As the saying goes, manpower will eventually run out. Throughout the ages, there have been countless people who have demonstrated this by their own actions. With their own lives and extinguished ambitions, they proved that human power is indeed incomparable to natural disasters.

And Peturabo disagrees with this, and he even has the most direct evidence to refute the matter.

Emperor.

He can make humanity overcome natural disasters, overcome greed and malice in nature, unite as one, rush out of Terra, fly into the universe, and regain its former glory.

He proved that the human will can prevail over all, as long as you are firm enough.

Or crazy enough.

And the Lord of Steel, he has both.

The illness that tormented him could not make him succumb, and the pain of killing his heir with his own hands did not change his expression in the slightest, and even if he was buried and devoured by the fungus blanket released by the enemy, it could not stop him from resisting.

Breathing in the air laden with the virus, Perturabo began to slowly rise to his feet, his warhammer providing him with great help. Sensing his resistance, the mushroom carpet folded together in dissatisfaction, pulling him to his knees again.

Their surface seemed to be sticky and corrosive, and after a short period of contact, it had already developed a chemical reaction with the coating of his power armor, and the surface of the armor hissed and emitted green smoke. Could it be worse? Peturabo wasn't in the mood to bother for the time being.

He ignored all of these things.

The blanket changed tactics, and a heavy weight spread over his head, forcing him to bend down and nearly fall. They squirmed, unable to speak, but expressing their truest malice with their actions.

Perturabo held his breath, grabbed the hammer with both hands, stood firm, held his knees, and wrestled with the fungus blanket.

It wasn't easy, just a little bit of air was able to pass through his swollen throat and into his aching lungs with all his might. Fortunately, the heat continued, which meant that his immune system was still working.

It only took a little more for him to break free from this state, presumably so.

Peturabo began to think.

First of all, he remembered the shape of the thing—a large colony of flies, which were not supposed to be born in nature, but were instinctively disgusting just by looking at them. And no matter how much he destroys, the flies themselves continue unabated.

This may have been due to the fact that there were so many eggs in the corrupt sights on the bridge, and that the damp environment and supernatural powers had accelerated their creation. However, it is also possible that this is just a façade.

The number of flies in the colony cannot be reduced because it does not effectively kill the thing.

Perturabo's eyes narrowed - physical means couldn't do harm to something like this, he should have noticed it sooner.

But I'm afraid it's useless to detect it in advance, the think tank system within the Iron Warriors has long been outlawed.

Then he began to recall what the thing had said. Admittedly, it wasn't pleasant, but he needed to think rationally and calmly.

The thing mentions two names, Father, and Rhotigues. These are obviously two different things. It refers to the former in a respectful tone, and the latter in a very different tone.

The name Loving Father is very interesting, why is it called that? Could it be that such a monster also has a father?

Perturabo pondered for a while, and his back began to straighten and straighten. He remembered again that the thing said it was leaving—why?

He didn't even have enough strength to stand at that time, so why did he leave at this juncture and voluntarily give up the victory? Perturabo frowned, and began to dissect every word it had ever said, quickly finding the answer.

Hate.

It mentions the word several times.

It said that his heart was full of hatred, and that he mentioned a 'tipping point'. Could it be that hatred is too much and can lead to some kind of irreparable situation? It also says that its existence is a destruction of the present, and how can this sentence be explained?

Never mind.

Perturabo slowly closed his eyes and cleared his mind.

There was no need to think about it anymore, there was no doubt that it was his enemy, and the enemy of the Empire and humanity. If it thinks that hatred will bring bad results, it will make it not hesitate to leave, but also to avoid it.

Instinctively, Perturabo thought of Eltros.

He doesn't hate him.

He thought of those who had died from Eleven's smash.

He doesn't hate them, not at all.

He thought of Damex, who had become more and more estranged from him before he died, Califon, who had thought he was a monster, and Olympia, who raised the banner of rebellion and civil strife.

Does he hate these people and this place?

No, the answer is a complete no. It's as clean and straightforward as the mathematically calculated answers, he doesn't hate these, he hates someone else.

He hated himself.

That's the way it is.

He hated why he hadn't realized the meaning of war earlier, and he had to carry out eleven smashes and take his legions to the most dangerous battlefields again and again, but he didn't want them to get honor.

He hated himself for saying that he would expel him from the Legion when he saw Eltros for the last time. He hated himself for drifting away from Damex, hated himself for making Carliphon feel afraid, hated himself for keeping Olympia at peace all the time, as a symbol of the Empire.

So, in essence, he hated himself.

Perturabo opened his eyes, and by this time, he was no longer where he had been. The fungus blanket and rancid air were gone, and the main bridge of the Iron Blood was gone, replaced by a wasteland.

The barren is incredible, covered in a thick layer of white ash. Perturabo crouched down, scooped up a handful, and soon realized that they were ashes.

He looked up at the sky again, and the burning dark red hue made him frown. At this time, a cold wind blew by, which also brought a burning smell.

He had smelled the smell before.

The Iron Lord gripped his hammer and looked around, and sure enough, he saw a figure on the rolling hills not far away.

He walked without hesitation, the man didn't seem surprised by his arrival, but he didn't choose to turn back. A cloak of living creatures fluttered, and the faint wails of the dead loomed in his shadows.

Gritting his teeth, Perturabo barely kept himself calm and called out his name.

"Carlil."

And then there's a question, a question that is asked knowingly.

"Why are you here?"

"Actually, I should have stayed here all the time had there been no accidents." Carlil said. "But there's another question you should ask."

He finally turned, the skeletal mask firmly on his face, his eyes dark.

"What?" Peturabo asked.

"Why are you here?" Carlil said. "Think about it, and everything will work out."

Perturabo was silent for a moment, and did not answer—of course he knew the answer to the question, but wouldn't the answer be a little too ridiculous?

Just because you hate, you can get rid of that evil magic and come here?

Seeing that he didn't answer, Carlil seemed to smile. There is no evidence for it, and it can only be speculated by that slight laugh.

The laughter also woke Perturabo, who immediately put the previous incident behind him and quickly moved on to another matter.

"Where are you now? Nostramo? Set sail back to Terra to warn the Emperor that Horus has rebelled. And Typhon of the Death Guard, no, Typhons. My suspicion is that some of the forces of Mars have rebelled with Horus, which is the worst possible speculation, but you must tell the Emperor all of this."

"He knows." Carlil whispered.

He, Conrad Coetzes, and the Nightblades were almost the only ones in the galaxy talking. Whispering, like a murmur in the evening breeze. As always, the sound sent a chill through Perturabo.

"What?" He asked. "What do you mean?"

"He knew the news of Horus's rebellion, and in fact, he knew much more. For example, Lorja and Alpharis rebelled with him, or the Whisperers are now wreaking havoc on the five hundred worlds of Otlama, extinguishing every star and sacrificing them to the evil gods of the subspace to awaken the storm. ”

"There is no god in this world!" Peturabo snapped.

"It's true, we don't live in a world where there should be a god, but here—"

Carlil bent down and reached for a handful of ashes, letting them go with the wind. Vast expanses of dead souls loomed in that wind.

"—different."

The tall skeleton slowly straightened up.

"This is subspace, Perturabo." Carlil admonished him solemnly. "There's anything here, gods, devils, angels, monsters. You can throw everything from the myths you've read into it. ”

Perturabo was silent for a few seconds, and suddenly took a deep breath: "Lorga and Alfaris have defected? ”

"Yes."

"What are the Bearers doing in the Five Hundred Worlds? Sacrifice? ”

"Yes."

"What about Robert Killiman?" Peturabo asked. "He had just received an order not long ago that Horus had asked him to go with Lorja to deal with the so-called Orc Empire. I guess that empire doesn't exist at all, right? ”

"That's true." Carlil smiled genuinely, and this time, his laughter was palpable. "That's just a trick, a trap. His true purpose is for the fleet of the Whisperers to gather at Cows in the name of it."

"Actually, the battle of Cowes has been going on for some time. The sun was sacrificed, and the excess radiation destroyed the ecology of the Cowes ground, forcing the survivors to move into the cavern system beneath Coos. Robert Killiman was now chasing after Loja with a fleet. ”

Once again, Perturabo clutched his hammer. He was now glad that he had forged it, it was more than just a weapon, it was a force that kept him going, as powerful as the hatred that swelled deep in his heart.

"Now, then, let's talk about you, Perturabo." Carlil said. "You're here, and that proves you've broken some kind of boundary. It wasn't supposed to be this way, but unfortunately you're in a place that's not stable, and the curtain of reality there has been shaken. ”

"So?" Peturabo ignored his explanations and focused on the only thing he cared about right now. "How can I leave?"

This time, it was Carlil's turn to be silent.

Taking advantage of this opportunity, the Lord of Steel took a good look at him for a moment. He noticed that Karil Lohals didn't look the same as the last time he saw him.

The cloak grew darker and darker, completely detached from the material of the fabric. It looked even more like a sheer shadow, swallowing up all the dim light that passed in its path. And the armor.

Perturabo had commented that it was not practical, and he later learned who forged the armor, but this assessment was still not retracted.

For it is true, if the wearer of this armor is not Karil Lohals, it will never be practical.

Nowadays, it is not as black and white as it used to be, and the colors are mixed together like a whirlpool.

But the biggest change is the broken crown floating above Carlil's head. It never existed before, it had a dull red hue in the pitch black, like the sky and the flames burning not far away.

There's only one way to get out of here." Carlil finally spoke slowly, his voice muffled beneath the mask. "You have to make a vow to get out of here, that's the rule, and even I can't change it."

"Oaths? But last time." Perturabo took the initiative to stop his words.

He had realized that the last time, he was not here.

"Okay, oath." The Iron Lord clenched his fists, he no longer had a fever, and his strength was much better. "What type of oath?"

"You'll know, but before that, I need you to promise me one thing personally."

Perturabo frowned.

"Don't talk about it to anyone." Carlil said slowly, raising his right hand and grabbing the mask on his face with his fingers.

The slender fingers began to exert force, and the muffled sound of bones shattering began to come over and on, one after another, and the flames of rage erupted from the eye sockets and the gap between the mask and the skin, rising and rising, and the substantial pressure even caused Perturabo to take a step back.

The Mask resisted leaving him, but Carlil's will was very strong. The whole wrestling process lasted for a long time before the mask was removed.

And the face underneath.

Peturabo was silent, and for a moment forgot to speak.

"Now you can swear." Carlil Lohals said. "Make a vow to me so it won't be much of a problem."

"Your face—"

"—that's not important." Carlil interrupted him. "It's my choice to break it or not, and I would still choose it that way even if I did it all over again."

"Swear, Perturabo, and go back to where you belong. Remember, don't be against that Horus for a while, you can't defeat it. ”

"But I. . . What should I say? Peturabo asked, slightly confused.

It was the first time he had shown such emotion. In the face of such a face, there was no way for him not to feel lost. All of this was too heavy, too confusing, almost like a nightmare scene, and Perturabo saw no logic in it.

In fact, it's a miracle that he was able to keep his sanity.

"It's about hatred, it's about revenge." Carlil replied heavily, and Perturabo noticed that he was breathing heavily. "You can even just say one sentence"

"What?"

Looking into his eyes, Carlil said word by word, "I will take revenge." ”

——

After calling Perturabo for the fifteenth time with Vulcan, Motarian heard a rustling sound in the communication channel, his pupils narrowed, and he immediately held his breath to tell if the sound was real or fake.

After a few seconds, the voice of the Iron Lord finally sounded in the communication channel.

"I'm fine." He said hoarsely. "I immediately assess the state of damage and the current situation, and the order will come and be ready."

Updated.

(End of chapter)