Nobody.

The general of the resentful army.

Slave of the Empire.

That's what they call you.

Everyone: your brothers and men, your people and allies, your supporters and opponents, and the blood-grinding scumbags of the empire you fought for, they all call you that, all with contempt, enjoying the fruits of your battle and talking about the blood dripping from the palms of the Iron Lord.

They laughed at the blood, at the price Perturabo had paid for the Empire, at the dirt on the tips of your boots and at the scars on your face, and their sarcasm never shrugged off the ears of the Iron Lord in the temples far from war, in the stars of peace.

You nodded. Then turn a little to the side so that your device can be fully unfolded before Frix's eyes, and in the pupils of your heir you see an unconcealed, genuine amazement at your ingenuity and great technology, and nothing delights you more than these rays.

Let Dorne admit that you are the best.

"Frix."

As an artist, as an architect, as a poet, and as a conqueror: a conqueror of the most special, a conqueror who will never, never, wither.

Your sons charge, shout, and fall down until the next man takes his place, and then repeat the same process, the army that has led you to countless victories in the galaxy, and you can proudly tell anyone that the original eleven smash was right, that the Iron Warriors have found their place in the galaxy, that they are small individuals in the Great War, and that they are an unstoppable iron frenzy that can be combined through data.

The man's name was Fricks.

You thought about it for a moment.

Therefore, when all the means of the empire are useless, when the battlefield in front of them can only be opened by cold logic, silent dedication, and a steady stream of blood, the iron warrior fleet will be ordered to be deployed, not the other so-called [aces] who are famous.

You've studied that battle countless times, and the blood-soaked name is the epitome of all the failures and incompetences of the Fourth Legion: for all the success and importance your sons have enjoyed in the early years of the Great Expedition, they have not improved their tactics in time to advance with the Great Expedition, and have finally swallowed the bitter fruit of their own brewing in this heretical forged world.

Neither: every narrow emotion can't sum up your great heart.

Of course, the strongest, most objective, and most respectable competitor will surrender and admire you most bluntly: this device in front of you is your first step to winning it all, and you will reveal the true art and meaning of war in front of Donne, and tell him how small those things he believed in before were.

It may take a while, after all, it is a very long thing to open the eyes of those fools, and you don't want to be very active in the process, it will appear that you are for honor, not for dedication, and when you do all this, your thinking and inertia tell you what you should do: you should continue such expeditions and battles, and continue to win the hardest victories, until your share of honor hangs high on the bridge of the Iron Blood before the end of the Great Expedition.

You don't tell anyone what you think: deep down. You've been haunted by the nightmare of the slaughter, just as King Oedipus was trapped in the nightmare of his father and mother for the rest of his life, and you are also trapped in the terrible nightmare called Eleven Killing, which you built with your own hands.

The sons of the Lord of the Fire Dragons did not hide their intentions for their trip, and the Eighteenth Legion had always been committed to protecting the safety and better lives of mortals, and they had done a very good job with the former goal, but the latter goal was clearly not their area of expertise: mortals living under the rule of the Salamanders, although they could enjoy a compassionate rule and an atmosphere of harmony, were not always prosperous.

The Iron Lord's gaze looked to the other side of the laboratory, a pyramid-like device, small and obviously experimental, close to the remains of the Herud, theoretically disturbed by the faint force field of space-time: but neither the device itself, nor the hanging pieces of iron that were used around it for comparison, showed no signs of corrosion, on the contrary, they were absorbing the strange power of the alien.

Obviously, Frix regretted the moment he pushed open the door, he realized your anger, but he had nowhere to run now but to call out to you hesitantly, and then slowly took a step back, waiting for you to vent all the anger in your chest.

……

If they want glory, then why not Horus? If they are after efficiency, why not send Gorgon? If they want a show worth publicizing, wouldn't it be better for Fogham and St. Giles' bombastic negotiators?

The bureaucrats of the Holy Terra, the moths of Machado, they are bitter, greedy and mean, but they are not stupid: they know everything, they know what kind of legions to send on what battlefield.

Is it to sacrifice as little as possible?

Or is it the pursuit of the most stable efficiency?

You didn't hesitate for too long: You even wondered if you had hesitated at all.

You vaguely remember Vulcan's recent announcement that he would form a loose alliance with the surrounding world centered on his legion's home planet, Nocturne: a statement that caused no concern to anyone, as it was an extremely restrained plan in itself.

As for the process of spilling your blood, it can be varied: storming, entrenchment, massacre, and disaster relief, as soldiers, you do not have the right to choose your own combat mission, and after decades of expeditions, Terra has decided to spill your blood on the most remote, savage, and difficult battlefields, which is not a pleasant decision, but neither you nor your legion have said much.

That's how they see you, exploitation and greed, lies and contempt, and your life has been a whirlpool of life ever since you opened your eyes and saw the first terrible giant eye in the firmament.

"As for Dorne? I bet he doesn't want support from any of us. ”

And then? And then you don't hear much about it.

The Ultramarines even held a grand parade for their dark-skinned cousins, with more than 100 god's machines and 300 warships gathered on the capital planet of Otrama, and the Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds personally led the salamanders on a tour of his entire royal city.

As for the second-rate characters like the World Eater, the Whisperer, the Thousand Sons, and the Salamander: while you have no ill will towards their respective genetic fathers, and even admire them, that doesn't mean you'll boast about their legions against your will.

From that moment on, the nightmare of Eleven's smash never haunted you again.

"Lord Morgan says that she can't wait for your experiment to be over, and that she must lead her Dawnbreaker Legion to the first step: the Imperial Fist's attempt to get out of the battlefield is not going well, and the large forces of the Heruds are biting their rear, and Lord Morgan must go to the rescue."

"It's easy to understand, but there are always so many fools who don't understand."

Anyone needs to relax, even Peturabo.

Because they know that the Shadowmoon Wolf is only suitable for tactical-level operations that are smooth sailing, fast and bright; They knew that the trick of the Holy Blood Angel was nothing more than a monotonous three-plank axe; They know that the selfishness of the Ultramarines does not allow them to shed their blood for the rest of the Empire; They also know that the Fist of the Empire will only clench its fists, concentrating all its power in one place, ignoring the inconspicuous branches.

You can turn decay into magic: what better proof of your genius than that?

Frix has witnessed this, and your blood relatives will soon see it.

“……”

Why......

You open your eyes: the Lord of Steel has returned to reality.

But the Iron Lord is different, you will never allow yourself to stay in this weak atmosphere for too long, maybe for a second, maybe for two seconds, and you soon open your eyes, and those ruthless gray pupils are back in a state of focused work.

Why did that angel kneel to his children once to receive boundless praise and honor, and you should bear such a long infamy for giving a cruel command: after your first day with your own legion, you have done much more than the angels!

Why, they only look at that day!

Why, they never get to the bottom of the matter!

And they will think that Peturabo is not even worthy of this so-called [honor].

And with the least amount of blood, you have completely plucked all the weakness out of the Fourth Legion: when their fists are stained with blood, when they have to face the most blasphemous and bottom-breaking thing in their worldview as Astarte warriors, when they are fratricidal, they finally realize the mercy you have given them, they finally realize the cruel truth of war.

"From ancient times to the present, it has always been the torrent of steel and industrial machines that can sustain mankind's victory in brutal battles, not the so-called miracle weapons: it is nothing more than a crazy fantasy in the face of the end times."

You've had the opportunity to improve this.

This tragedy stems from fate, from the fact that the galaxy invisibly plays with every chess piece on the chessboard, from the fact that the vast majority of people except you are pathetic cowards who can't open their eyes to see the facts, and from congenital force majeure.

Your gaze swept over it all, revealing a pale smile, you liked this room, it was the only place on the entire Iron Blood that could make you feel relaxed, and the other was deep in the lower deck, the foundry room you built with your own hands, completely modeled after your private world in the home world of Olympia, where you experimented with data, and in that room, you built and collected priceless utensils.

And they will call it honor.

"We have something to do."

The former is duty, the latter is leisure interest, and you always know which is more important: for the past seven hundred Terra Standard hours, you have locked yourself inside this lab, locked yourself to the loneliness, silence, endless test reports and frozen alien bones.

In fact, in almost all legions, as long as there is research and use of subspace power, then the [Dawnbreaker] can always outperform the [Thousand Sons faction], and the think tank of each legion is ultimately completed after the model of Avalon: even in the death guard with no think tank power at all, the hatred and contempt for Prospero is far better than that for Avalon, because the latter is so modest and silent that Motarian is faced with Morgan's low profile, It can also preserve a trace of the most basic kindness.

With this kind of awareness, you have stepped into the battlefield again and again.

Perhaps, your outward appearance in the face of Dorne is agitated, which has caused many people to misunderstand your true emotions, and they think that you are as hateful, agitated, resentful, and jealous as you appear, and dismissive and uncaring about the achievements of the Imperial Fist.

Just use your exploits to prove it!

Convinced of this, you set out on a great expedition.

And so, when the head of the trident has completed his mission and exits the room, only you turn in silence and look at the corpse in front of you, your creation, and the kingdom of logic that belongs only to you.

"I don't need to."

The Lord of the Fire Dragons only plans to unite up to thirty galaxies in a hundred years, because he is well aware of the limits of his abilities, and this loose confederation is not a military or economic cooperative, its main purpose is to help each other, communicate with each other, point assistance, and humanitarian assistance, and the protection of the Salamander Legion is its core interest.

It's tough, it's almost impossible: but you still succeed.

In Avalon and Maculag, the delegation deservedly received the warmest welcome and returned with a full load, and they generously promised the gratitude and friendship of the Lord of the Dragons, but there were some minor twists and turns in the final leg of the expedition, in the newly emerging territory of Nostramo Krai.

One.

You will conquer Dorne.

Then, perhaps, you can lift the weight off your shoulders, when you have won the Great Expedition for humanity and the Empire, when you have brought back enough honor for the Iron Warriors, when you have fulfilled your mission on the battlefield as a commander: after that, you may be able to do something you like.

Construction, art and philosophy, the great revival in peace and logic, this is what you should really do, this is the power you deserve when you have fulfilled your obligations, just as Iason's journey began the moment he took the Golden Fleece, and the twelve trials of Hercules were but the beginning of his great and legendary life.

Frix didn't leave immediately, his cautious curiosity made him feel a little uncomfortable with the device you had at your disposal, but you chose to forgive the trident and respond to his confusion.

It would be the death knell for the Heruds.

Although you think, it's more because of the environmental problems of the nocturne itself.

That's what you find.

But now, none of that matters.

There's really not much work to be done, as the main body of the device was already developed a few hours ago, and all that remains to do now is wait for your two blood relatives, or rather, for Dorne to return from his attack.

You laugh and look at Frix's thoughtful look with satisfaction, you didn't even tell your heir that the raw materials used in this incomparable creation are not so unusual that even any Iron Warrior can obtain: these weakest elements are now the key to the entire Kraken Abyss Expedition, and the greatest hero of them is undoubtedly your mind.

But all the people around you do not like this secret, and the bureaucrats and people you protect do not hesitate to take the fruits of victory and turn around to condemn you for your coldness, your brothers disdain your crushing victory, and your warriors hide their fears and imitate the ugliness of the conquerors.

No one knows your painstaking efforts.

Your voice is low, but it still catches the attention of your trident.

The most boring mission, the most stubborn fortress, the most insane enemy, the most hidden battlefield, the most arduous victory: just as you promised the Emperor, you embraced it all with a fearless heart, leading your army to overcome every challenge from the ashes of pain and blood.

"The defeat of the Imperial Fists has not exceeded our expectations, my lord, but we cannot just witness what happened, and that would make the expedition even worse: so I propose that we can draw some of our forces to support Dorne's forces."

The first day you are reunited with the Legion.

Do they really think that you ordered the killing for the sake of alleged brutality?

Do they really think you want to do that? Are you willing to do that?

Unbeknownst to everyone, your choice and brutality are nothing more than a classic echo of ancient Greek tragedy: you are sure that it is not your inner flaws that cause all this tragedy, nor external factors, or even the cause of any one person or any individual.

"Let their blood bleed."

With your talents, your logic, with your irreproachable victories and exploits, just as you have conquered the battlefield with your calculations, and will conquer art and the human heart with your talents, you desire to be able to do irrefutable deeds, to make your brother bow his head and admit defeat, and let his mouth spit out the noblest evaluation of you.

Weakness is fatal.

You will be victorious.

But in your heart, in your eternal cold logic, your thoughts of the Invittite have remained the same, and have not changed until now, even though he once made you so angry.

The world thinks that it is because of your evil nature and the paranoia that originated in Olympia that you executed a tenth of your warriors on the very first day of your reunion with the Legion: everyone blames you for this order, including some of your stupid and greedy blood relatives.

You like this description.

So, in the end, the Chaos Device is the heaviest form you can design: just to get it to the right trigger location, it will take a massive offensive with at least the original body and tens of thousands of Astarte warriors to attack the very heart of the Heruds and finish them all at once.

There is no glory, no miracles, no cries in the history books that turn the tide of the war, only silent advances, quiet sacrifices, because this is the fate of ordinary people: as the iron lord of the legion, you are a true genius, so you are also sure that there are no other geniuses in your fourth legion, they are just a group of ordinary people, and it is your data reasoning that gives them the luck to do their best and shed their blood for humanity, the empire and the great expedition.

Dorne ......

This is another battle, no easier than fighting on the battlefield, you have to use a very short time and scarce resources to decipher the essence of an alien race that has evolved over tens of millions of years, and spend hundreds of hours of research to kill millions of years of wisdom.

You will be proud that their silence is the result of your painstaking teaching.

Let Dorne admit it, let the man who most resembles you in all the galaxy admit it, and let this Emperor make an imitation of you, and let it be subservient to you in wisdom, to worship you in deeds, and to surrender to you in truth.

She did a great job: although, with her brilliance, she could have done better.

What has changed?

Is it really worth it?

Does this really make Dorn recognize your efforts in this war, instead of giving that guy more reasons and excuses to condemn you for being rusty in the way of war?

Brutal, ruthless, profligate: what a ready-made excuse.

Standing on the land of this kingdom, your voice echoes silently.

You are pleased with his visceral performance, but you still refute him and pick out the flaws in your creation.

It is a million times more difficult to get a thumbs up from Dorne than it is to get a thumbs up from others, but it is even more precious and more valuable: after all, Dorne may have many shortcomings, but stupidity is not among them, and Dorne may have many advantages, but seriousness is the most valuable.

“…… Hum! ”

You have to start thinking about this possibility, but you know you can't figure it out, because your logic and big-picture ideas are useless in this regard, and you can only think of the battlefields full of corpses, of the scarlet death stats, of the faces you no longer bother to remember: every year more people flock to the ships of the Iron Warriors, and the vast majority of them will disappear in the next few years.

It is a book worthy of recognition, and it inspires you as much as any twinkle in the stars, and you think of what the Invitus wrote about how to use the trenches and other factors to reduce the casualties of the soldiers: only in this respect you scoffed at when you saw it, but nevertheless you copied it into your notes with great care.

This is true for the vast majority of legions, with the exception of a few: for example, the two at the top of the sequence are the two who escaped under your condemnation.

You have to prove to everyone that you are right, that your eleven smash is right, that you are callous: they are all based on logic and reasoning, and the right choices you have to make.

You chew on the name, a slight ripple on your serious countenance, but this simple Gothic word is more disturbing to your mind than a long list of scarlet dead lists: you don't have any doubts about it, because in your heart you know what you think of Dorne.

You close your eyes, and in your hesitation you feel a little amused: how long has it been since you've thought about something like this? Why, after so many years of practicing your art of war without hesitation, do you suddenly start thinking about casualties again?

Why?

……

You're going to do it all, even though it means you're going to have to pay a lot, even though it means your legion......

Also not suitable for the Great Expedition.

"That's exactly what happened: as for whether a brand-new weapon is a so-called miracle weapon or a benchmark that can lead to victory, it depends on whether it can be standardized, and whether it can be popularized at the grassroots level as much as possible."

Halfway through the research on this device, you vividly remember that you were faced with a choice: you could make the device lighter, so that it would be less demanding to trigger and not have to let so much blood flow for it; But you can also make the device heavier, requiring more sacrifices to get it to the best trigger site, but the ensuing explosion will be more likely to destroy the power of the Heruds than a lighter entity.

You'll praise Magnus for his sincere innocence, though it makes him look stupid on many issues, and spreads that stupidity to his legions: if you compare the attitudes of the two psionic legions, Daybreaker and Thousand Sons, towards the power of subspace, you know very clearly that Morgan's descendants are worthy of your reference and learning, and their humility cannot be considered wrong at any time.

Could it be that such blood and sacrifice is your intention?

Could it be that when Holy Terra sent your legions to these battlefields, didn't they want to convey the intrinsic meaning that they could do whatever it took to achieve ultimate victory?

“……”

“……”

You know that even the greatest military conquests will fall apart one day, and that the victories you have won and the fortresses you have built will be the same, but you are also well aware that some conquests will never dissolve: just as the Roman empire is gone, but the laws, religion, and culture of Rome have profoundly influenced today, you will do the same thing as the empire of yesteryear.

But you also know that when the war is over, people will always throw the war hammer aside at the first moment, and once again boast about the myths of war with those thin pieces of iron, and call the useless swords "gods" or "kings" of a hundred soldiers.

"It's still an experimental artifact after all, it lacks enough data, it lacks enough blood and results, and that's what we're going to do next: let the Imperial Fist bleed on the front lines, and we'll have the real trick to victory in the experiment."

"Gather the army, then."

You'll make Dorne, and everyone in the galaxy, aware of:

Who is the best?

You are the best.

For the other legions, there are also their own problems: the Death Guard is slow and stiff, and there is no more adaptability; Space wolves are reckless and primitive, and they are not worth expecting in themselves; Emperor's sons are pompous, and they will make simple things extremely complicated in order to show their quest for perfection; The white scar is ethereal, making it impossible to be a trustworthy stalwor; The Midnight Lord's sword is on the wrong side, and torture and fear are never the dominant ones on the battlefield; As for the mighty Iron Hand? You're not interested in judging a legion that can't even show a semblance of unity, and it only takes one great decapitation to defeat them.

Frix's words ease the anger in your heart a little, and you turn to face him, Frix takes a step back at your terrible countenance, but he still reports what he knows, and vaguely seems relieved, as if glad that he has mentioned Morgan's name first.

"I'm not worried about any big problems in Dorne, after all, my two blood relatives are trustworthy beings: you go and tell them that the Iron Warriors will arrive on the battlefield in a month at most, and then you go and look for some suitable targets to use as a testing ground for the Fort of Herud."

Both you, and your legion, are caught up in it.

“……”

After the Great Expedition, your conquest will truly begin.

And then......

Close your eyes, and the Lord of Steel allows himself to linger briefly in this wonderful fantasy, and you mumble to yourself, like any primordial with romantic feelings in his heart, fantasizing about what he desires, as a way to relieve the pressure of endless work.

A moment of entanglement slowly slipped through the mind of the original body, and for a moment, your logical heart, which had never paused, had a slight thought: Is it worth it? For the recognition and recognition of Dorne, let more heirs shed blood on the battlefield?

Unfortunately, she has too few cards to play the great game of war, and it has long been an open secret how difficult the heirs of the Lord of Avalon are, so even if the Far Eastern Frontier will often reveal far more powerful force than they claim, there are still few people who will lash out at Morgan's kingdom for this: as a union of the original and the legion as the backbone, the scarcity of the Dawnbreaker warriors themselves doomed the Far Eastern Frontier to become Terra's henchmen.

The previous defeat has made you lose faith in whether your legion will be able to defeat the Herudians on its own, but at the same time, you have come to understand that Dorne and Morgan have their own problems, but their words are correct: without change, this expedition will never end.

You asked, and let your trident think for a moment.

"Is it about the device?"

You will indeed appreciate the calmness and composure of Angelon, who manages his legions with the most logical thinking, and who will only slaughter the enemies of the tyrannical Empire, and be indifferent and tolerant of those who deserve forgiveness: but you still don't think that the World Eaters are a legion capable of making a name for themselves on the battlefield, and that they are not worthy of the logic and art of war to be worthy of their genetic fathers.

You don't know why, but you do, just as when you see Morgan use everything she can to reduce the number of sacrifices of her warriors, and even though you can't empathize with her, you never laugh at your Avalon blood relatives for it: both on the face and in your heart.

On that day, you command your warriors to kill the other warriors: all this is like the ancient drama you have heard in Olympia.

They can't see you.

You never cared.

Do you remember them?

Should you have remembered them?

You ask yourself inwardly, but out of some uneasiness, you don't answer.

"...... with Peturabo"

The thought turned your mood almost instantly, and though the pleasure was as cheap as the anger that preceded it, it was nothing more than a lingering cloud: you quickly regained your composure, and looked again at the head of the trident you trusted, and Fricks stood in the doorway with his hands behind his back, not a compliment, but the most sincere of your appreciation.

You let out a long sigh again, looking away from the corpse and the device, looking at the door not far away, and regaining your determination: after a brief thought, you confirmed your thoughts, your inner persistence, before the final war began.

"That's true, my lord."

……

"But it's not good enough."

They will only laugh, stupid mockery.

You don't know if you don't want to answer, or if you don't have the guts to answer this question, but the fact still makes you fall into a kind of irritability: the anger for no reason is starting to eat away at the logical thinking capacity in you, and there is only a little reason left to restrain your actions from destroying those precious instruments.

As for Morgan, she's a good fit to be an adjunct and dispatcher, and she's capable of single-handedly carrying an entire war, and the Dawnbreakers are a pretty good legion: you've even imagined in your mind what kind of sparks you'd have with them if you were the genetic father of the Second Legion?

The answer is obvious.

The frenzy you have led has won everything on the battlefield, over everyone in your duty, and you have fulfilled your duty as a legion, through endless sacrifice and struggle: now all you lack is the Medal of Honor that the fools will willingly give up when they really see your honor.

"I must admit, my lord, that these creations of yours are ingenious."

……

“…… What's up? ”

Before they go to the battlefield, you want them to understand this, and through that brutal lesson that no one wants, through that silent eleven smash, your legion has finally taken its first steps towards the stars.

Brutality has forged your reputation, and brutality has reversed the weakness of the Iron Warriors, but you are still an unappreciated and disrespected force in the Human Empire, and you have become notorious for the bloody massacre within: you know you must win the greatest victory now. Win the toughest battles and prove to the Empire that you and your children can survive in agony, not in the midst of tragedy.

Just as a warrior wants to distinguish between victory and defeat, and an outstanding architect wants to compete for the first place in his time, what means should you, who should stand at the top of the world, use to determine your unparalleled status?

For you believe that only the plain but powerful warhammers can smash through the heaviest armor of the enemy, not the ornate swords that are only worn around the waist or on weapon racks.

As I said before: the desire to win and conquer, the desire for the most precious worship in the galaxy, is your most primal emotion for Dorne, and the strongest thoughts that a genius will burst out in the face of another genius, and all complex emotions are just an add-on to this primal desire.

It's a tragedy, like Iason, or King Oedipus.

He's a genius, even your best brother......

Fools can't always see who is the one who pays silently in the shadows.

"Nope."

"Tell me what you think, Frix?"

It must be uprooted: whatever the cost to you.

Your feelings for him are complex.

The Silent is always more pleasing to others than the Impetuous One: the Lord of Barbaros once confessed to Horus's face that he would not mind pinching his nose and cooperating with the Empress of Avalon if the circumstances allowed, for Morgan was at least [able to accomplish something], but he would rather die than be in the company of Magnus's hubris,

Add to that Vulcan and his army of salamanders, you don't hate them, but you don't know them either, your strongest brother and his heirs are on the verge of a kind of goodwill, they are clearly not the best on the battlefield, and their energy is clearly not used for the glory of the Great Expedition.

But you don't care.

That's where you stand.

"So, you mean ......"

“…… My lord? ”

Instinctively, you don't want Morgan to be compared to any of your brothers, she's not for this kind of competition for fame, her serenity is more suitable for the quiet communication between marble statues, classical theaters and wine glasses in private, which is only your and her memories and time.

I can't see the blood you shed.

“……”

They don't understand anything, they only see the surface of the blood, but they don't see how hard the blood will become when it dries up: and this hardness is what the Iron Warriors need most, and it is because of this lack that they will be reduced to a mediocre army in the early stages of the Great Expedition, until the infamous Battle of Incadinnon.

They couldn't see the hammer, and they couldn't see Perturabo.

Neither for the Empire.

Frix nodded.

Dorne, that's nice.

This is the driving force that supports you to move forward.

She is too weak to be bothered by the bloodshed of war.

Therefore, when three primordial kingdoms rose in the east of the empire, Vulcan's mind was clearly moved, and his best descendants followed, learning the secret of how to enable mortals to prosper under the protection of the Astarte legion.

The tyrant who runs rampant, the dreamer who doesn't care about things, the inferior warlord who only squanders human life: the most repressed of the brothers, the most tyrannical of the primordial, the most efficient on the battlefield, the most humble in the galaxy, does not deserve any praise and encouragement, all the bitterness, dedication and sacrifice are just a matter of course.

You laughed.

It wasn't a perfect ending, but when the sons of the Lord of the Fire Dragon returned to the Nocturne at the end of their expedition, their travels were still praised by Vulcan, who accepted the gifts from the three kingdoms of the Far East without discrimination: the views of the Five Hundred Worlds on governance, the means of approaching mortals in the Far Eastern Frontier, and the real-world consciousness of Nostramo.

You should be locked to the field of war with iron yokes, driven like a sturdy ploughing ox to reclaim more fertile soil for the human empire, and all that is given to you is fodder and a whip: perhaps, there are a few so-called poets standing on the ridges of the fields, who will use you to make a few sour and incomprehensible rotten tunes, which should be the world's remembrance of your blood and sweat.

You laugh a little, and you suddenly realize that you are subconsciously using the word "brother" instead of "blood relative", because by using brother, you can justifiably remove your Avalon blood relative from this arena of comparison.

The last time you heard about the Eighteenth Legion was a few years ago: it is said that your brother Vulcan gathered some of his most trusted sons and formed a sizable delegation, which visited Avalon and Maculag in turn, and then made an impromptu trip to Nostramo, where he was greeted with great enthusiasm at three places.

You snort, a palpable disdain and mockery of your Inwitt brothers, who had finally gone awry at the last step of his dream of perfect military operations: bitten by the fury of the Heruds? That's not pretty.

You long, you can conquer a pair of eyes like this.

You've almost forgotten that there's the Dark Angel and the Daybreaker: they're both efficient and selfless, but they also have their own shortcomings: Johnson isn't the best commander in the galaxy, and he's too narrow-minded, and while you recognize him as a commander, it's just because you don't want to compete for that position.

"That's right."

The Iron Lord pursed his lips.

"First of all, I made it too delicate, and considering that it was a consumable item for the rest of the war, I thought I should make it a little rougher: the mass of qualified weapons that are easy to produce is the key to war."

Taking on what others see as impossible time and time again, rushing to the toughest battlefields within the galaxy, and using your impeccable logic to defeat anyone who dares to be an enemy of the Empire: the Iron Lord believes that ultimate victory will come at all costs, and using pure numbers to drive atrocities, casualties, and carnage is the secret of Perturabo's invincibility.

An eternal conqueror, conquered with his wisdom and logic, not by the sword.

Terra thinks so, and so do you: it's not right to let your kind-hearted and sentimental blood relatives shoulder the brutality of war, which is contrary to the most basic goodwill and romance in human nature, and it is also contrary to the values of the Iron Lord.

You think of Dorne's book.

A year of grueling siege has left nearly 30,000 soldiers, an entire expeditionary fleet, and countless veterans: all you have left is a broken army.

On the battlefields where Horus, Vulcan, and Morgan could not win, only your will and legions could bring the empire to victory and the great cause of the Great Expedition to continue.

"So, we don't need to do this, and now that we have foreseen the outcome of things, we don't need to invest in it, but we should do those more important things: how prepared is the army? Frix? ”

You veto it cleanly, then look at one wall, which is densely packed with battle reports and real-time star charts: you've locked yourself up here, but you've never shielded yourself from outside intelligence, and you're equally aware of Dorn's tactical advances.

But unfortunately, the man who knocked on the door obviously did not know all this: because of the barrier of steel, he did not immediately feel your anger, and the moment he pushed the door open on his own, it seemed a little too late for him to regret it.

"Good."

Your wisdom and logical thinking will burst forth with unprecedented prosperity and make you truly famous, and you will embark on a new expedition in the fields of art and technology: it will be greater than the emperor's cause, and it will change everything in the world forever, which is why you are in this sad world.

As you recall, when the news reached the Fourth Legion, your Trident Frix had an incomparably accurate assessment of it: an oversized, charitable confederation of village communes was nothing more than a bunch of weak people to keep warm.

You don't see this kind of humility in Chiko, who have no respect for the logic and reality that holds the world in its own right, and who are fanatically caught up in their own fantasies, ignoring their actual insignificance: you know very well that you are not the only one who abhors this madness.

But blindly connecting one's outward performance with one's actual inner performance is irresponsible, after all, your outward performance can be affected by many factors: for example, you can never calmly give Dorne a proper evaluation in front of the Trident or the Iron Warrior.

You will laugh at her.

The only thing to be thankful for is.

So, you're not surprised that Morgan is so successful, if you had an initial force like the Daybreaker, and had the same conditions as Morgan, you would only do better than her: but despite this, you still admit that your Avalon blood relatives are the second greatest in the galaxy after you.

"You can go out at any time, my lord."

Instead of...... Understand her......

It's ridiculous.

But before that, you have one more step to do out of a rigorous work attitude.

That's bloodshed.

At the same time, Morgan's weakness in her bones prevented her from being ruthless at critical moments, and she was even more compromising and bodhisattva-minded than Killiman and Vulcan, as evidenced by the fact that she had never used an extermination order when she was building the Far Eastern frontier: it made Morgan incapable of the most difficult battles.

Shen then led all the salamander members on a detailed tour of Nostramo's past, as well as the origins and improvements of the Midnight Lord's harsh systems: after fully witnessing what had happened to the Eternal Night Star, and witnessing the ghosts, snakes, and gods in those prisons, the Salamanders fell into a long ideological struggle.

It is the cruelty and violence that crushes every proud impression in the soul of the enemy, the most stirring collision between data and data, the lives of individuals as insignificant as the fine sand at the bottom of a river in the face of the total will at all costs: whether it is their lives or the lives of the enemy opposite, they will eventually be transformed into a long series of numbers that will lead the empire to ultimate victory.

…… Yes, never again......

From the Olympia of the past to the Kraken Abyss today.

But as the inventor of the invention, you know very well that to make such a device fully functional requires several field experiments and a tedious process: just to get it to the most suitable site for its power would need to split the wave of Heruds, pay a huge upfront cost, and possibly a bloody assault and the lives of thousands of Astarte warriors.

You...... You are unstoppable......

"There's news from Lord Morgan."

It makes you smile, and your smile reassures your offspring.

"These difficulties are not enough to destroy the Imperial Fist, with Dorne's ability, he can solve it himself, and Morgan's support is just to make sure that everything is foolproof: this is what my Avalon blood relatives like to do, to make everything safe and calm her sensitive and thoughtful heart."

You also often lament in your heart: lamenting that day you will never forget.

No.

But you still know.

The Midnight Lord's Legion's governance of their home planet was fair, but it was also harsh, which obviously touched some of the nerves of the salamanders, but just as the atmosphere was tense, the commander of the Nostramo garrison, a corps company commander named Shen, who was personally appointed by the Midnight Lord's genetic protogen, Conrad, stepped forward and successfully prevented things from getting worse.

Frix was amazed for a second before remembering that he should respond to the Original.

Your thoughts, your pride, your deeds, and your legacy, you are sure that they will affect the entire galaxy until ten millennia, and all people in the galaxy will sing the name of Peturabo.

The strange stench of the preservative, mixed with the distortion of the alien flesh, first penetrates your olfactory organs, and the dense stream of data and the creaking of lab equipment follow and pour into your ears, and the dim room is filled with pale green and dark blue electronic light, illuminating the huge steel skeleton on the wall like a horror movie ornament, and making your face rise and fall in the shadows.

Although you can't completely eliminate the power of the Heruds that can disrupt the flow of time, you have found that you can reverse the time force field of the alien itself by fighting poison with poison: as long as you put a sufficient number of devices into the huge wave of the alien, and use the disorder and power of their own force field, it is enough to eradicate the hidden danger of the alien in the entire world at once.

Let Dorn admit that you are the invincible one.

Inside, you shake your head at yourself.

You will let them die as they deserve.

This is a very accurate assessment, and most of your brothers and their legions can be summed up in this assessment: a bewildered core, a bunch of weak subordinates, together form a loose system, but the power of genetic surgery to make them a [legion].

Commands are pouring out of your mouth, and the head of the trident is recording them with the same efficiency, you don't need to repeat and confirm, because you won't miss a single detail, and Frix won't get a second chance.

Your voice is more oppressive than you think.

Dorne, on the other hand, will be the most suitable person to prove that you are excellent.

——————

This is the place of the Iron Warriors: warriors, soldiers, banners made of armor and gunpowder, ordinary wisps of the tide of tens of millions, who should wait to be pushed onto the chessboard by the Lord of Steel, to be annihilated by the most magnificent artillery fire.

“……”

At that time, not long after your return, almost a stone's throw away, you certainly have reason to believe that this defeatism haunts the heads of the Legion: a stiff and old-fashioned tactical style, a sloppy plan, an unrespectable body of officers, and, above all, a weakness in the face of war itself.

You will feel pain because your heart is crying over all of this as well.

After all, even you acknowledge his talent and tenacity, and crave his approval and sigh: just as you long for the emperor to do the same to you, you fight for it, you fight for it, and for this reason you lead your iron warriors to the most dangerous battlefields.

Do you really want that?

Because you know one thing very well: no matter what you do, no matter what price you pay, whether your legion is carrying out a humanitarian rescue or a storming at any cost, there will always be voices that will jump out to denounce your brutality, and since the day you were with the legion, you issued the infamous eleven slash order, the reputation of the ruthless man has been with us, and it can no longer be dragged off.

You know that if this secret is revealed, you will be drowned out by voices from all sides, condemning you for squandering the lives of your soldiers: you have anticipated this when you make your choice.

Next, it's time to throw your blood.

…… Dorne ......

In a trance, everyone thought that Perturabo was the source of all this blood, that you had deliberately made the war in front of you so miserable, that your madness and paranoia had persecuted your warriors: hardly anyone would have assumed an idea, would ask that question in their foolish minds out of even the slightest mercy and mind.

When these two points merge, his eyes are the most powerful measure in the galaxy, and his words are unequivocal trophies worthy of the greatest people in the galaxy: you, Perturabo, for example.

You listened to this, and you changed it, and you took the remains of the Herud from Morgan, and began to use all the knowledge in your head, and all the data you could find, to decipher the secrets of these contemptible aliens that could play with the laws of time, and then to develop the corresponding weapons, and to cast them on the battlefield of the expedition, banishing the Heruds from every inch of the Empire.

But you'll still sigh: if you had led an army that was about the same as the Daybreaker, there wouldn't have been that brutal Eleven smash.

Dorne is the man to be admired most than Morgan, and he is far more worthy of your sincere praise than Horus or even St. Giles: perhaps he is inferior to Magnus as a brother, but he is superior to the Prospero in other respects.

“……”

The head of the trident straightened his waist.

“……”

You pursed the corners of your mouth, and unlike the previous move, now your teeth are biting your thick lips, symbolizing swirls of anger and green tendons on your superficial skin, making the god-like countenance even more terrifying, like a terrible monster in ancient Greek legends: any warrior will be frightened by this sight, and any iron warrior will know that even if it is for the sake of his own life, he should avoid your current anger as much as possible.

What was your first impression of that Invittite? Is it the hatred and jealousy of the world? Or is it the contempt and disdain that your heirs firmly believe? Or is it something more complex?

Sympathy between rivals with similar abilities? Furious at his hubris? Or is it because the world only sees his glory in vain, so they want to smash him and his golden crown to pieces?

……

Eventually, however, truth and wisdom prevailed, and Vulcan's sons understood the importance of adapting themselves to local conditions, solemnly apologizing to their fighting brothers, and accepting the books on punishment and regulation that the Midnight Lords had kindly given them: after all, anyone could see that Conrad's sons were doing well.

Your Legion ......

If it had been decades ago, it would have seemed like a matter of course.

That's death.

"In the name of those who are dead."

"I will seek revenge for them."

(End of chapter)