[If the tragedies of the other Primarchs were the cruel jests of fate, then this Primarch's tragedy stemmed largely from his personality—one more stubborn than adamantium and deeper than a black hole.]
[The Fourth Legion, Lord of the Iron Warriors—Perturabo.]
The scene didn't begin with a grand battlefield, but instead focused on a cliff so steep it defied the laws of physics.
The wind howled, and the rocks were like blades.
A youth who looked to be only in his teens was clinging to the precipice with his bare hands.
His fingers were a bloody mess, leaving bloody handprints on the rock with every upward step.
He had no prior memories.
He didn't know who he was or why he was hanging halfway up this mountain.
But he knew one thing: he could not go down.
["If I let go, I fall. If I fall, I lose."]
There was no fear in the youth's eyes, only a near-obsessive calculation.
His brain was like a precision computer, instantly mapping out the optimal handholds for the next thirty steps.
["I am Perturabo."]
He whispered to himself in the wind. This name was not given by anyone; it was a designation etched into his soul, meaning "I will endure."
When he finally crested the summit, he was met not with a warm embrace, but with the cold spears of the city-state of Olympia's soldiers, and the tyrant who ruled the city—Dammekos.
The scene fast-forwarded, showing the Primarch's early years like a slideshow.
He was a genius. A true, all-around genius.
He could understand complex mechanical structures with a single glance and identify the stress points of metal with a single touch.
He designed exquisite amphitheaters, drew architectural blueprints capable of advancing an entire civilization, and even bested the wisest philosophers in debate.
He yearned to create.
He yearned to build.
He dreamed of a rational, perfect utopia built on logic and mathematics.
But in the eyes of his foster father, Dammekos, these blueprints were worthless.
"Go and take that city, my son." His foster father pointed at the enemy's fortress; it was his only demand.
Perturabo did as he was told.
Not only did he take it, but he also improved the siege cannons along the way, causing the impregnable fortress to collapse at precisely calculated angles.
At the victory banquet, people praised him as the "Hammer of Olympia."
Perturabo sat in a corner, clutching his theater design stained with red wine, his gaze gloomy.
He waited.
Waiting for his foster father to come over, pat him on the shoulder, and say, "Well done. Now, go build your theater."
But all he received were Orders for the next war.
[He had always believed that if he performed well enough, if he proved his worth, people would see what his heart truly desired.]
[But he was wrong.]
[In this Universe where pragmatism reigned supreme, a good hammer would only ever be used to drive nails.]
Then, the Emperor arrived.
It was the moment Perturabo had anticipated most in his life.
To welcome his biological father, he didn't even want to use any technology; instead, he climbed Olympia's highest peak once more with his bare hands, just for a single moment of devotion.
The Emperor looked at this brilliant, perhaps even slightly neurotic son kneeling before him.
What did the Emperor of Mankind see?
He didn't see an architect; he didn't see a philosopher.
What he saw was a siege weapon that had already been honed to a razor's edge in mortal wars.
"You shall be my Lord of Iron."
The Emperor's voice was grand and divine. "Your path will be difficult. You will shoulder the heaviest burdens and crack the hardest nuts. You will never tire, and you will never yield."
Perturabo was moved to tears.
He thought his father understood him.
He thought this was his father's highest recognition of his "resilience."
He thought it was a mark of trust—giving the hardest tasks to his strongest son.
And so, he took command of the Fourth Legion.
The first thing he did sent chills down the spines of all the viewers and stained the gray screen crimson.
[Decimation.]
Simply because the Legion's previous track record wasn't "perfect" enough and didn't fit the precise mathematical model in his mind.
Perturabo ordered the entire Legion to assemble.
One out of every ten men was chosen by lot to be beaten to death by the remaining nine brothers.
The scene became incredibly oppressive. There was no rousing music, only the dull sounds of fists striking armor and flesh.
There were no honorable duels, only a mechanical, cold purge.
Blood stained the silver-gray armor of the Iron Warriors.
Perturabo stood on a high platform, watching it all expressionlessly, as if inspecting an assembly line for defective products.
"Iron law is everything. Iron that isn't hard enough should be cast back into the furnace."
This wasn't just establishing authority. It was a pathological declaration of loyalty.
He was showing the Emperor: Look at how ruthless I am to my own progeny; for your cause, I can eliminate all weakness.
Praise me.
But all he received was silence, and more, harder, and dirtier siege assignments.
If there was anything that drove Perturabo more insane than the heavy workload, it was the brother who always stood in the light—Rogal Dorn.
The scene shifted to a meeting regarding the construction of the Imperial Palace.
Perturabo pointed at the holographic designs, his eyes bloodshot, talking incessantly about his data models to prove a mechanical blind spot in a certain defensive structure.
And Dorn, the golden, solemn Primarch of the Imperial Fists, just glanced at it and said:
"No. That is not stable."
The veins on Perturabo's forehead bulged, and the laser pointer in his hand was nearly crushed.
A more fatal moment occurred.
Fulgrim asked Dorn, "Do you think Perturabo could breach the palace defenses you designed?"
Perturabo's ears perked up.
He was waiting.
Expecting Dorn to say something polite, even if it were just platitudes like "It would be a difficult battle" or "I would have a headache if he were the one attacking."
Just a single word of recognition.
But Dorn, the most socially inept and honest man in the galaxy, thought seriously for two seconds and then answered as if stating a fundamental truth:
"No."
*Bang!*
The data pad in front of Perturabo shattered.
The feeling of being slighted, dismissed, and publicly humiliated gnawed at his heart like a venomous snake.
He hated Dorn. He hated his golden armor, hated that he enjoyed glory on Terra while Perturabo could only fill enemy moats with the corpses of his own sons in mud-filled trenches.
[This resentment fermented during day after day of attrition, turning into a poisonous wine.]
Until that day.
A messenger arrived trembling at Perturabo's command tent.
"My Lord... Olympia... your homeworld..."
"What is it?" Perturabo didn't even look up; his mood was already at its worst.
"Olympia... has rebelled."
"They... expelled the Imperial garrison and declared independence."
*Snap.*
The cleaning cloth in Perturabo's hand was torn in two.
He slowly raised his head; there was no longer any reason in those eyes, only a mad fire that wanted to set the whole World ablaze after being utterly betrayed.
It was his only pride. His only "home."
He thought he had unified it and brought civilization there.
Now, even his home had betrayed him.
"Prepare the fleet."
Perturabo's voice was as low as a rumble from deep within the earth's crust, every word sounding like iron dross squeezed from between his teeth.
"We are going home. To... kill them all."
---
Hellsing World
Inside the airship's command room, dim yellow lights reflected off rows of neat instrument panels.
There were no fanatic cheers or crazed roars.
The short, stout Major with glasses stood quietly before the giant screen.
"Oh, what a pity."
The Major sighed softly, his voice calm yet permeated with a bone-deep, twisted rationality.
"The Emperor is indeed a great craftsman."
"These 'tools' he hand-crafted are each a masterpiece."
The Major extended a white-gloved finger, pointing at the angry Perturabo on the screen.
"I must admit, whether it was Mortarion with his poison gas or now Perturabo with his iron, their mastery as 'tools of war' is beyond reproach."
"Look at their killing efficiency, look at their understanding of destruction."
"That obsession with grinding enemies to dust and turning cities to ash, that determination to never stop until the goal is reached... it's all top-tier."
The Major took a sip of wine, the screen's cold light reflecting off his lenses.
"But... gentlemen, don't you think they are too 'weak'?"
He turned to the Vampire Legion behind him, a hint of contempt in his tone.
"Not physical weakness. Oh, no, their bodies are harder than adamantium."
"It is weakness of will, of soul."
"That Mortarion actually knelt to a demon just to save his sons from suffering?"
"To abandon the purity of war for a boring reason like 'love,' even willing to become a dog. It's an insult to war."
"And this Perturabo..."
The Major shook his head, a sarcastic curve touching the corners of his mouth.
"He wages war, slaughters life, and destroys civilizations. And the motivation for all this is actually just... to gain someone else's recognition?"
"To hear that golden-armored father call him a 'good boy'? To hear that brother named Dorn say 'you're great'?"
*Pfft...*
The Major couldn't help but laugh out loud. "Like a brat who intentionally breaks his toys and throws a tantrum on the floor just to get some candy."
"They are all trivializing war."
The Major's gaze became sharp.
"They treat war as a means. A bargaining chip to exchange for peace, honor, fatherly love, or anything else."
"This is wrong. This is sacrilege."
"War is war."
"War itself is the purpose, the highest form of existence."
"We fight because we exist; we destroy because we want to hear that grand symphony."
Suddenly, The Major's expression changed.
He watched the screen showing the Decimation being carried out.
Watching those Iron Warriors raise their fists without hesitation, pounding the brothers they lived with day and night into a pulp.
Watching that absolute obedience, that cold Order.
"However, there is one thing I like very much."
A strange light flickered in The Major's eyes, and he leaned forward slightly, as if smelling the scent of blood coming from the other side of the screen.
"'Decimation'... what a wonderful system."
And his words—'Iron law is everything. Iron that isn't hard enough should be cast back into the furnace.'"
The Major repeated it entranced, as if it were the most beautiful line of poetry, every syllable dancing on the tip of his tongue.
"Yes, exactly. War should be like a furnace."
"It needs no warmth, no reasons, no sticky brotherly sentiment. It only needs high heat and hammering."
"We are melted in war, our impurities removed, burning away all that dross called 'humanity,' 'hesitation,' and 'weakness.'"
"In the end, all that remains is pure iron... existing only for destruction."
The Major raised his wine glass, offering a distant toast to the cold Perturabo on the screen.
"If Perturabo could discard his ridiculous pride, if he could forget that father who doesn't love him."
"If he could truly understand the meaning of his own words..."
"Then perhaps he truly could become... my comrade."
"A pity, though, that he's still rolling in the mud, crying for a pacifier while he kills."
Marvel World
Inside Avengers Tower, Tony watched the screen, the wine glass in his hand swaying slightly as the ice cubes within clinked crisply.
"This makes me... very uncomfortable."
Tony said in a low voice, his brow furrowed. "Not because of the slaughters. Although those were terrible. But because... it's like I'm looking in a mirror."
"What?" Colonel Rhodes looked at him, puzzled. "You've never killed your own people, Tony."
"I mean the psychological state." Tony pointed to his head, then to Perturabo on the screen.
"Brilliant, capable of creating machinery beyond the era. A genius, and a craftsman."
"But he's extremely insecure, desperately craving his father's recognition."
"He's spent his entire life trying to prove himself."
Tony gave a bitter smile, his gaze turning deep.
"He builds weapons because it's the only way he can get attention."
"He takes things to extremes to hide his internal vulnerability. All those thorns are just to protect the child inside who never grew up."
"If Howard had been a bit more cold to me back then, or if I hadn't met Ethan in that cave and had that awakening..."
"I might have become another version of him."
"A giant infant with the power to destroy the World, yet only capable of seeking attention amidst the ruins."
Dr. Banner took off his glasses and wiped them. "This kind of paranoid personality disorder combined with infinite power... it's a recipe for disaster."
DC Universe
In the Batcave, Batman's gaze remained locked on the interaction between Perturabo and Dorn, analyzing every micro-expression.
"Dorn had no ill intent; he was simply telling the truth."
"He is a pure rationalist; to him, 'cannot' is just an objective assessment."
"But to someone as hypersensitive, insecure, and arrogant as Perturabo, every truth is filtered into the most vicious mockery."
"He doesn't need the truth; he needs comfort. And Dorn... is the last person who could give him that."
Batman said coldly.
"The Emperor's incompetence in personnel management is absolutely appalling."
Wonder Woman Diana clenched her fists, her eyes full of anger.
"To place two Primarchs with completely opposite personalities and highly overlapping roles together without any psychological counseling."
"This isn't just competition. This is deliberately fostering hatred."
"And that Decimation..."
Diana looked at the fallen warriors.
"It is a desecration of a warrior's honor. To turn one's blade against one's own comrades just for 'efficiency'? For 'face'? Such a person is not fit to be a leader; he is merely a slave driver with a whip."
Three-Body World
"Iron that isn't hard enough should be cast back into the furnace."
Thomas Wade repeated these words, a hint of admiration flashing in his eyes.
"Though cruel, it follows the logic of survival."
"In the Dark Forest, even the slightest impurity can lead to destruction."
"If a civilization wants to survive, it must learn to excise its own weaknesses, even if it means cutting away part of its own flesh."
"However..." Wade sneered, "to do so for 'the praise of others' is too low-level."
"If it's for survival, then it is sublime."
Luo Ji sighed. "When technology and power lose the constraints of humanity, all that remains are cold equations."
"And Perturabo... he even got the equations wrong. He left out the most important variable—the human heart."