Frix was, in truth, very tense. When the Emperor had previously informed them that their father had been found, he had actually felt a surge of excitement deep inside.
But what followed sent a chill straight up the spines of every Astartes in the Fourth Legion.
Why were so many Primarchs going together to "welcome" their father? And why were supplies and equipment prepared so abundantly?
Why had nearly eighty percent of the Fourth Legion's weapons and vehicles been confiscated? Why were even Terminator suits barely left to them?
Why had the First Legion and the Sixth Legion deployed in full force? Even the Phalanx, which had always guarded the skies above Terra, had been brought here?
Even the Fourth Legion's fleet was subtly encircled—was this really meant to reunite father and sons? Why did it feel more like coercion?
Frix didn't understand. His friend Berossus didn't understand. None of the Astartes of the Fourth Legion understood.
The Fourth Legion had been founded upon the ruins of a recidivist fortress atop the Oro Plateau of Terasaq-Amrek on Terra.
After the Emperor conquered the region, the warlike gunfire tribes of the surrounding lands became the Legion's first generation of Astartes.
These hardy and ferocious techno-barbarians became the Legion's primary recruitment source.
They were savage, and they were resilient. During the Unification Wars, the Fourth Legion proved its worth, turning its domain into one of the Emperor's most unbreakable bastions.
Perturabo's gene-seed possessed exceptionally high adaptability. The rejection and incompatibility rates among implanted candidates were far lower than in other Legions, allowing the Fourth Legion's augmentation process to proceed remarkably smoothly.
This made them one of the largest and earliest Legions, deployed alongside the First and Fifth Legions.
After the Unification Wars, the Thunder Warriors were purged, the Astartes formally became Space Marines, and the Great Crusade began.
During the conquest of the Sol System, the Fourth Legion continued to distinguish itself, earning honors in numerous battles. Most notably, during the Mehr Yasht Campaign on Venus, the Fourth Legion—personally commanded by the Emperor—defeated the deadly stone golem armies of the war-witches.
In recognition of their success, the Legion was among the first to receive newly transported equipment from Mars, and it went on to lead the 8th Expeditionary Fleet, performing exceptionally well in many subsequent campaigns.
This was a glory every Astartes of the Fourth Legion took pride in.
Frix was no exception.
And so they could not understand—what had they done wrong to make the Emperor so wary of both the Fourth Legion and their father?
Fortunately, after arriving on Olympia, the fleets surrounding them dispersed, and the confiscated weapons and vehicles were returned.
This finally allowed Frix—now serving as the acting commander of the Fourth Legion—to breathe a sigh of relief.
After all, due to longstanding issues with reinforcement and tactical deployment, the Fourth Legion had frequently been used as expendable shock troops by Horus and the other Primarchs. The most grueling siege assaults and defensive operations were almost always assigned to them.
In nearly every campaign, the Fourth Legion bore the heaviest burdens and suffered the greatest losses—yet in the end, they received almost none of the glory.
In the current Imperium, the Fourth Legion, the Star Hunters, and the Alpha Legion were practically unknown—despite all the contributions the Fourth Legion had made.
Especially during the reconquest of the Incaladion Forge World, the Fourth Legion had suffered devastating losses. In just one year, nearly thirty thousand Astartes were lost, countless elites perished, and the 8th Expeditionary Fleet was almost completely annihilated. Even now, the Legion had yet to recover.
And yet, even after reclaiming Incaladion, they received no honors. They were still treated as expendable front-line fodder by Horus and the other Primarchs.
They, along with the Ninth Legion, had been saddled with unflattering nicknames. Other Legions privately called them "Corpse Grinders" and "Ghouls." Due to its large numbers and constant use in attrition warfare, the Fourth Legion was also known as the "Penal Legion."
Such disgraceful tactics—attrition warfare and sacrificial assaults—might have been acceptable if used on mortal auxiliary forces. But to treat one's own brother Legions this way inevitably invited scorn. Thus, Horus and the others often used carefully chosen words to placate the Fourth and Ninth Legions.
But who were they fooling?
Brothers died one after another, and in the end, they couldn't even exchange their lives for decent armor or weapons. Just look at how miserable those so-called "Ghouls" had become. If Sanguinius hadn't returned, Horus would likely still be forcing them to charge the front lines with the worst equipment, straight into the enemy's heaviest fire.
It wasn't that no one in the Fourth Legion had ever complained. But most Astartes said nothing—it was simply their duty.
Yet this time, the situation truly chilled them to the core.
The Emperor and the Primarchs not only seemed ready to act harshly against a father they had never even met—they might even be using them as leverage against him.
The warriors of the Fourth Legion were not fools. Such actions by the Imperium could not be hidden from them. Even when they questioned the Emperor, his responses were clearly meant to placate rather than explain. After arriving on Olympia, even communications were cut—there wasn't even basic contact between the Legion's fleets.
For the first time, the Astartes of the Fourth Legion began to feel that perhaps the Emperor and the Imperium were not worthy of the loyalty and sacrifice they had once given so readily.
…
"Frix, what do you think Father will think of us?"
This company captain—who had charged fearlessly through the fiercest enemy fire in brutal sieges and assaults—felt nervous for the first time.
Berossus was not a man of many words, but even his tactical brilliance and courage could not conceal his unease.
"I don't know."
Frix shook his head.
The future "Breaker of Cities" was, at this moment, merely a newly appointed commander who had only recently risen to the position—largely due to the devastating losses at Incaladion. Otherwise, it would have taken him much longer to reach this rank.
Among a Legion whose average height was only around 2.2 meters, his physique stood out conspicuously. Even clad in finely crafted power armor, he appeared taller than some of his brothers wearing Terminator armor.
This made him seem somewhat out of place among the Fourth Legion's "short and stocky" ranks.
At this moment, he was no less uneasy than Berossus. What kind of person their father was—how could he possibly know?
Given the level of attention the Emperor and the Primarchs were paying him, their father was undoubtedly extraordinary. The only question was whether that would prove to be a good thing—or a bad one.
As commander, Frix had to think of the Legion as a whole. Not every battle-brother welcomed the return of a Primarch. If their father did not meet their expectations, some might even volunteer for suicidal missions in future wars, choosing to end their lives that way.
In truth, when they arrived on Olympia, the Fourth Legion already understood why the Emperor had taken such extreme precautions.
For one thing, the Legion—whose way of thinking had long been rigid—instinctively reached for their weapons at the sight of abominable intelligences roaming openly across the world.
Only after being stopped by the Iron Guard and later given explanations by Perturabo's envoys did they reluctantly accept the situation.
They were stationed within a military base.
It lay to the east of the city-state of Lochos, adjacent to the energy core of the great steel forges. When Perturabo had designed this region, he had deliberately placed it in the most stable supply zone. The Legion required steady logistics, constant combat readiness, and seamless integration with the city's defensive network.
The Iron Guard and Olympia's armies were normally stationed here.
The base was vast. Even with all the Astartes of the Fourth Legion housed within, it still felt spacious.
Perturabo had built it to this immense scale long ago—it was a military base prepared in advance for the day he would take command of the Fourth Legion.
In just one day, the Legion had learned much about their father from the mortal soldiers and Iron Guard within the base.
It gave them a trace of anticipation for the meeting to come—though it would have been better if those damned abominable intelligences weren't patrolling openly right in front of them.
"Do you think Father will improve the Legion? Make it better—like the Blood Angels now?"
There was a hint of longing in Berossus's voice.
"I hope so. But I wouldn't dare say for certain, Berossus."
"I've heard that the Emperor and the Primarchs don't treat Father very well."
Frix sounded worried.
"I believe in Father. And I believe the Emperor won't do anything to him."
But even Berossus's tone lacked conviction. After all, what the Emperor had done to the Fourth Legion had already left them with lingering resentment.
Frix said nothing more.
"Come on. Assemble the companies. Father will be here soon."
After a moment of silence, the two began organizing their battle-brothers. They didn't want to leave a poor impression in front of their gene-father.
…
Perturabo stood outside the gates of the Fourth Legion's encampment, with Stephanie and Andos behind him.
He had returned to his original form and donned a suit of armor personally selected by his sister, making his already towering frame appear even more imposing.
Through his psychic senses, Perturabo could clearly see that the Fourth Legion had assembled within the base. Their perfectly uniform formation and imposing physiques drew the attention of the Iron Guard, while the mortal soldiers gazed upon this fearsome force—though reduced to only ten thousand, they still radiated undeniable power.
The gate was black, devoid of ornamentation. Only the massive numeral "IV" at its center reflected a cold gleam under dim light. Perturabo himself had designed it—simple, precise, without redundancy.
Previously, many had not understood why he had placed this symbol at the entrance. Now, some were beginning to grasp its meaning.
On either side of the gate stood two Iron Guard in gray power armor, their pauldrons marked with yellow-and-black hazard stripes. They saluted silently and opened the heavy metal doors.
Perturabo stepped inside.
Ten thousand Astartes, divided into ten companies, stood in perfect formation across the vast training grounds. Their armor was silver-gray, with minimal decoration.
Their equipment was mediocre. Finely crafted power armor and weapons were scarce, and some Astartes even wore incomplete suits.
The Imperium's logistics were notoriously inefficient. The best equipment was always prioritized for the Luna Wolves and the Legions whose Primarchs had already returned. The Mechanicum was never fully aligned with the Imperium either—hoarding its finest creations.
The Fourth Legion's current state was already considered decent. Back then, the Ninth Legion had suffered even worse—reviled by all, lacking even basic supplies, forced to charge with human lives, and after every battle, reduced to recruiting mutants just to replenish their ranks.
The moment Perturabo saw the Legion's condition, a surge of anger rose within him.
He didn't know how the original Perturabo might have felt—but he himself was thoroughly displeased.
Horus… if you ever become Warmaster, I'll take your name.
Silently engraving this grudge into memory, Perturabo stepped forward and halted before the ranks.
His gaze swept across the ten thousand warriors. Each stood between 2.2 and 2.3 meters tall—towering over ordinary humans, yet still small before him, a Primarch standing six meters high.
He could see the emotions in their eyes—anticipation, reverence, curiosity, and a faint, barely perceptible unease.
They did not know what kind of man their gene-father was. They did not know how he would treat them. In the eyes of this newly returned Primarch, were they sons—or merely tools?
Perturabo was silent for a moment before speaking.
"I am your gene-father. My name is Perturabo."
His voice was not loud, yet it carried clearly across the entire training ground—a voice unique to a Primarch: deep, powerful, and imbued with an indescribable resonance.
"From this day forward, I will be your commander. I will lead the Fourth Legion."
He paused.
"But I will not participate in the Great Crusade. Only when you encounter battles you cannot resolve will I personally take the field."
A ripple of disturbance passed through the ranks. The Astartes were disciplined—but the impact of those words was immense.
Their gene-father had just returned… and he was already declaring he would not take part in the Great Crusade?
"I do not know what you are thinking," Perturabo continued, "but I can tell you this—I will remain on Olympia. Here, I will develop more weapons and equipment to support your campaigns."
"The Fourth Legion will halt its expeditions for a time. I will reform its tactics and structure—so that from this day onward, it will become stronger than ever before."
"I am not mad. Nor have I ever thought of betraying humanity. And I will never lead the Fourth Legion into the abyss."
"Neither will I be like the other Legions—planting the Imperial aquila in every corner of the galaxy, serving those bloated bureaucratic systems, trading your blood for hollow, meaningless honors."
Perturabo's gaze sharpened.
"I've studied our Legion. And I believe you yourselves know how others refer to us."
"Hardy laborers. Siege beasts that chew through the toughest bones. Corpse grinders."
A trace of mockery crept into his voice.
"Do those sound pleasant? Honorable? Something to be proud of?"
A low murmur rippled through the ranks. The expressions of the Astartes grew complicated—anger, shame, resentment… a storm of emotions surged within them.
How could they possibly want such titles? They had given so much for the Imperium, yet even the little glory there was had mostly been stolen by other Legions.
"I don't like it either. So we will change it."
"From this day forward, the Fourth Legion will be renamed—the Iron Warriors."
"I will train you into the finest masters of offense and defense. The territories we reclaim will become the strongest bastions and logistical strongholds."
"You understand how to secure supply lines, how to sustain an army, how to keep soldiers alive in the harshest environments."
"You know how to break the most impregnable fortresses, how to achieve the greatest results at the smallest cost."
"You will possess the most advanced and abundant equipment. You will have the most stable logistical support. You will have the strongest will and character."
"We are no longer a broken Legion. We will no longer be used as expendable fodder. I will forge you like a blacksmith—tempering you into unbreakable steel."
"So do not let anyone look down on us. Do not let anyone demean us with those names. My sons—warriors of the Iron Warriors—you will become my most resilient, most reliable, most trustworthy soldiers."
The eyes of the Fourth Legion's Astartes began to shine.
It was the joy of being acknowledged. The emotion of being understood. The relief of finally finding a place to belong.
Perturabo looked at them, a complex emotion rising within him.
They had been used as tools, sacrificed as expendables, yet rarely given the respect they deserved.
But from this moment onward, that would no longer be the case. He had returned—and the Iron Warriors would never again suffer such a miserable fate.
"I will not take part in the Great Crusade. I will not lead you to conquer the galaxy, nor will I have you serve those bureaucrats."
"But—you must go."
The Astartes of the Fourth Legion were confused. What did their father mean?
"Father… we do not understand."
Standing at the very front, the tallest among them, Frix voiced the question.
"My son—what is your name?"
"Frix, Captain of the First Company, Father."
Perturabo nodded.
"Because humanity needs you. The xenos are carrying out brutal extermination and enslavement of our kind. We were born to fight—to protect the weak of humanity."
"I know you dislike being treated as tools. I dislike it as well. But humanity needs you—not because of bureaucratic orders, not because of the Emperor's will—but because in every corner of the galaxy, countless humans are waiting for our salvation."
Perturabo's voice deepened.
"I will remain here, building our fortresses, developing new weapons, forging better equipment. When you fight on the front lines, I will ensure you have the finest weapons, the strongest armor, and the most sufficient supplies."
"But the fighting—you must do it yourselves. Because that is your duty. And it is your honor."
"Not for me. Not for the Emperor. Not for the Imperium."
"But for those humans who need protection. For your own dignity. For the oath you swore as Space Marines."
"Do you understand?"
When Perturabo finished speaking, silence fell over the base—broken only by the faint sounds of Iron Guard patrols and the mechanical units moving about.
Thump.
Frix was the first to kneel.
Then, like a chain reaction, the Astartes of the Fourth Legion all dropped to one knee.
Silver-gray power armor gleamed under the training ground lights. No one spoke—but the strength contained within that silence was louder than any shouted oath.
Perturabo looked at them, a feeling unlike anything before surging within him.
It was a call from deep within his genes—a bond that tied them together inseparably.
These were not the daemons he had seen in the Warp. Not the wretched things he had enslaved. Not tools to be replaced at will.
These were his sons. His warriors. His Legion.
This connection was even deeper than the bond he had gradually built with the Iron Guard and the mechanical troops.
They would follow him without reason. Trust him. Fight for him. Die for him.
This was responsibility—and it was a burden.
"Rise, my sons."
Ten thousand warriors stood as one, their movements perfectly synchronized.
Perturabo turned and began walking toward the edge of the training ground. After a few steps, he paused and glanced back.
The base gates slowly opened.
"From this moment onward, I will personally reform the Fourth Legion. This—will be the first step."
Through neural interfaces, Perturabo issued commands. The logic engines roared to life.
Endless quantities of finely crafted power armor and weapons began to be carried out by mechanical units from the production lines.
Grenades. Bolters. Plasma guns. Terminator armor and Centurion suits—all were brought forth in succession.
Outside the gates, countless steel war machines rose from beneath the ground. Some Achilles-pattern Dreadnoughts even strode forward.
When had the Fourth Legion ever seen such a spectacle?
Even a Mechanicum forge world might not be able to produce such an abundance of equipment and vehicles.
Their father had only just returned to the Imperium—how could he possess so many of its war machines? There were even sacred Dreadnoughts!
Those were assets reserved for the Custodes!
But before the Astartes could even finish processing their shock, the ground suddenly began to tremble.
Instinctively, they moved into combat readiness. Yet seeing the Iron Guard remain expressionless, they realized—
This was likely another one of their father's "creations."
But when they finally saw what was emerging from beneath the earth, they were utterly stunned.
22 colossal humanoid Titans rose from the ground.
Each stood over a hundred meters tall, their frames bristling with countless cannons and missile systems. Their left arms bore massive volcano cannons or oversized bolters.
Their right arms, uniformly equipped with gigantic power claws, set them apart from Imperial Titans.
Each of these Titans possessed power comparable to an Emperor-class Titan, yet they were far more agile than their Imperial counterparts—equally formidable in both close combat and long-range engagements.
These were weapons of mass destruction built by Perturabo based on the earliest Titan designs—enough to ensure the Fourth Legion would be unstoppable in the wars to come.
And he had also produced entire lines of Warlord-class, Reaver-class, Marauder-class, and Warhound-class Titans, all sealed beneath the earth.
This was the terror of abominable intelligence—how could the Mechanicum's handcrafted production ever compete with assembly lines?
Perturabo could now produce warships several kilometers—even over a dozen kilometers—long as easily as dumplings.
What were a few Titans by comparison?
Even their void shields were of the highest grade. Every Titan and every warship was equipped with at least 22 layers of void shielding, interlocked in overlapping arrays—rendering enemy long-range fire virtually useless.
Unless one possessed technology on the level of humanity's Golden Age—capable of bypassing void shields—or the brute-force physical supremacy of the Necrons, smashing through defenses outright, the only option was overwhelming bombardment… or boarding actions.
Ship-to-ship ramming was nothing but desperation. And in such contests, what vessel could truly rival the Imperium's iron behemoths? Even Necron living metal would have to think twice before engaging.
"From this day forward, the Fourth Legion will never again lack equipment. Every world we bring under our control will become our strongest foundation."
"Iron begets strength. Strength begets honor. Honor begets faith. Faith begets iron."
"We are the Iron Warriors. Iron within and without."
Standing beneath the shadow of the Titans, Perturabo's presence still outshone them all—the Lord of Iron could not be ignored.
"Iron begets strength. Strength begets honor. Honor begets faith. Faith begets iron."
"We are the Iron Warriors. Iron within and without."