Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 513 Iron Hand Phoenix
"I am haunted," Fulgrim smiled.

He was still holding Ferrus's iron head, sitting on a wheelchair that Perturabo had taken out from somewhere - a strange object, said to be temporarily made for him by Perturabo after he knew his situation. It contained a firepower system and engine energy. Although the design was strange, it was appropriate and mature. I'm afraid the Lord of Iron had made similar items before.

His swordsman followed him, guarding his wheelchair. There were also three or four Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors soldiers nearby, helping to complete the minutes of the short meeting and other temporary tasks.

"I have heard of the demon," Perturabo replied.

To Fulgrim's eyes, he looked much the same as before, with none of the signs of corruption he had seen on Medusa. The Iron Lord wore thin iron-grey armour, with steel skulls and yellow-and-black stripes adorning his shoulders, and his arms folded across his broad chest.

Heavy chains hung from the ceiling, displaying prototype designs of new armor and weapons. Their shadows fell against the cold tones of the Cheorwon lobby, and his eyes were darker, making him look even more gloomy.

"It is always there," Fulgrim sighed. "I have always heard its whispers. It haunts me... I fear that we are indeed connected. Give it a chance, and I am sure it will rush into our reality and claim what is left of me."

"If it arises again, you will be powerless to resist," Perturabo said, and his scrutiny caused Fulgrim to feel a little embarrassed, although the emotion came and went quickly.

"Yes, it is difficult for me to continue fighting," Fulgrim said sadly. "Give me prosthetic limbs, and I can stand up. I am still a leader."

"But no longer a swordsman." The Iron Lord stood up and walked to his side, but he did not touch him like a brother, or bring him some words of comfort. He had indeed changed, and abandoned some of the personality he once had - or rather the appearance of it.

"We don't always need the Primarchs to fight on the front lines," said Rogal Dorn, looking down at the holographic sand table and adjusting a few parameters. "The very existence of the Primarch is an inestimable encouragement to a Legion."

"The sacrifice of Lord Ferrus Manus did have a great impact." Kh'rn of the World Eaters occasionally spoke to prove his presence. Angron recently returned to Nuceria.

He noticed that Dorn had made comprehensive adjustments to the parameters of the Iron Hands Legion in the preset system. The various parameters in terms of technology were not adjusted much, including the random range of personnel and armor damage, which declined, and the legion's organization and damage were nearly halved.

Fulgrim stroked the head in his arms with his only remaining movable iron arm. "Yes - what are you calculating, Dorn?"

"Reset the parameters of the Emperor's Children," Dorn said. "You can't go into battle, but the data in the Court of Narni is based on the Legion's peak state. The initial values ​​​​need to be modified."

"It sounds like we really were prepared for rebellion over a hundred years ago. Comprehensive data collection, eh? Perhaps we should be thankful for the thought we had at the time..." Fulgrim raised his head teasingly, looking towards Perturabo, trying to ease the atmosphere.

Everyone here is solemn and grim, he is an exception, and someone like him will be needed here.

"Yes," Perturabo said, "but there is no need. An era that has ended does not need to be reminisced now. I have spent my life moving forward, and so have you."

He stepped away from Fulgrim, came to the sand table, and took control of the sand table from Rogal Dorn. Soon, a dangerous spot filled with boiling light rose above the simulated battlefield, violent air currents raged in thunderstorms and purple-red rainstorms, and the lumpy solids inside gathered and dispersed crazily in the cyan-blue glare, and a large amount of impermanent debris overflowed from it.

"The phenomenon over Medusa?" Dorn asked.

"I saw it once in Olympia. An eye looking at the earth, a swirl of stars, and though I saw it only for a moment, it was still memorable enough."

Perturabo said he had a presentiment that one day he would go deeper into it and come to terms with the first impressions of his memory.

Perhaps on Cadia, he thought, if Cadia still existed after the angry Iron Hands cleansed the surface of the world near the Star Vortex.

He will go deeper into the vortex, deeper into—

He paused. To this day, he still didn't know the name of that place.

The ignorant call it the Eye of Heaven, the Gate of Heaven, and other sentimental terms, mixed with blasphemy or piety, just like any ancient myth would do. The more pious, the more ordinary.

Currently, its official designation within the human empire is Cygnus X-1.

It is also too ordinary. It cannot show its danger, nor its essence.

When he conquers it, he will rename it.

"Do you know what that is?" Fulgrim asked in astonishment. "Even Ferrus doesn't know."

"I know he doesn't know. I asked him if he could see it, and the answer was no - it was a spatial anomaly, a large warp rift. The concentration of warp energy inside it is higher than any area explored in the real universe... but it should not easily invade reality. Its invasion of Medusa is undoubtedly related to the environmental fluctuations caused by the recent warp storm."

Perturabo said calmly, his fingers continuing to slide lightly over the control panel.

A new data construct is taking shape in real time, joining the surface of Istvan III... as a third force.

"You will be there, Fulgrim," he said suddenly. "You will be on Isstvan III."

Fulgrim did not immediately refuse. He tried to lean forward so that he could see more clearly the tactical arrangements made by Perturabo.

On the newly formed sand table, the wilderness was already filled with dark clouds of smoke, and a line of defense suddenly cracked like a collapsing snow mountain. Arrows indicating attack were crisscrossed, and bloody scorch marks spread across the defense line.

"I am not very athletic right now, Warmaster," Fulgrim said, tilting his head, his voice as beautiful as ever as he watched Perturabo's calculations and the retreat of the Luna Wolves. "Give me a pair of metal legs, so I can control them with my mind. Also, I need someone to forge me a new arm. Even if I am Fulgrim, I cannot swing a forge hammer with just one arm."

"Why?" Rogal Dorn asked bluntly. "Fulgrim will not be able to recover to his Primarch's combat level for the time being. I don't want an important general who needs to be strictly protected to appear on the battlefield. This will affect our battle plan."

"You are merciless." Fulgrim snorted softly and lowered his head, his long hair brushing against the metal head in his arms.

He sometimes wondered whether all the living metal in Ferrus's hands had been transformed into this head.

But he would not wear a skull hanging from his waist like Rogal Dorn did, he thought absentmindedly. Ferrus Manus was a practical man... Iron Hands...

Perturabo continued: "Lorgar Aurelion has his own sense of justice, and his love for his brothers is greater than ever. So you must seek help from the throneworld, Fulgrim. Tell him that you are being hunted, and that you need a rescue. He will come to Isstvan III for you, for friendship, for faith, or he will suffer."

On the sandbox, the newly emerged demons were fighting fiercely with the Word Bearers.

"Perturabo." Dorn's face turned serious and he said sternly, "You want to actively lure out the demon?"

"No. We will get help with this." Perturabo remained unmoved, as if there was no question or accusation in Rogal Dorn's tone just now.

A new metric was added to the battlefield measurement factors, and the composition of demons and star vortices was changed - imitated and replaced by the psionic powers of human think tanks.

"Thousand Sons?" Fulgrim asked, his voice raised, a crimson glow reflecting off his white hair. "What is... what is their relationship to the Fifteenth Legion?"

"The Thousand Sons are the current Fifteenth Legion," Perturabo said without question. "Magnus is dead, and the remaining warriors of his legion will be led by Amon after they have been refitted. Any other questions?"

He glanced around, his expression softening. "Then, follow me to the forge, Fulgrim. I will solve your operational problems for you. Rogal Dorn, the Iron Circle will share with you the current state of the Iron Warriors' combat readiness. Do not be stingy about incorporating weapons of mass destruction into strategic considerations. Continue the simulation, if you like. Khârn, communicate with my warsmiths. You are the leader of a legion, and I hope you do not need me to control all your planning."

"You should give me more credit, Perturabo, as I give you," Dorn said. "I give you," Perturabo replied calmly, standing in the doorway, as if this was not a point worth arguing about.

Rogal Dorn nodded slightly, strangely accepting Perturabo's lack of evidence. He untied the golden skull from his belt and placed it on the table, next to him.

-

Fulgrim watched absentmindedly as the corridors around him receded around him.

Everything here inherited Perturabo's own style. He recognized the pillar-like supporting structures on both sides of the corridor, the simple and unredundant marble carvings, and the exquisite decorations with a cold metallic luster. Those geometric patterns - straight lines, spirals and intersecting lines, outlined a perfect sense of order...

Just like the opera house that Perturabo had designed for him out of friendship, it gave people a vague and hazy sense of familiarity...

The only thing that didn't feel familiar was Perturabo himself.

When he met him again, he thought——

What? Did he think he would have all sorts of agitation and hesitation? Did he think Perturabo's eyes would hold the ebb and flow of brotherhood and the memories of it? Did he think his resolute face would be sensitively marked with pain?
No, in fact, there was not a trace of it. Even Rogal Dorn hid more sadness than Perturabo.

"I feel sorry for Ferrus Manus." Perturabo suddenly spoke. He was standing next to Fulgrim, his hand resting on top of the wheelchair, standing like a tall iron tower - a genius who was proficient in the art of architecture and war. In his space fortress, order and power were pushed to the extreme.

Was he aware of his own mood? Fulgrim wondered. Perhaps, for Perturabo was very sensitive to emotions.

Fulgrim grasped at his fleeting thoughts, not knowing whether they were good or bad.

"At least... he left in a way that would satisfy him, if he had the pleasure of knowing." Fulgrim smiled sadly.

"He remained pure," Perturabo replied. "The lowest and highest fortune and mercy in the universe. What about you?"

"I am entangled, you know." Fulgrim leaned back.

"It is nothing. One day, this problem will be solved," Perturabo said evenly. "This is a victory that is inevitable. You will not let us down, Fulgrim."

"You are so confident."

"of course."

Somehow, Fulgrim found some comfort in Perturabo's words, and he patted the iron skull in his arms in good spirits.

As Perturabo spent the rest of the journey lost in his own thoughts, Fulgrim used the time to make a new decision.

"I am pleased with your drawings, Perturabo, and I am grateful for your help and for accepting both of our legions, my brother."

Fulgrim praised the Warmaster for taking the time to design the iron limbs for him, and once again expressed his gratitude to the Iron Warriors for accepting the two mutated legions. He was not as skilled in this art as Ferrus, but he could still see the perfection of the data and proportions.

"Make your request." Perturabo looked at him, seeing through his unfinished words.

Fulgrim lifted the iron head from his arms and gazed carefully at the metal that captured the agony of Ferrus's last moments. He brushed his thumb across its jaw and looked at it lingeringly.

"I have no time to delay," Perturabo warned.

Fulgrim smiled and shrugged. "Beautiful metal, isn't it? Yet, metal alone has neither continuity of use nor immortality... it should have life."

"You miss him."

"Of course I miss him," Fulgrim said angrily, his voice suddenly hoarse, "Don't you think so? At least, you have lost a complete legion that might have supported you..."

"Or against my legion. Either way, it's regrettable."

"I have never read such pride in you, Perturabo." Fulgrim chuckled. "Pretend that he will be reborn in me, Lord of Iron, and let this raw material become my Iron Hand."

Perturabo gave him a long look. "This is the best decision, my brother."

"Go," Fulgrim urged, watching as Perturabo took the piece of metal in silence and walked firmly into his forge.

The smell of steel faded away with the departure of the Iron Lord. Fulgrim stared at it in a trance and did not leave immediately.

He seemed to smell the spicy aroma of metallic ointment, and the walls had the sheen of glassy basalt... like Ferrus's personal blacksmith shop.

Although not that similar.

He sighed and prepared to leave. Just as he drove the small vehicle carrying him a distance, he felt a gust of wind blowing past him.

Fulgrim paused for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut, and he placed his hands on his shoulders. "You are still watching me, aren't you, Ferrus?"

Suddenly, he felt another hand covering his own. Fulgrim turned his head away, not daring to open his eyes.

"Come on," he whispered softly, "go back. I know you're grateful to me."

His hair fell down and fell between the fingers of his iron hands.

Fulgrim tilted his head, and all the white hair slid reluctantly off his shoulders.

"You're welcome, Ferrus...thank you doesn't have to come between you and me."

The spicy aroma of metal drifted away and blended into the faint sound of burning flames coming through the wall of the forge room.

Fulgrim opened his eyes again, looked at his metal hand, placed it back on the armrest of the seat, and controlled the wheelchair to move away.

His captain was waiting for him at the other end of the corridor, along with Rogal Dorn and the remnants of the Thousand Sons who might come to visit at any moment. It was time for him to go back.

When he was about to see the light refracted from the last corner, he seemed to feel his wheelchair become heavier for a moment, and then he was gently pushed forward, allowing the bright light in the hall to completely catch him.

Fulgrim did not look. He knew there would be nothing around him.

(End of this chapter)