:
"The Thirteenth Legion will depart at 09:00 this morning. Thank you for Olympia's hospitality. I look forward to meeting again on Macragge."
As for the others—Horus, the Lion, Russ, Sanguinius, Fulgrim, Vulkan, Magnus—there was only silence.
Perhaps they were still reassessing this brother.
Perhaps they simply did not know what to say.
Perturabo did not care.
His sister was still asleep. The previous night's banquet had exhausted both her and Andos.
Dorn had arrived.
The Primarch of the Imperial Fists stood at the palace entrance like a walking fortress.
His armor was plain brass—no ornamentation, no extravagant cloak. Only the golden fist insignia upon his shoulder and the Imperial Aquila upon his back marked him.
In his hands, he carried a massive data-slate.
"You are punctual," Dorn said.
"So are you."
They held each other's gaze for a second, then both looked away.
No words were needed. They were alike—both the kind of men who would be irritated by a delay of three seconds.
Dorn handed over the data-slate. Perturabo began reviewing it.
The Phalanx's holographic structure unfolded before him—every chamber, corridor, and defensive node rendered in perfect detail.
His eyes swept across the data, his mind processing it at inhuman speed.
The Phalanx was a relic of the Dark Age of Technology—a moon-sized star-fort humanity could no longer replicate.
Even Dorn could only maintain and utilize it.
Perturabo did not lack such constructs.
In the Warp, he possessed many similar fortress-stations—but bringing them into realspace would require tearing open rifts vast enough to allow a Chaos God to unleash destruction across entire sectors.
Three minutes later, he looked up.
"The power core layout on Deck Seven is flawed. The cooling conduits are only forty-seven meters from the command center. A leak would incapacitate it within three seconds."
Dorn frowned.
"That meets safety standards. Imperial regulations require no less than thirty meters."
"Those are minimum standards."
Perturabo's tone was flat.
"Not optimal ones. My standard is at least eighty meters, with three independent isolation layers and two backup cooling systems."
Dorn was silent for a moment.
"I will consider it."
Perturabo said nothing more.
He retrieved a data-slate of his own and handed it over—geothermal system designs, along with additional weapon system configurations.
Dorn studied it.
"That wasn't part of our agreement."
"Consider it a gift."
Dorn looked at him, expression unreadable.
"…Thank you."
They exchanged one more glance.
Then Dorn turned and left.
After a few steps, he paused and spoke without turning back.
"What you said last night—I don't believe it was entirely correct."
"Bureaucracy can be improved. Refined. Made more efficient, more just, more reliable. What we need is not to abandon it—but to make it better."
A brief pause.
"You chose a different path. I won't judge it—but know this: if you ever need assistance, the Imperial Fists will stand with you."
This time, Dorn did not look back.
Perturabo watched him go, standing still until the Phalanx departed.
Something flickered briefly in his eyes.
The Gorgon of Medusa seemed even more animated than the night before.
It was not a word one would normally use for Ferrus—but there was unmistakable energy in his expression.
"Your forge."
He got straight to the point.
"Who designed those plasma furnaces?"
"I did."
"Impossible. The complexity alone would take Father—or the greatest Magi of the Imperium—at least a decade to develop."
Ferrus shook his head.
"I took three years. From nothing."
Ferrus froze.
He stared at Perturabo, steel-like eyes shifting—shock, doubt… then recognition.
"You're better than me."
His tone was calm, as though stating a simple fact.
"At least in forging."
"Thank you."
"I like you. You're not false."
Ferrus removed a weapon from his waist and handed it over—a square-headed warhammer of adamantium, its haft engraved with Medusan runes.
"I made this myself. Intended it for Fulgrim—but he said it was too heavy. Suits you better."
Perturabo took it, weighing it in his hand.
Perfect balance. Precise center of mass. The curvature of the hammerhead optimized for maximum kinetic transfer.
He flicked it lightly, listening to its resonance.
High purity. Perfect tempering.
"Excellent work."
"I made it myself."
"…Thank you."
Perturabo genuinely liked the weapon—even though he owned many like it.
"I want your alloy formulas. Your work is the best I've seen—even the Mechanicum's greatest minds fall short. Perhaps only Vulkan could rival you."
Perturabo summoned a data-sample and handed it over.
"All my research. Alloy compositions, forging techniques, plasma furnace designs—it's all there."
Ferrus held the small device.
His iron hands could lift massive war engines—but now, this tiny object felt impossibly heavy.
"I owe you one, brother."
He said nothing more.
But he would remember it.
"Then make more weapons. It might ease my workload."
Ferrus nodded firmly, then left.
---
Guilliman's fleet had already departed.
The corridor between Ultramar and Terra was still incomplete; the Five Hundred Worlds were still in their infancy. Guilliman had planned everything meticulously—but his responsibilities remained immense.
War. Governance. Politics.
A delegation from the Thirteenth Legion arrived.
A single officer, clad in immaculate blue power armor, adorned with numerous golden honors across his chest.
The officer saluted Perturabo with the Aquila, then presented an exquisitely crafted scroll.
"This is for you, my lord—entrusted to me by my primarch."
His tone was respectful.
"A formal invitation from Macragge. Whenever you choose to visit, the gates of Ultramar will always stand open to you."
Perturabo accepted the scroll and unrolled it.
The invitation was written in elegant script, each word carefully chosen—sincere without pressure, respectful without arrogance, flawless in tone.
At the end was Guilliman's signature, along with a small laurel seal.
"Tell my brother that I will visit in time," Perturabo said. "And remind him—Olympia's gates will always be open to him as well."
The towering Astartes saluted once more before departing.
Perturabo rolled up the scroll and turned his gaze toward the Thirteenth Legion at the Mandeville Point. Their warships had begun activating warp drives, blue ion trails burning brightly against the darkness—
Then vanishing from realspace.
Guilliman was a clever man.
He knew how to express goodwill without offense, how to leave both himself and others room to maneuver. He knew how to turn a simple invitation into a political gesture—one that both respected Perturabo and affirmed the Emperor's decision from the previous night.
A man like that was thoughtful, cautious… dangerous.
But Perturabo did not dislike him.
Someone who could hold fast to ideals and act upon them—even after witnessing true darkness—was worthy of respect.
As for what the Warp's distortions might bring in the future, Perturabo could not yet know.
But one thing was certain:
He would not allow such outcomes to come to pass.
At the very least, the Emperor's Webway Project would never be sabotaged because of Magnus.
As long as the Four Gods—and Gork and Mork—did not intervene personally, Perturabo's daemon-forges would crush their legions and greenskins alike. Even if the Orks returned to their ancient heights—should they dare enter the Warp, the forges would simply gain more towering slaves for the assembly lines.
---
Stephanie had awakened.
She sat by the window, watching the Imperial warships departing from the distant starport, their movements displayed on a glowing logic-engine panel.
Artificial sunlight streamed through the glass, softening the contours of her face.
Perturabo pushed open the door and entered. He had reduced his form to just over two meters—to avoid making her uncomfortable.
"Why not sleep a little longer, sister?"
"They're leaving already?"
"Yes. Their duties are heavy. But the Imperium has left personnel here. Soon, more fleets will arrive—trade and population flow will increase significantly."
Stephanie wasn't concerned about that.
"What about that man in gold… your father?"
"He hasn't left yet. But he will soon."
She fell silent for a moment, unsure how to phrase her thoughts.
"He seemed… frightening."
The words surprised Perturabo.
For most humans, fear was not the first emotion the Emperor evoked.
He walked over and sat beside her, saying nothing—simply keeping her company.
"Will you be alright… after what you said last night?"
Her voice was soft, tinged with worry. The sheer presence of the Imperial fleet—and those towering figures—had already felt overwhelming. And the Emperor himself…
"It's fine. He won't harm me."
"Why?"
Perturabo was silent for a second.
"Because he needs me."
Confusion flickered across Stephanie's face—but she did not ask further.
Some questions had no answers.
At least, not yet.
Instead, she reached out and gently took his hand.
"No matter what happens… I'll stand with you."
Perturabo looked down at her hand—small, soft, almost toy-like compared to his own.
"…Mm."
---
The Iron Hands fleet was austere—no ornamentation, only rows of gun barrels glinting coldly under starlight.
Ferrus had sent no message.
Between them, such formalities were unnecessary.
Perturabo stood atop the palace platform, watching the fleet fade into the distance.
The other fleets began departing as well.
The Great Crusade had entered one of its most intense phases. Every Legion was under pressure to maintain efficiency.
Even Magnus—ever hungry for knowledge—did not dare delay.
One of the Thousand Sons' five cult leaders had already fallen during the Crusade. A friend of Magnus, one who had stood with him against the Flesh-Change and helped rebuild Prospero.
No one could ignore the Emperor's command.
Not even his sons.
For the success of the Great Crusade, for the Webway, for humanity's future—
The Emperor had already prepared himself for death.
He, Malcador, the Primarchs—even the Imperium itself—
All were tools.
He could portion out fragments of his humanity to them—but when humanity's survival was at stake, he would never hesitate.
Perturabo disliked being used as a tool.
And he disliked using others as tools.
Even if his actions often betrayed a strong desire for control.
"Tonight. I will see you alone."
A psychic message suddenly echoed in his mind.
"Very well."
---
Night on Olympia was even more solemn than day.
Even the palace beneath the dome carried an air of quiet majesty.
The Emperor appeared in the reception hall.
No Malcador. No Custodians. No attendants.
Just himself.
He wore a simple white robe, a golden laurel crown upon his head, standing in the center of the chamber, studying the massive equations and engineering schematics etched across the walls.
When Perturabo entered, the Emperor was examining a complex design.
"Is this your fortress?" he asked.
"Yes. I've been refining it constantly. It took me three years to correct every flaw I could identify."
"Even now, I continue strengthening its defenses."
"I do not tolerate imperfection. If I build something, it must be the best."
The Emperor was silent for a moment.
"You are stubborn."
He turned to face him.
In those golden eyes, there was no longer the overwhelming pressure of the night before—only something deep… and almost weary.
Perturabo said nothing.
"I came to say farewell. The fleet departs tomorrow. The Great Crusade demands my attention."
He paused.
"But before that, there are things I wish to tell you—alone."
Another pause.
"What you said last night… was correct. The bureaucratic system is flawed. Not just the Administratum—the Imperium has many problems. Some may never be solved."
"The Imperium I created is not perfect. My abilities are limited. This is already the best I can achieve—even with Malcador bearing much of the burden."
He knew the flaws of his rule.
But humanity lacked time.
And he lacked the ability to give them a perfect order.
This Imperium… was the limit of what he could build.
"But it is humanity's only hope."
"In the face of Chaos. In the face of alien threats."
"Humanity must unite."
"And unity requires order."
"Order requires strength."
"Strength requires sacrifice."
Perturabo frowned slightly.
"Are you trying to persuade me?"
The Emperor shook his head.
"No. I am explaining why I chose this path."
There was something unreadable in his gaze.
"Do you hate me… for treating you as tools?"
He knew.
Some of his sons must have already realized it.
Perturabo simply saw it most clearly.
"I don't hate you."
The Emperor paused.
"I simply don't care about you."
For a moment, the Emperor was taken aback.
"You created me. Gave me life. Gave me knowledge from birth. But that is not enough to make me serve you."
"I exist for myself—not for your plans. Not as a tool in your hand. Not as a cog in some abstract 'human destiny.'"
"I have my own ideals. My own pursuits."
"I will fight for humanity—but that is my choice, not your command. When the true threat comes, I will stand."
"But until then—I will live as I choose."
The Emperor fell silent.
Then—
He smiled.
There was approval in his gaze.
"You know… you are the first among them to speak to me like this."
"Horus seeks my favor. The Lion respects me. Dorn obeys me. Guilliman tries to understand me. Sanguinius admires me."
"But none of them would stand before me and say, 'I don't care about you.'"
He stepped forward and lightly placed a hand on Perturabo's shoulder.
"I am proud of you, my son."
"Not for your strength. Not for your intellect. Not for your creations."
"But because you chose your own path—and have the courage to walk it."
"That… is what a Primarch should be."
"Remember your promise. When that day comes—I expect you to stand."
The Emperor vanished.
The Vengeful Spirit slowly departed the starport. The vast fleet followed, their lights illuminating the worlds of the Olympia system.
Perturabo watched as the glow receded… diminished…
And finally disappeared into the Mandeville Point.