The air in the Throne Room was now as thick as congealed resin.
The images on the screen had faded; Perturabo, who had turned himself into a monster in the ruins just to seek a sliver of fatherly love, had vanished.
But in reality, the Primarch of the The Fourth Legion still sat there.
He was tense all over, like a bow drawn to its absolute limit, ready to snap at any moment.
He didn't dare look up.
He felt that the Master of the Eighteenth Legion must surely think he looked like a Joker right now.
The hard shells he usually used to feign coldness and ruthlessness had been peeled away layer by layer by that damned screen, exposing the awkward giant infant inside who had been crying for candy.
He waited for the mockery.
Waiting for Russ to burst into laughter, waiting for Fulgrim's acerbic irony, waiting for Dorn's condescending contempt.
However, the expected mockery did not come.
Quite the opposite, an eerie atmosphere of "understanding" and "sympathy" was spreading among these demigod brothers.
"Clang."
Heavy footsteps broke the stagnation.
A burly figure, as if carved from obsidian, walked up to Perturabo, bringing with him a rush of heat and the scent of charcoal.
It was Vulkan.
This giant, the most merciful in the entire galaxy, had no tactical assessment or scrutiny in his ruby-like eyes at this moment; only a sincere sadness enough to melt steel.
"Brother."
Vulkan's voice was deep and thick, like the bellows in a forge.
"I... I must apologize to you."
Perturabo jerked his head up, his gaze as fierce as a badger cornered:
"What do you want, Vulkan? Are you here to mock me for wanting to build a theater like some girl?"
"No."
Vulkan shook his head; he even knelt on one knee to look Perturabo, who was curled in his chair, eye to eye.
"I always thought you were a cold and heartless man."
"I thought you built those siege cannons because you enjoyed destruction, enjoyed the thrill of watching walls crumble."
"I was wrong. Terribly wrong."
Vulkan reached out his astonishingly large hands and gently patted Perturabo's oil-scented shoulder.
"It turns out... you are just like me. We are both artisans. We are both creators."
"When I forge those weapons, what I'm actually thinking about is making farm tools for the people."
"And when you capture those fortresses, what you're actually thinking about is building a grand theater there."
"You hurt yourself, and you hurt your sons, simply because you couldn't find a way to express this longing."
Vulkan sighed, his tone full of regret:
"If only you had told me sooner, brother. If only you had said you wanted to build. My Salamanders would have welcomed you anytime."
"Your iron, combined with my fire, we could build the strongest and warmest cities in the galaxy."
"The philosophies of our two Legions are, to some extent... the same."
"We both long to protect, to create, rather than to destroy."
Perturabo was stunned.
His stomach full of venom and his mind full of counter-arguments were all stuck in his throat in the face of Vulkan's heart-to-heart, unreserved sincerity.
This... this isn't how the script is supposed to go?
Shouldn't he be here to call me a coward?
An unprecedented, bittersweet, and warm feeling welled up in his heart.
It was the poison called "being understood."
Before Perturabo could finish digesting this awkward emotion, another person stepped out of the shadows.
Corax.
This Master of the Raven Guard, who was always taciturn and liked to hide in the dark, also looked at Perturabo now, a rare look of agreement on his pale face.
"Actually,"
Corax's voice was cool but not harsh.
"I also think... Dorn's style is too flamboyant."
This was practically handing a glass of honey-water straight to Perturabo's heart.
Corax pointed to the magnificent palace around them, frowning slightly:
"Gold everywhere, statues everywhere. This kind of fortification is practically telling the enemy 'come and hit me'."
"And your style, Perturabo."
Corax looked at the Master of the Iron Warriors, "That pure, practical industrial aesthetic without any unnecessary decoration... it's actually very suitable for my home World, Deliverance."
"As you know, my home is an industrial wasteland."
"We need efficient buildings, fortresses that can protect the people in harsh environments, not these flashy palaces."
"If you are willing..."
Corax extended a rare invitation.
"I would like to invite you to visit Deliverance. My people need new residential areas, and you are the best structural master in the galaxy."
"Compared to Dorn, I think your designs have more of a human touch—even if expressed in a cold way."
This time, Perturabo completely lost his composure.
First Vulkan said he understood him, and then Corax praised him while slighting another.
This Primarch with a severe case of "princess syndrome" was internally ecstatic, but on the surface, he still had to maintain that "don't touch me" facade.
"Hmph."
Perturabo snorted, turning his head to the side so his brothers wouldn't see the curve of his lips that he couldn't suppress.
"Don't think a few nice words will make me forgive your previous slights."
Though he said this, his tone had already softened like a freshly baked sponge cake.
"Since you've asked so sincerely... I suppose I could consider it."
"After all, correcting those erroneous architectural aesthetics is also my responsibility as... as a technical authority."
"As for Deliverance... since you've begged me, I'll reluctantly go take a look."
"After all, besides me, no one can build anything decent in that radiation-filled place."
He frantically looked for an out in his mind: They must have ulterior motives! They must want to steal my techniques!
But... this feeling of being needed, being affirmed, and even being "begged to do something" was damn good.
Isn't this what he had dreamed of for years?
Not needing him to go to war, but needing him to build. Acknowledging him as a master, acknowledging him as an indispensable artisan.
Just as the atmosphere in the hall was heading towards a touching "brotherly reconciliation, prodigal son returns" happy ending.
A voice rang out.
That voice was steady, hard, and devoid of emotional fluctuations, like a piece of granite smashing onto a glass table.
"I do not understand."
Rogal Dorn.
This Primarch of the Imperial Fists, clad in golden heavy armor, walked over like a mobile fortress.
The expression on his face was not anger, nor mockery, but a pure, academic confusion.
That was the most lethal part.
Dorn looked at Perturabo with a gaze like he was looking at an engineering blueprint full of elementary calculation errors.
"Perturabo, if you wanted to leave the battlefield to build, if you truly hated siege warfare so much."
Dorn asked in all seriousness, "Why didn't you just file a report to Terra?"
The air froze instantly.
Vulkan covered his forehead.
Corax shrank back into the shadows.
Guilliman let out a sigh of despair.
But Dorn didn't stop.
He was sincere.
He was truly analyzing the problem from an administrative process perspective.
"While the Imperial administrative system is vast, there are priority channels for the reasonable requests of a Primarch."
Dorn continued his "logical critical hit":
"You could have submitted a 'Feasibility Report on the Functional Transformation of the The Fourth Legion,' along with your architectural blueprints."
"Father (the Emperor) is rational. If you could prove that your value in construction is higher than your value in war, he would have no reason to refuse you."
"As for the vacancy on the front lines..."
Dorn even very thoughtfully proposed a solution.
"The Imperial Fists could temporarily take over your defensive zones. My sons are good at defense and good at sieges. We would ensure that no problems occur on the front lines after you leave, until you finish your rest or complete your transformation."
"It's simply a matter of resource allocation."
Dorn looked at Perturabo, whose face was gradually darkening and whose body was beginning to tremble, and still obliviously delivered the final and most lethal blow:
"Therefore, you didn't need to use extreme means like 'rebellion' or'slaughtering your own' to prove yourself."
"It is illogical."
"You were already quite strong."
"Your siege data is excellent. But..."
Dorn pointed to the corpses of the Iron Warriors on the screen who had been killed by their own, a look of serious criticism appearing on his face.
"This method of yours is meaningless. It is a severe waste of resources."
"You don't speak your mind, you don't submit an application, you just keep your anger bottled up and then vent it by killing soldiers."
"How could anyone else know what you're thinking?"
"From a management perspective, this is a complete failure of the communication mechanism. To some extent, you brought this trouble on yourself."
"Especially that Decimation order."
Dorn shook his head and gave his final verdict.
"Whether from the standpoint of morale maintenance, troop replenishment, or tactical efficiency, I believe it was completely unnecessary. It was a mistake in command."
"ENOUGH!!!"
A roar shook the dust from the hall's dome.
Perturabo leaped up.
The tiny bit of warmth in his heart from Vulkan and Corax was instantly frozen into ice shards by Dorn's "truth-telling" and then shattered.
His eyes were as red as if they were dripping blood, his finger trembling as he pointed at Dorn's deadpan face.
"You... you... you piece of wood that only knows how to lay bricks! You stone that doesn't understand the human heart!"
Perturabo was incoherent with rage.
"File a report? Apply? Who do you think I am? I am a Primarch!"
"Do I have to fill out forms like a mortal and beg others to give me a shred of dignity?!"
"And! What do you mean by 'you will take over my defensive zone'?"
"Are you showing off? Are you saying you can do it too, and do it better than me, that you don't even need me, right?!"
"You are insulting me! Rogal Dorn!"
"You have always been insulting me! Every word, every syllable you speak implies that I am an incompetent, emotional waste!"
Facing Perturabo's fury, Dorn remained infuriatingly calm.
"I have not implied anything."
Dorn corrected him honestly, "I am stating facts."
"Your emotions have indeed affected your judgment."
"Furthermore, if I can also complete the mission, then logically speaking, you are indeed not 'irreplaceable'."
"But that doesn't mean you are a waste, it's just..."
"Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!"
Perturabo frantically tried to pull the Warhammer from his waist.
"I'm going to take you apart! I'm going to smash that mouth of yours that only spits out data right now!"
"I'll show you my logic!"
"My logic is smashing you into the ground!"
"Doing so would violate the Legiones Astartes code."
Dorn placed his hand on the hilt of Storm's Teeth, his gaze unruffled.
"Moreover, according to simulations, in a confined space, your win rate is only 42%."
"Aaaaaah! I'm going to kill you!"
Seeing that Perturabo was really about to charge and fight Dorn to the death, the surrounding Primarchs finally reacted.
"Stop him!"
Vulkan grabbed Perturabo around the waist, holding him tight like he was restraining a rampaging bull.
"Calm down! Brother! Dorn didn't mean it like that!"
"He's just clumsy with words! He's just a brick come to life! Don't lower yourself to his level!"
"Let go of me! Vulkan! I'll show him what 'resource waste' is! I'll recycle his head as a resource!"
On the other side, Guilliman and Sanguinius had to stand in front of Dorn.
"Rogal!"
Guilliman felt his blood pressure soaring.
"Can you just say less? Can't you see he's looking for comfort?"
"Would it kill you to even say 'good job'?"
"I cannot lie."
Dorn looked at Guilliman, his face full of righteousness.
"He indeed did not submit an application. And the Decimation was indeed wrong."
"Am I to betray the truth just to comfort him?"
"That would be an act of disloyalty."
"This has nothing to do with loyalty! It's called reading the room! Do you understand reading the room?!"
Guilliman wished he could use the data slate in his hand to crack open Dorn's skull and see if it was filled with cement.
"I do not breathe the room's air. My power armor has an internal recycling system."
Dorn replied seriously.
"..."
Guilliman didn't want to talk anymore. He felt that communicating with Dorn was more exhausting than governing Five Hundred Worlds.
The hall was in total Chaos.
Perturabo was roaring, Vulkan was trying to mediate, Dorn was reasoning (adding fuel to the fire), and other Primarchs were either watching the show (like Russ and the Khan) or sighing with their heads in their hands.
And upon the Throne.
The Emperor watched this scene, his golden face still devoid of any expression.
But Malcador, standing beside him, seemed to hear an extremely faint sigh from the psychic level.
[Sometimes.]
The Emperor's thought echoed in Malcador's mind.
[I feel that Dorn is the one who is most like me.]
Malcador rolled his eyes and gripped his staff tighter.
[Yes, Majesty. Equally touching emotional intelligence. Equally capable of turning simple interpersonal relationships into the apocalypse.]
[If the Horus Heresy really breaks out, remember to remind me.]
Malcador thought wearily as he watched the two Primarchs still arguing.
[This is definitely not because of some corruption of Chaos.]
[This is purely because—you bunch of guys who play with genes and steel simply don't understand how to be human.]