Perturabo's summons were dispatched swiftly, with the logic engines broadcasting the news to the flagships of every Primarch across the galaxy in less than three days.
While many were puzzled by Perturabo's sudden call for them to return, a subsequent piece of news instantly sent quite a few Primarchs into a state of utter shock.
Following that shock was sheer ecstasy, as a surge of overwhelming emotion welled up in their hearts.
Perturabo was stepping down from the position of Warmaster!
Most Primarchs didn't know the reason behind it. Their brother had served as Warmaster for a full thousand years, and no one understood why he would suddenly vacate the post.
However, it meant the office of Warmaster was now vacant, and that vacancy had to be filled!
Perturabo was a man of his word; if he said he was stepping down, he definitely would, with zero chance of backing out.
Which meant they now had a chance!
This sudden turn of events instantly reignited the confidence of several Primarchs who still harbored ambitious drives.
Even so, they sent messages back inquiring about what had happened. Why was the Warmaster stepping down so abruptly?
Jokes aside, they still needed to figure out the situation. It wouldn't do to return only to be blindsided by bad news.
Besides, being Warmaster wasn't an easy gig. One only needed to look at how many fleets and logistical resources Perturabo had mobilized for the Imperium over the years to realize that without serious backing and command talent, no one could hope to shoulder that burden.
This meant everyone still required intelligence—they needed to clarify why they were being summoned back so urgently.
Perhaps this event wasn't necessarily a bad thing for the Imperium, but it might not be a good thing for them individually.
Everyone knew full well what kind of life Guilliman was living. Even a stubborn, hard-headed ass like Dorn felt his scalp go numb at the sight of that administrative workload—who would dare touch it?
Furthermore, that bastard used to frequently find excuses to recall them, only to pin them down in the Throne Room and ruthlessly double their administrative duties. Consequently, the Primarchs now harbored a psychological shadow over Holy Terra, the birth world of humanity.
Even Curze, who used to be the most discontented and vocal opponent of the Imperium, had now turned into a quiet quail, even learning from Sevatar how to manage a legion—a true sight to behold.
All in all, everyone returned to Holy Terra in the primary galaxy at a leisurely pace, hearts filled with a degree of trepidation.
Lion's flagship was always the most understated yet luxurious. Even though the Lion's temperament had changed significantly and he was no longer as fiercely competitive, the ideal of fighting on still burned within his heart.
When he saw that Perturabo was actually resigning as Warmaster, his initial thought was to wonder what had happened to his brother. Only then did it suddenly hit him: he was currently still a strong contender for the title.
"I have a chance to become Warmaster?!"
An ambitious fire suddenly flared in Lion's heart, as if he could already see the title of Warmaster resting atop his head.
Logically speaking, the Dark Angels no longer needed to serve strictly as humanity's ultimate weapon, even if the primary chapter and its successors still held themselves to that standard.
If he could secure the position of Warmaster, it would thoroughly vindicate the Dark Angels, who had been fighting the hardest, ugliest battles ever since the Unification Wars.
They craved honor, even while standing in the shadows for so long.
This time, even staunch Imperial loyalists like Holguin and Astelan supported their father. No one could resist that seat; everyone wanted to claim this hard-won honor for their own legion.
Yet winning this position was by no means easy.
In terms of combat merit, neither the Iron Hands nor the Ultramarines lagged behind the Dark Angels. The Word Bearers' record was even more absurd; having repeatedly ventured deep into the Warp to slay formidable foes, they had become a rapidly rising star within the Imperium.
The Imperial Fists, who had always served in quiet dedication, had also destroyed stars and shattered realms during this period, placing their contributions near the top of the honor roll.
The remaining legions all had their own strengths. The Dark Angels faced immense friction if they wanted to claim the title.
The most crucial factor, however, still lay with the Emperor and Perturabo—they were the true decision-makers.
One was the nominal supreme ruler of the Imperium, and the other was the ultimate logistical lifeline supporting the entire empire. With the backing of these two, even if a pig were placed on the throne, no one would dare object.
Looking at Holy Terra close at hand—vibrant with renewed life and lush greenery—and watching his brothers' flagships draw near, Lion felt a heavy weight pressing on his chest.
He wanted to be Warmaster, and he wanted to vindicate his legion. The immense psychological pressure made even the vastly changed Lion grow somewhat anxious.
What if he still failed to become Warmaster?
Yet, seeing his sons around him brimming with confidence, the Lion refrained from showing his anxiety. He held his head high, boarded a modified Stormbird, and flew toward the Terran Throne Room.
"What did you say? You've successfully developed the Perpetual Conversion Technology? It just has a few flaws, so to avoid drawing our attention, you went ahead and converted your entire Legion's Space Marines into Perpetuals?!"
The Emperor's jaw practically hit the floor as he stared at Perturabo and a thoroughly helpless Sanguinius.
Guilliman and Malcador also turned to look, their faces written with sheer shock.
Wait, brother, are you serious?
Just a few days ago you told us this thing hadn't even started, and now you're telling us you finished it long ago and already implemented it across the board?
"Are you out of your mind, Perturabo? Are you sick?!"
"If you're sick, just say the word! I'll shove the Emperor's Sword into your skull, give it a quick twist, and reset your brain for free!"
"You made a decision on a matter this massive without consulting us at all? What if something goes wrong? What if the Imperium collapses because of this? Are you going to take responsibility?!"
"I think you're just—dammit, you absolute idiot, a purebred piece of—"
The Emperor unleashed an extraordinary display of vulgarity the moment Sanguinius finished explaining the events. Small wonder the Khan had a mouth like it was smeared with Nurgle's hemorrhoids; the source code had been inherited right here.
In the end, it was Malcador who couldn't listen anymore and reined the Emperor in.
"So what kind of mindset were you in when you made this decision? Were all those policies we implemented before just a joke to you, brother?" Guilliman asked, feeling helpless.
He was out of moves now. What was done was done, and there was no changing it.
Perturabo remained silent. Ever since stepping through the door, he hadn't uttered a single word, letting the Emperor's toilet-mouth rail on endlessly.
Seeing Perturabo like this, Guilliman knew in his heart that his brother likely didn't feel like opening his mouth today.
"You called our brothers back—do you want to discuss this with them, or are you planning to nominate a successor after you step down as Warmaster?"
"A bit of both. We'll talk when they arrive."
Perturabo was utterly exhausted right now and didn't want to talk at all.
Ever since Sanguinius exposed his secret, the drive that had been sustaining Perturabo seemed to vanish instantly, leaving him in a state of gloom and depression.
Aside from the Emperor muttering softly off to the side, the entire Throne Room fell into a strange, dead silence. Even Fulgrim, who had arrived via psychic projection, felt like a third wheel, completely at a loss for words.
Standing felt wrong; sitting felt wrong too.
The Phoenician desperately wished for his brothers to arrive quickly and break this awkward deadlock.
Every moment spent here was pure torture for Fulgrim. The Golden Throne was already straining to leech off his energy, and this heavy atmosphere only added to his mental torment.
Thump, thump, thump.
A series of somewhat chaotic yet extremely steady footsteps echoed from outside the Throne Room. Fulgrim looked toward the entrance with eyes that viewed them as absolute saviors.
Good Lord, By the Father, he had never realized before how adorable Russ's rough, boisterous face could be, or the Gorgon's...
Before the Phoenician could speak, however, the Primarchs sensed the bizarre atmosphere inside the Throne Room the moment they stepped through the door, along with Guilliman's hauntingly familiar, deadpan face.
Instantly, as if sensing something amiss, the Primarchs turned around in near-perfect unison. Whoever wanted to stay on Holy Terra could go right ahead, but they were getting the hell out of here.
It was already too late. Lion, who attempted to activate his forest walk ability, found that his power was completely unresponsive.
The doors to the Throne Room sealed shut tight, and the torches within ignited simultaneously, illuminating the terrifying faces of Perturabo and the Emperor, as well as the dark, grim expressions of Guilliman and Malcador—the two administrative overlords.
"Where do you think you're running off to? It's not like I'm going to eat you. Take your seats."
The Emperor spoke with a dark face. The Primarchs didn't dare say another word and took their respective seats.
It was the round table crafted by Perturabo himself, modeled after the ones on Olympia, except a few more seats had been added to it.
Aside from Horus and the Eleventh, who couldn't be present, all the Primarchs were accounted for.
In the main seat sat Olly Piers, the Lord Solar, positioned right next to Valdor.
He had been recalled as well, primarily because the position of Warmaster required an election, and as the current Lord Solar and the original Warmaster, he had no reason to be absent.
"Alright, now that everyone is here, I'll first announce the matter regarding my Perpetual Conversion Technology," Perturabo spoke up, breaking the stalemate.
"This conversion technology can be considered a success, but not an absolute one. A critical condition of the conversion is that their souls are bound to my Daemon Forge."
"Which means my sons, as well as the Perpetuals who underwent this conversion, are not purely independent. They do not enjoy the unique freedom in the Warp that Perpetuals like the Emperor, Malcador, or Olly Piers possess."
"They are bound to me. As long as nothing happens to me in the Warp, nothing will happen to them either. It essentially ties their lives to mine. So long as I don't collapse in the Warp, they can live all the way until the universe resets without any issue."
Perturabo explained the Perpetual conversion, but the Primarchs listened in utter bewilderment.
"So, Warmaster, you made a breakthrough in Perpetual technology, but haven't fully perfected it yet. That's why you want to step down as Warmaster to focus on research, and that's why you called us back?" Russ felt he had guessed the outcome.
"No, I have already converted my entire Legion into Perpetuals, along with several vital mortal commanders, administrative personnel, and people close to me."
"Because I've been dealing with various issues over the years, Sanguinius suggested that I take a proper rest. Therefore, I plan to return to Olympia for a period of downtime. During this time, I will step down as Warmaster, and you will take the lead in electing a new Warmaster to continue leading the Imperium's forces."
What on earth?
Wait, Warmaster, you just casually converted your sons and a bunch of mortals into Perpetuals like that?
And you're having psychological issues?
How come nobody noticed you having issues all these years?
People like Dorn and Lion couldn't fathom what had gotten into Perturabo. How did a perfectly fine person suddenly start talking about mental health problems?
This question would never get an answer, because the Emperor, Guilliman, and Malcador spoke up, declaring the matter officially closed. The Perpetual issue was to be kept strictly hushed up and not leaked under any circumstances.
As for anyone wanting to make private deals in the future, they could go to Olympia and talk to Perturabo themselves; the Emperor wouldn't stop them.
What else could they do? The situation was already this chaotic—did it really matter if it got a little worse?
Besides, the Primarchs had all awakened their true natures by now and were no different from Perpetuals anyway. Bringing it up further was pointless.
As for whether they had selfish motives, the Emperor no longer cared. Let it all burn.
He was exhausted too.
"Alright, now let's discuss who will succeed the position of Imperial Warmaster. Perturabo and Olly won't be involved in this, though authority will need to be transitioned. The title of Warmaster is destined to be born among you."
"I've said my piece. You may make your choices now. Once you've decided, we'll hold a show-of-hands vote. You have a bit of time to canvass for votes among yourselves before casting them."
As soon as the Emperor finished speaking, the Primarchs looked at one another. Although they were confused as to how the situation had taken such an abruptly absurd turn, the vacancy for Warmaster was very real.
"Brothers, you all know me. I won't say much—as long as you're willing to cast your sacred vote for me, if you ever run into a tough nut to crack in the future, I, Magnus, will be the first to charge in and back you up."
"Get out of here. What are you blabbering about? You want to be Warmaster? I think you're just here to cause trouble."
Russ, still at odds with Magnus, stood right up.
"Brothers, you know me as well. My Space Wolves may not have the best reputation, and you might not like the jobs I do, but haven't times changed? I guarantee that if I become Warmaster, every single one of you can take turns being Warmaster in the future. As for the order, I'll go first—"
"You should just go back to Fenris and sleep it off. Stop talking garbage about taking the lead." Magnus snapped back, shedding his scholarly composure entirely.
"I object!" He cast a rejection vote on the spot.
The bickering between the two quickly sparked an all-out argument among the Primarchs.
Only the Khan and Vulkan refrained from joining in, casually watching the drama unfold from the side.
Being the Warmaster was no walk in the park.