About ten years have passed since Perturabo was reunited with his father and joined the great expedition to reclaim the galaxy.

If there is one word to sum up the ten years that the Lord of Steel has entered the galaxy, it is only [Confusion].

Peturabo was always confused.

When he was in his hometown of Olympia, looking up at the lonely starry sky and the terrible eyeballs, he would be puzzled and lamented by the injustice of fate, why he was given such wisdom, and yet abandoned him to a group of mediocre people.

When he was reunited with his sons, he was shocked to find that his legions were so unbearable: they would lose almost half of their combat strength in a simple battle, and the soldiers of the Fourth Legion were far from good soldiers in his opinion.

So, the eleventh smash gently floated out of his mouth, and he watched coldly as the unfortunate ones who had been singled out were beaten to death by his comrades, and soon fell into a new confusion.

Why, after such warnings, is his heir still inferior to the Shadow Moon Wolf or the Dark Angel?

In the midst of this confusion, Perturabo commanded his own legions, and his inner doubts continued to expand as the war continued, which inevitably affected his mood and productivity, but he just couldn't help it, and he was more and more confused by more disappointing realities.

Just like now, a new confusion was forming in Perturabo's mind, growing bigger and bigger, irritating the genoplasm.

Why, why is his heir, the trident he has carefully chosen, not as good as a mortal under Magnus?

Why does this group of guys always let him down so much?

——————

Are they dissatisfied? Are they fighting against his rule in this way?

And his brother, Magnus, why did he leave a mortal here?

Is this a demonstration? A kind of show-off? He really didn't know how good this mortal was? Was it really just an unintentional move when he arranged for this mortal to stay here?

Is Magnus laughing? Laughing at his offspring? Laughing at his legion? Still is...... Laugh at him, the genetic protogeny of the Iron Warrior?

——————

As his thoughts brewed, the Iron Lord's countenance was darkening at a visible rate, his ensemble was unconsciously muffled again, and Perturabo began to treat his work harshly, as if they were his mortal enemies.

When his sons, who were working on the restoration work on the Light of Steadfast, sent him the results of the first phase of the project, Perturabo almost forced himself to find a problem, and he did not hesitate to paint and draw on the subtle flaw, scolding his disappointed children through the screen, their roughness and inferiority disgusting him.

Idiot!

He used this gross sarcasm as a closing remark to evaluate the results of the project, then closed the newsletter and left it to their own arguments and solutions.

It was at this time that he caught the cessation of the working voices of the mortals around him.

Morgan had already sorted out the last data file in front of her, and according to the logical order and priority of each work, she sent all the information to the genoplasm who had never rested.

Although she was born with the most subtle uses of data and logic, she was still tired of dealing with such a large volume for the first time, not to mention carefully concealing her identity from a person of her kind, which was even more exhausting than the work itself.

But just as she was about to close her eyes and give herself a little rest, Perturabo's icy tone came from the side.

"The data in the seventh summary table is lost, make a new copy and complete it in fifteen minutes."

Morgan's blue eyes, which had almost narrowed, opened at once, and she was sure that the seventh summary was still sitting on Perturabo's electronic screen before she closed it, waiting for him to check it.

【…… Yes, Your Excellency. 】

She deliberately allowed her voice to turn into firm execution after a brief hesitation, after all, the missing document contained thousands of pieces of data, enough to make a mortal feel painful.

And just as her fingers were back on the work keyboard, Perturabo's voice came again, this time with a faint tremor in his tone.

"No...... No need. ”

"Leave it to me, you can go...... Rested. ”

The Iron Lord's head was held high, as if deliberately not to be seen by mortals.

——————

What the hell are you doing, you idiot!

On his raised face, Perturabo's steel countenance was twisted together by him.

What is the difference between venting one's anger at a mortal, a mere mortal, and those vulgar cowards on Olympia!

His natural arrogance and artistic sensibilities took hold of Perturab's heart at this time, and when he was consumed by the rage of jealousy and self-doubt, he was a tyrant eager for destruction, so he took it for granted that he had destroyed what might have taken so much energy and time, just as he had destroyed his own children and countless kingdoms without any pressure.

But when he saw the destruction of the results, and listened to the slow but determined execution, the heart that contained the love of art and logic regained the realm of thought, and the other half of Perturabo's torn heart questioned him, a soul made of burdens, silence and unimaginable arrogance.

It had always been like this: whenever things didn't turn out the way Perturabo had hoped, he would get angry, he would be furious, he would destroy and vent at all costs, until he saw what he had done, he felt guilt and regret, and he mended it in silence and was moved by his silent dedication.

But this completely self-moving emotion could bring neither applause nor relief to his emotions, so his anger would accumulate again, waiting for the next outburst, and the cycle would repeat, until the calmness and sensibility were worn away, and only a tyrant who was eternally angry and grudged remained.

But now, it is too early, the emperor's expedition has just begun, and the fierce battles and trials that belong to Perturabo are not enough to wear down his composure.

Perturabo was silent, and he began this extra work, a job he had added to himself, suppressing the anger and emotions in his heart, allowing them to scorch his heart.

Steel is not afraid of flames, he always believed so.

The data was processed at breakneck speed, and out of the idea that only he could find it, Perturabo scrutinized the results of Morgan's work, and the final truth forced him to admit that this mortal man was indeed as good at work as Magnus had claimed.

She is a figure to be admired.

At the same time, the instinctive perception of the genoplasm wandered through the chamber, and he could hear Morgan, who had been ordered to rest, first stretch his body, and then carefully look around the room behind him, her gaze seemed to be immediately drawn to the huge colonial mothership [Steadfast Light] in the middle of the city, and Perturabo could hear her reasoning in a low voice.

This reasoning lasted for a short time, and then he heard the sound of high-heeled boots stomping on the marble floor, and superhuman sentience faithfully fed him the movements of its owner, and the cold hairs on Perturabo's neck involuntarily moved when he realized where she was going.

As if attracted by their specialness, Morgan involuntarily walked into the depths of the chamber, where rows and rows of long tables made of steel, about half a man high, were displayed, on which were placed all sorts of intricate models and artefacts, even in the dimly lit depths of the chamber, they still shimmered with art and skill.

She could see the strange works of art: a model of the Grand Theater, for example, which was clearly a half-finished product, and at the top of the theater was not an area for ventilation and walking, but a defensive battlement.

"Thalia Klon", the name is written on the manuscript paper that the model holds.

Next to it are more finished pieces: a model of a giant lighthouse, on which are carved the wall pattern of the hero killing the Kraken; A temple-like building, but inside it is faintly visible layers of bookshelves and high platforms for debate; There were many more drawings, which were rolled up and placed in the corner of the table, one of which was spread out depicting a golden lion statue with a gift-like logo written at the feet of the mighty beast in Terra.

Morgan blinked.

She could feel that as her footsteps and eyes surrounded the artworks and half-finished products, the rhythm of the work of the genetic prototype standing in front of the workbench was slightly disturbed, like a real lion, watching the ignorant little beast set foot on its borders.

——————

Out of the corner of her eye, Perturabo watched the offended mortal, who was unconsciously walking in a place where the Iron Lord did not want to be known.

He watched her walk there, and there was something familiar that reminded him of something.

Decades ago, when he was a genius boy and general on Olympia who had been adopted by the city-state's lord, his adoptive father had walked like this among the artworks he had shaped.

He remembered what he had asked his adoptive father and the answer he had received, which he always remembered.

So, when the last data had been sorted out in an absolutely correct way, he spoke.

"What are you looking at?"

——————

"I'm looking at waste, useless and extravagant waste, my child, my Peturabo, you have God-given mind and strength, why waste your life on these useless things."

"I can easily own these so-called arts, and countless sculptors and painters have gained superiority because of my patronage, and with a snap of my fingers, their so-called art will become a tribute to me, even if those merits never existed."

"But you are different, my child, your abilities should not be limited to these useless things, look at your deadly inventions, tanks, artillery and explosives, this is what you should use, they can easily win, dominate wars, and even conquer the world!"

——————

[I'm looking at art, Your Excellency, I'm looking at a fiery heart that has been buried and misunderstood. 】

The moment his adoptive father's voice dissipated in his mind, Morgan's answer followed.

Diametrically opposed.

——————

Perturabo laughed.

He turned, leaving his screen for the first time, and behind him, enough orders to keep the whole world busy for the rest of the day were being sent out on their own in an orderly manner.

"Art?"

"It's just some pastime, ma'am."

"You know, I'm a general, I don't need so-called arts, no one needs them, you should understand that you are serving an empire, a place made up of emperors, generals and armies."

Perturabo spoke, telling his unbelieving self-assessment and the reality that he had to believe.

Then, he saw Morgan's smile.

Do you like death, Your Excellency? 】

It was almost an offense, and just a few words succeeded in making the Iron Lord's face gloomy again.

"If this is your terrible metaphor, then I will tell you very clearly that no one in the galaxy really likes death unless it is smashed on the head of their own enemy."

[Yes, no one likes death, and no one wants to die, whether it is an individual, a legion, or an empire, death is resisted. 】

The silver-haired female officer crossed her fingers and pressed them against her jaw.

[Death is an ominous tranquility, a dark silence, and a sad future without dreams, passions, changes, and surprises. 】

[But the world without art and aesthetics, isn't that exactly what it is?] 】

Perturabo was silent, his eyes hidden in shadow, his lips twitching, but he didn't speak.

[Could it be that when the galaxy is in eternal war, soldiers and bloodthirsty war machines advance on the infinite wasteland, every person in every world has no mission other than to provide supplies for cannibalistic wars, paintings and songs are seen as useless waste, idols occupy theaters, and scriptures obscure scholarship...... How is such a world different from death? 】

[And we are fighting here, our journey has crossed the galaxy and the galaxy, and we are giving everything for a better future, isn't it precisely to avoid this for the future of mankind?] 】

“……”

The sound of heavy breathing.

It was only then that Morgan woke up as if from a dream, and she lowered her head, realizing that she had offended one of the genetic protogens.

[I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, I just ......]

"No!"

Perturabo interrupted her, and he was quiet for a moment until the last electronic sound came out, which meant the end of the day's work—a break from the moment.

Then he gestured to the seat next to him, speaking in a commanding tone.

"Sit down."

He said.

"Go on."