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Chapter 317: Perturabo: Malcador, Emperor, Where Are You? Send Help!
🕑 Added 2025-11-22 09:12:01 +0000 UTCChapter 317: Perturabo: Malcador, Emperor, Where Are You? Send Help!
Bloated and incompetent.
This has been the prevailing impression of the Imperium for ten thousand years.
Like a spider, it greedily expands its web, attempting to wrap everything it touches and turn it to its own use, only to unwittingly bind itself tight in the process.
It often appears numb and unresponsive. Even when its antennae are severed and its limbs dismembered, it remains passive, merely continuing to devour the galaxy's resources while allowing its rotting body to fester with maggots. It seems to be on its deathbed, devoid of any vitality.
Its internal factions are far too complex, their conflicting interests and demands leading to severe internal friction.
But conversely, this also means that humanity has enough capital to afford such internal friction.
Precisely because no one is truly a match for the Imperium, it appears so clumsy.
However, when a message, a summons, an existence capable of making the vast majority of organizations speak with one voice appears, the Imperium displays a terrifying capacity for action.
Xenos civilizations observing this transformation are often momentarily confused.
Which is the true face of the Imperium?
Is it the dying giant, or this engine of destruction shaking off ten thousand years of dust?
The answer is simple.
It is both.
"Warp translation complete. Battle group has entered the outer system."
The Navigator's notification interrupted Forrix's thoughts. As the Mandeville Point opened into a purple vortex, Forrix and the fleet behind him successfully breached the veil of the warp and returned to realspace.
He glanced at the heavily mutated Navigator on the screen. These renegade Navigators could no longer gaze upon the Astronomican, but they could still guide traitor warships. No one knew the price of doing so, but at least until the Navigator died, the so-called price had not yet come due.
The augur arrays on the warships performed a cursory scan of the system, and a holographic projection appeared on the cogitator banks.
After confirming the presence of the Grand Fleet led by Perturabo, as well as the two Gloriana-class battleships whose radiance could not be dimmed even by the taint of Chaos, Forrix ordered his ships to form up on the Iron Blood.
As the ships drew closer, Forrix could directly observe the spoils of war flanking the Grand Fleet via the pict-captures.
It was an Imperial Retribution-class battleship.
Surrounding the battleship were vast fields of debris. Judging by the length of the remaining adamantium keels, it appeared to have been a medium-sized strike fleet.
The fresh scars on the Iron Blood's armoured belt were still weeping liquid metal, as if the iron beast had just finished a satisfying hunt.
Evidently, the Iron Warriors had engaged in a minor skirmish with the Imperial Navy here.
This was a detached fleet.
Forrix examined its markings.
It was a support fleet from the Calixis Sector. These sectors, far from Terra's direct control, had long developed a habit of exercising subjective initiative. Even when facing a Primarch's command, they habitually had ideas of their own.
And then they died. That was beyond doubt.
How could mortals compare to the intellect of a Primarch?
And this was correct.
Forrix had basically memorized the procedure for most major battles of the contemporary Imperium.
His gaze fell on the Astropathic Choir sanctum at the pinnacle of the battleship, which showed extensive damage from a psychic overload.
Warp fluctuations, Astropaths dying en masse, the Imperial Navy launching a suicidal charge to throw themselves away, dragging the entire battlefield situation into an endless, grinding war on the surface.
Communications established, docking request submitted, shuttles engaged.
Forrix led his squad through the interior of the Iron Blood.
The Iron Blood had absolutely no mortal crew. Under years of immersion in the warp, the ship seemed to have become an extension of the Iron Lord himself, constantly repairing and changing according to his will.
"Lord Perturabo has achieved another great victory," a Warpsmith at Forrix's side complimented in a raspy voice like grinding gears.
Yes, a victory.
If the Iron Warriors could still use that word to describe their current situation.
Aside from one Retribution-class battleship, they had gained nothing. The Grand Fleet was even pinned down here because of this conflict.
The Scarus Sector fleet, directly controlled by the Primarch, was clustered behind the Grand Fleet, squeezing the operational space of the Chaos fleet with textbook strategic deployment. They continuously dropped seemingly endless waves of Astra Militarum onto the occupied worlds, using their massive military strength to force the Chaos fleet toward those fortified node planets.
As soon as any Chaos fleet was bogged down by ground warfare, what awaited them was the ceaseless bombardment of the sector fleet.
And—
Forrix recalled the information in his mind and didn't think a victory that completely failed to achieve its strategic objectives was worth praising.
Around him were sounds of agreement.
Forrix looked around and despaired to find that only Honsou, the mongrel half-breed, seemed to see the problem.
"..."
Taking a deep breath, the 'Breaker of Cities' accepted this despairing answer, which made his already foul mood significantly worse.
"All units, return to your posts within the ship."
To keep these dullards alive, he issued the order.
The Iron Warriors could not afford to die like they used to in the past, so much so that they were beleaguered even when facing the kind of grinding war they excelled at.
"Honsou, come with me."
Singled out directly by his superior, Honsou, who had always suffered discrimination, paused for a moment but quickly followed.
When Forrix dragged his heavy steps through the corridors and arrived at the bridge, Perturabo was standing there, engaged in endless work.
It was a massive suspended platform, guarded by thirteen Iron Circle automata.
Forgebreaker, the Iron Lord's massive thunder hammer, stood head-down beside the throne.
Just as Forrix had guessed, Perturabo was never happy about a skirmish victory.
Holographic plates mounted on black servo-arms extended from the wide armrests and footplates of the suspended throne, surrounding him on three sides. Eighteen glowing screens flowed with data, flashing images taken from various battlefields, faintly emitting the wails of the sacrifices used for information transmission.
The Iron Lord's face was illuminated by the flashes, immersed in it.
Servo-cables and feedback lines bound his skull like braided hair, covering his ears, sprouting from his neck, cheeks, and chin, making him look like the Medusa of ancient legend with writhing snakes for hair.
His gaze shifted constantly, glancing from one screen to another.
His fingers flew across the throne's touchscreens, adjusting, deleting, moving, tapping.
Watching the Iron Lord work was sheer pleasure.
The scene gave Forrix some comfort.
In the known galaxy, only Dorn, Guilliman, and perhaps the late Horus could command such a massive war with such mastery.
And the man currently qualified to oppose him was behind the massive blockade line they were trying their best to break.
But Forrix had to interrupt this comfortable silence.
He exchanged a brief glance with Khârn, master of the Conqueror. When the Iron Lord completed another devastating deployment and the holographic projection dimmed momentarily as the command transmission ended, Forrix stepped forward.
"My lord, Forrix reporting."
The 'Breaker' presented a data-wafer.
In the early stages of the war, the Warpsmiths had established an information advantage over the Imperium using daemon-tech excavated from the depths of the warp and the fragmented intelligence network of the traitor Alpha Legion.
Compared to the Imperial Navy's sluggish warp travel, the Chaos fleet moved freely through routes blessed by the Dark Gods. Combined with their informational superiority, this allowed them to sweep through the initial offensive like a hot knife through butter.
However, now, this advantage was like sand in their palm, ruthlessly slipping through their blood-stained fingers with the passage of time.
When Perturabo withdrew from one tactical victory after another—
Those battles, with kill ratios that were textbook perfect thanks to his genius command, consistently failed to reverse the strategic rout.
The Iron Lord's face twisted slightly with anger. He snatched the wafer, and the interface cables wrapped around it like vipers, violently feeding the information into his mind.
[The Mechanicum forces in the Veiled Region have begun to gradually accept the new Omnissiah faith. Under the deliberate propaganda of the Dawnstar Sector government, they view the four Primarchs as the Omnissiah's proxies in the mortal realm. Our strategy of gaining more support through the Machine Cult has failed.]
[Among them, Agrippina and Stygies VIII responded most actively. Agrippina formally accepted the stationing of the Dawnstar Sector government in early 769.M41. Multiple Forge Worlds were officially brought under the control of the Dawnstar Sector government during the war and began to cooperate with its production plans.]
[At the end of 772.M41, two Retribution-class battleships and their accompanying escort fleets, produced by Agrippina and controlled by the Dawnstar Sector government, were officially completed and left port.]
Perturabo's face darkened.
