Chapter 419: Guilliman

"The reason is very simple: they were never human—they're automata!"

"You must find the demon born from the automata's first murder."

Thus spoke the Lord of Iron, Primarch of the Iron Warriors, the Unyielding of the Great Crusade, the Rebellion's Weightlifting Champion, and one of the top three in the Galaxy's Twisted Rankings: Perturabo.

His words rang with startling clarity, his humor strange and bizarre, leaving both Kaelan and Abaddon silent within the holo-screen,

and also leaving Zhou Yun and Sanguinius silent outside it.

Abaddon genuinely believed that with the demonic blade Drenikorn, he could prevail against any foe.

This was easy to understand: most of Abaddon's enemies were human, and this blade was naturally their bane—even Primarchs and the Emperor himself feared it deeply.

This sword was like a wheelchair fitted with a Necron inertialess engine; even a cripple could drive it at faster-than-light speeds. Abaddon had used this blade to defeat countless enemies he could never have overcome otherwise.

Gradually, Abaddon came to instinctively believe the blade was omnipotent—no matter the foe, all he needed to do was mindlessly swing Drenikorn.

But he met his match in Perturabo: Perturabo's endless hordes of iron-ring machines contained not a single human, and Drenikorn was no more effective against these machines and other enchanted weapons than any ordinary blade.

In fact, Abaddon still being whole was already a stroke of great luck.

This entire planet was Perturabo's meticulously crafted killing ground.

If one were to garrison a planet, Dorn would hold it longest among all Primarchs—but if one were to kill the most, it would be Perturabo.

Abaddon had clearly been spared by Perturabo.

"We have not seen each other in a long time, Ezequiel Abaddon. I even find myself nostalgic for our cooperation during the Siege of Terra."

Perturabo's voice carried the clashing of steel, as if a colossal demonic engine were speaking.

Abaddon immediately clenched his teeth, veins bulging across his face.

During the Siege of Terra, Dorn had deliberately left gaps in the defenses, setting traps.

Perturabo knew this perfectly well, yet still allowed Abaddon to lead the elite of the Sons of Horus into them, forcing him to trigger the trap and ultimately costing Abaddon many of his brothers.

This was what Perturabo called "nostalgic cooperation"—to Abaddon, it was pure humiliation.

"That's Perturabo's unique sense of humor," Sanguinius said, unable to suppress a smile.

Zhou Yun nodded in agreement.

But Abaddon clearly did not grasp this humor; his face flushed crimson, rage building inside his skull, swelling and pressing as if it might burst from his topknot.

"You brought me here just to humiliate me?!" Abaddon growled.

"You call it humiliation. I call it a lesson."

"Dorn may be hateful, but he is a clever man. Underestimating a clever man always comes at a price."

Perturabo coldly remarked:

"And what you receive from me is not merely a lesson—but also aid. The aid of a cleverer man than Dorn."

Hearing this, Abaddon's fury slightly subsided, his topknot no longer standing so sharply.

"What can you give me?" Abaddon demanded.

Abaddon's question drew two cold laughs from Perturabo.

"My brothers handed you scraps—and yet you sulk at me, the only one who offers generosity?"

The sizzle of burning oil and the screams of demons merged into Perturabo's icy words:

"You ask what I can give you? I can give you everything."

"Every demonic engine you can imagine or cannot imagine, every war machine you know or do not know—all newly forged weapons from my furnaces shall arm your legions; every spark of technology born from my mind shall bless your warriors. This is all I can give you."

"And when the fires of war are stalled, when war machines jam—I shall strike the iron hammer myself."

A flicker of doubt crossed Abaddon's face.

Perturabo, as he claimed, was incomparably generous.

He not only promised Abaddon vast quantities of demonic engines and war machines, pledged to gift him his latest weapons, but even offered to personally intervene should the Black Crusade stall.

This made Abaddon feel a touch of fear.

"Then what is the price?" Abaddon asked quietly.

Perturabo chuckled in a low, rumbling voice.

"There is no price."

"I only ask that you spread my creations, my forged war machines, across the galaxy—let my craftsmanship and creativity sow destruction and malice throughout the galaxy, or, in Horus's words—let the galaxy burn."

"This is the price you must pay: let my superior designs ravage this world."

Zhou Yun watched the holo-screen, his expression shifting slightly.

So Perturabo was giving Abaddon aid, generously supplying him with so many war machines—

simply to promote his own inventions and new demonic engines?

Was Perturabo really that pure?

Did he care nothing for Chaos, utterly immersed in his own artistic creation?

But Zhou Yun still felt something was off.

He was a competitor in the domain of Malicious Craftsmanship.

The more territory he claimed in that domain, the more he understood it.

The essence of Malicious Craftsmanship was the Zhongsheng 's desire to create new things—the drive to invent and create, the relentless refinement of skill and ever-more-efficient machinery.

It was also the terrifying distortion of creativity and craftsmanship: extreme creations that spread malice and destruction, the mad craving to proclaim one's designs superior, the escalating arms race and increasingly brutal war machines.

Spreading his own terrifying weapons across the galaxy, fueling the arms race, dragging the entire galaxy into the grim gears of war machines, would undoubtedly enhance Perturabo's influence in the domain of Malicious Craftsmanship.

Just as the more items Zhou Yun introduced and the greater their impact on the galaxy, the more territory he claimed in Malicious Craftsmanship—space itself seemed to recognize Zhou Yun's artifacts as his own creations.

Theoretically, the more destruction and malice Perturabo's war machines spread, the fiercer the arms race they ignited, the more power he would draw from the domain of Malicious Craftsmanship.

Zhou Yun shared this theory with Sanguinius.

But Zhou Yun couldn't help adding: "I don't understand why Perturabo would do this—he doesn't seem like someone who craves ascension to godhood."

"Indeed, he has always shown contempt for ascension and Chaos," Sanguinius agreed with Zhou Yun's view.

Zhou Yun frowned slightly—it was strange. Could it be—

He thought of another competitor in the domain of Malicious Craftsmanship: the semi-divine Lord of the Soul Furnace, the Creator Vashthor.

Had Vashthor formed some alliance with Perturabo? Vashthor, using Perturabo and indirectly Abaddon, expands his influence across the galaxy and the Warp, while hiding safely behind the scenes...

After all, Vashthor truly desired godhood; expanding the domain of Malicious Craftsmanship served his interests.

"The Penitent, the Envious, the Avenger, the First Sin..." Zhou Yun muttered the four beings foretold by the Emperor who would shape the galaxy's fate and be intimately tied to him.

But Vashthor seemed unrelated to any of them—he neither repented, nor envied, nor had any vengeance to seek.

Though Vashthor's pursuit of godhood overlapped with Zhou Yun's domain, Zhou Yun had no conflict with him.

After all, though Zhou Yun was a competitor in the domain of Malicious Craftsmanship, he had no intention of ascending to godhood.

Even if he wanted to, it would be useless.

Though he didn't know why Vashthor believed he could achieve godhood,

Zhou Yun had confirmed with the Emperor: to ascend in the Warp now required a sacrifice.

This sacrifice must be a race—like humanity or the ancient Eldar—that once, now, or in the future, ruled the galaxy as its master.

Only by consuming countless dead souls within the resonance of a race's total corruption or annihilation could one achieve ascension.

The Eldar's pit had been claimed by Slaanesh; humanity's had been claimed by the Emperor.

What remained? The Necrons fit the criteria—but they have no souls, and from the Warp's perspective, they are already dead.

Could Zhou Yun really raise the Tau into galactic overlords, then sacrifice them to ascend?

So Zhou Yun had no immediate concern about conflict with Vashthor.

"My Lord," Erth suddenly spoke softly: "The Warden has located the materials you requested."

"Good. I've learned all I needed to know," Sanguinius said, lost in thought.

Zhou Yun nodded slightly, signaling Erth to return Kaelan to his cell—Kaelan knew much about the Black Legion; he might prove useful someday.

Then Erth led Zhou Yun and Sanguinius deep into the Inquisitorial Fortress.

But to Zhou Yun's surprise, Erth did not take them to a prison cell, but to a vast archive room piled high with parchment scrolls—stretching as far as the eye could see, it resembled a city built of parchment, making one wonder if the Inquisition's entire ten-thousand-year record was stored here.

Dozens of acolytes, accompanied by servitors, darted between the archives, faces hurried and weary; among them stood the Warden of the Fortress, his eyes bloodshot.

Clearly, during the time Zhou Yun, Sanguinius, and Erth interrogated Kaelan, he had endured an extreme workload.

This made Zhou Yun pause.

"My Lord," the Warden of the Fortress stiffly rose and bowed to Zhou Yun: "I checked the prison roster. All of Inquisitor Jerome Searx's private cells have been emptied. No prisoner named Titus is listed."

"But rest assured, I have just, with the utmost speed, reviewed all records from the past century concerning the Ultramarines and Inquisitor Jerome. I have finally found traces—"

"You mean Titus is currently with the Deathwatch?" Zhou Yun said, slightly exasperated.

The Warden's expression froze.

"Yes, My Lord," he said, flustered. "After Inquisitor Jerome was possessed by a daemon, the Hammer of the Saintly Order conducted an investigation. They found a surveillance station under his jurisdiction on the southern fringe of the galaxy, where nearly twenty Astartes were held in stasis cells."

"The Deathwatch was responsible for taking over that station. Logically, Titus should have been freed—and likely remained with the Deathwatch as a Black Shield."

Though the Warden's diligence was commendable, Zhou Yun wished he had reported immediately upon discovering Titus was not imprisoned on Terra.

That way, Zhou Yun could have deduced Titus was serving as a Black Shield in the Deathwatch, and the Warden could have saved himself this tedious, exhausting search.

"Damn it, why has overtime become so common on Terra? Everyone's working harder than ever," Zhou Yun muttered.

Then Zhou Yun suddenly remembered the information he had seen about Guilliman while he was in the fourth-dimensional pocket.

Zhou Yun's expression changed slightly; he whispered: "Those near Guilliman experience unexplained increases in workload and prolonged immersion in overtime."

That was the fourth-dimensional pocket's judgment.

Could it be that Guilliman's Warp nature was unconsciously affecting all of Terra?

What a terrifying ability! Could Guilliman's psychic talent actually be extraordinarily high?

"My Lord, the warp currents now rage unchecked, and astropathic communications are unreliable; we are unlikely to establish contact with any specific Deathwatch squad."

Before Zhou Yun could ponder further, the Inquisitorial Citadel Lord spoke:

"And Titus joined the Deathwatch under the identity of Blackshield, concealing his true identity—making him even harder to find."

Zhou Yun nodded in understanding, but for himself, it was not difficult.

He could simply have Ye Ni Di Huang use a portal and a locator staff to go fetch him.

"By the way, my lord," the Inquisitorial Citadel Lord continued, "should we promptly notify all Inquisitors across the galaxy of your appointment as Inquisitorial Overseer?"

"Should we convene a council of Grand Inquisitors or higher? Or should each major Ordos send representatives? How should the Grey Knights be informed?"

"There are also many documents, archives, and records awaiting your receipt—some of which, by theory, must be handled by you personally."

"Moreover, should the High Lord position of Inquisitorial Representative be transferred to you? Related matters may require you to coordinate with Ersi."

As Zhou Yun listened to the Inquisitorial Citadel Lord's words, his expression froze abruptly.

The phrase—"Those who draw near to Guilliman inevitably find their workload swelling, sinking into endless overtime"—rose again in his mind.

"We must get Guilliman off Terra as soon as possible."

Zhou Yun looked solemnly at Sanguinius:

"I must remain at least half a galaxy away from him."

(This chapter is four thousand words. I'm dizzy and exhausted today—I simply cannot write the next one. Please forgive me.)

(End of chapter)