Inside the study of the Iron Citadel on Olympia, Barabas Dantioch was reporting the latest news from the front-line battlefields to Perturabo.
The severity of the front lines still somewhat exceeded Perturabo's expectations. Although these Tyranids were biological creatures, their combat strength was no joke—their hardened biomass armor and beams were more than even the Automata of the Iron Circle could withstand.
Those Bio-Titan bio-constructs could almost solo a modern Emperor-class Titan one-on-one with zero effort. God only knew how these Tyranids had evolved to become so terrifyingly powerful.
Dantioch stood before the desk, battlefield data scrolling slowly across his holographic projection. The current Commander-in-Chief of the Iron Warriors wore a heavy suit of Centurion armor, polished to a pristine, spotless shine.
This was not because the Commander had escaped injury, but because Perturabo had established a strict rule years ago: the moment a battle concluded, one had to restore their power armor, weapons, and body to peak condition as fast as humanly possible.
Only by doing so could one face the next uncertain war in absolute prime condition.
A suit of damaged power armor represented zero damned glory; it would only invite Perturabo's furious scolding for such sheer stupidity.
If your power armor gets wrecked, go replace it! What, you think surviving makes you honorable just because you didn't die?
In the past, Perturabo had chewed out his sons for this exact mindset, forcing them right back to the training grounds to undergo retraining.
Survival was paramount. Perhaps certain things could transcend life in specific moments, but war was definitely not one of them. The value of an Astartes' life was higher than that of a Warhound-class Titan.
Of course, that was Perturabo's standard—he didn't know or care about his brothers' views on the matter.
Even now, all his sons had been converted into Perpetuals by his hands, and new recruits joining the various successor chapters underwent the exact same process. The Perpetual Conversion Technology had long been passed down to his line; though the technical data couldn't be stored within the logic engine, the actual conversion surgery remained exceptionally precious.
Quite a few of his Primarch brothers had actually approached him in secret, hoping he would help convert select sons or mortal personnel they held in high regard.
The very first to approach Perturabo was Lorgar—the brother who had historically been at odds with him most of all.
For the sake of his adopted daughter, Lorgar had lowered his demeanor to a humble degree that left even Perturabo somewhat flabbergasted.
It reminded him of when he first met Lorgar—that arrogant, unyielding demeanor that refused to bow to authority was something Perturabo genuinely missed, right up until he baited Lorgar with life-extension technology, after which Lorgar's attitude flipped entirely.
It was the same story now. Perturabo hadn't even actively "attacked," yet Lorgar had already come online with a humble stance of his own accord.
"I remember you saying that while their flesh may rot, their spirit endures."
"I also said that she is different—she still plays an indispensable role in managing the Imperium's administration."
Looking at Lorgar's stoic face, Perturabo found it somewhat hilarious.
"Do you know, Lorgar? In the past, every time you faced me, that scripture-covered face of yours was always put on display, and those holy verses would look like they had minds of their own, itching to jump out and strike me."
"But this time, they aren't moving. And your eyes betray you. You should really learn from Guilliman and Lion—no matter what the situation is, their eyes never give anything away, leaving people forever guessing what they'll do next."
Lorgar said nothing in the end. Perturabo personally conducted the Perpetual conversion ritual for Verity, after which Lorgar finally reverted to the familiar expression Perturabo knew so well. Yet seeing him leave Olympia almost as if fleeing in embarrassment, his sister Calliphone couldn't help but burst into laughter.
"He cares deeply for his adopted daughter, just as you care for me."
"I just worry that fool still thinks he hid it well."
Recalling the incident, Perturabo found it amusing all over again.
"Father? Is something wrong?"
"Nothing, just thought of something amusing. Resume your report."
"Yes, my Lord."
Perturabo leaned back against his chair, holding the half-drunk cup of jasmine tea in his hand, his eyes refocusing on the dense, scrolling casualty figures within the holographic projection.
Honestly, without a certain level of physical augmentation, an unaugmented human would struggle to even read the text on that rapidly scrolling stream of battle reports.
Dantioch detailed the Iron Warriors' losses over the past few months. The Auxilia and Abominable Intelligence units accounted for the vast majority of casualties—especially for a legion so heavily dependent on heavy ordnance as the Iron Warriors.
Perturabo wasn't overly bothered by these numbers, however. As long as his sons were still alive, then no matter how severe the casualties looked on paper, they remained well within acceptable limits.
Thus, his expression remained completely calm—almost nonchalant.
"So, what is the loss rate of our Iron Circle Automata in the Mars-7 system?"
Dantioch paused briefly.
He understood his father all too well. Questions like this—asked in an offhand, casual tone as if brought up in passing—were usually the things his father truly cared about.
"Thirty-seven percent," Dantioch answered truthfully.
"The firepower of the Bio-Titans far exceeds our estimates. The armor of the Iron Circle units suffered widespread penetrative structural damage during close-quarters engagements."
"We have already withdrawn three Iron Circle detachments from the front lines for repairs. They are expected to be redeployed in a month."
Perturabo's eyebrow twitched slightly.
"The armor of the Iron Circle units was crafted using my modified Necron living-metal design. In theory, as long as they don't take direct hits from Titan-grade heavy ordnance, their operational endurance should last until an entire planet crumbles into dust."
"What are the Bio-Titans' attack vectors? How did they manage to wreck these units? Is it still those biomass beams? Or plasma cannons?"
"Yes, my Lord. They have evolved once again."
Dantioch brought up several recorded feeds from the front lines.
"The head and abdominal organs of the Bio-Titans can condense high-energy biomass, firing it in a manner similar to plasma cannons."
"The rate of fire isn't high, but the penetrative force and destructive payload of each blast are immense. The frontal armor of the Iron Circle units suffers structural failure after three to four direct hits."
Perturabo stared at those recording feeds for a long time.
He watched those Iron Circle behemoths fall one after another under the swarm's fire. Automata and Dreadnoughts had their chest carapaces pierced by biomass beams, exploding into shrapnel, while smaller battle-automata didn't even get a chance to fight back before being taken offline by a single salvo of biomass fire—proving far less effective than the deflection fields and shields on power armor.
There were also sons clad in Centurion and Tyrant Terminator armor who were vaporized instantly by the high-temperature beams, only to begin their respawn timer shortly after.
Stripped of their power armor, they were no longer superhumans in that sense, because no true superhuman could survive a barrage like that on a battlefield of this scale.
Even if you threw a Primarch who had awakened his true essence onto a battlefield like that, his physical body would still be severely injured; a single shot from a Titan's Volcano Cannon remained a lethal threat.
Perturabo set his teacup back down onto the desk softly, though the base made a crisp sound as it met the surface.
"What is the frontal armor thickness of the Abominable Intelligence units?"
"80 centimeters."
"Not enough. Increase the frontal armor thickness by another thirty percent while adjusting the layer ordering of the composite layout. Place the living metal on the outermost layer, and use the alloy formula I updated last year for the inner layer."
"That will boost penetration resistance by at least two times without adding too much weight."
Dantioch quickly logged those parameters.
Perturabo paused, his fingers lightly tapping twice on the desk surface as if hesitating over something, but he ultimately spoke up.
"What is the casualty status across the other Chapters?"
There it was—the true underlying purpose of the inquiry.
"Do you mean our brother legions? Or..." Dantioch asked, feigning ignorance.
"Our Chapters."
"In terms of numbers, we haven't lost anyone permanently. However, some brothers have died so many times that their revival duration is growing longer, generally taking twice as long as before."
"The Ironforged Chapter suffered the worst. They were the very first Chapter to make contact with three main Tyranid hive fleets. By the time we arrived to reinforce them, they had been holding out there for two full months. Half of their entire Auxilia force was wiped out, and ninety percent of their heavy ordnance and fleet were destroyed."
"The brothers of that entire Chapter have died no less than twenty times each—they relied purely on their extra lives to hold out until our arrival."
"Many Chapters are facing this exact situation right now. Things are manageable on our end, but the other legions are a different story; most of them took heavy losses upon encountering those hive fleets."
"The swarm's numbers are simply too overwhelming. If their main fleets weren't limited in number, this battle would be even harder to fight."
It appeared the front-line combat situation remained grave; Lion was likely overwhelmed with stress by now.
It seemed he still needed to step in and help. He couldn't just stand by and watch the Imperium get devoured by bugs, allowing those traitors an opportunity to exploit the chaos.
"Barabas, prepare to recall some of our brothers. There's no need to keep hiding those Necron Tomb Titans I buried in the vaults on Olympia and across your homeworlds—activate all of them. Have them take some equipment out to assist your brother units. We can't just watch them die out there."
"Are we really going to expose so much all at once? I fear the current Imperium might find it difficult to accept such things," Dantioch expressed with some concern. After all, these assets went far beyond simple tech-heresy.
"What, you can't just tell the public it's the Emperor's divine might? Even xenos bow before the glory of the Emperor—is that so hard to say? It's a minor detail; attribute everything to the Emperor. If trouble arises, I'll take the blame. You don't need to worry about it."
Is that really alright? Dantioch wondered if doing so was a bit too disrespectful toward the Emperor.
Yet seeing his father's nonchalant demeanor, and remembering that the Iron Warriors would likely be thrust into the spotlight once more, Dantioch stopped seeing it as a major issue.
"Understood, Father."
"Go prepare. Make sure to time the deployment of those assets properly—don't throw something too massive at our brother legions all at once."
"Understood."
"Oh, right—"
Just as Dantioch was about to cut the transmission to begin preparations, he heard his father call out to him again.
"What is it, Father?"
"Those boys who have died many times—how are they doing right now? Are they alright? Did they lose face on the battlefield?"
"If they did anything to tarnish our Legion's reputation, send them back to Olympia, or discharge them back to their homeworlds. Tell them they don't need to train anymore—they can just go home and sleep."
"The brothers are completely fine psychologically, Father. Every single one of them is eager to test whether roasted Tyranid or canned Squat tastes better. You don't need to worry about that aspect."
"I just don't want my Legion's reputation ruined in their hands. Even if they don't care about their own pride, I care about mine. I don't want Roboute and the Emperor laughing at my sons for being soft."
"That won't happen, Father. I can guarantee the brothers will never—"
"Enough, I don't need your guarantees. If something happens, send them back immediately. From now on, report the battle situation to me every week... no, every three days. Understood?"
"Yes, my Lord."
Only then did Perturabo wave his hand, signaling that Dantioch was dismissed.
After Dantioch ended the transmission, Perturabo sat alone in the study, staring at the closed door for a long while before shifting his gaze back outside the window.
He saw his sister straighten up in the garden and glance toward the study, their eyes meeting right on point. He flashed her a soft smile.
Calliphone sensed something was up, but she didn't say anything, simply bending back down to tend to the flowers before her.
Perturabo poured himself another cup of warm tea and raised it to his lips.
This pot of jasmine tea had been steeped a bit too long, leaving a slightly bitter aftertaste on the palate. After taking a single sip, Perturabo didn't touch it again.
Setting the slightly bitter tea aside, Perturabo pulled up a blank document on his logic engine once more.
His fingers hovered over the virtual keyboard for a brief second before tapping away rapidly, lines of code generating one after another as dense algorithmic commands cascaded from his fingertips.
Calliphone walked in unannounced, carrying a plate of freshly sliced fruit along with a freshly brewed pot of tea.
She sat beside him, watching her brother type away for a good while, only speaking up when Perturabo finished the final block of code.
"What are you writing?"
"An emergency upgrade patch for the Abominable Intelligence units."
Perturabo bit down on the peach slice his sister fed him and pulled her into his embrace.
"I re-analyzed the frequency of the swarm's biomass beams just now. I noticed a tiny energy gap—they have a cooling window of roughly 0.3 seconds between two consecutive shots."
"If I add a targeted reinforcement module to the Abominable Intelligences' shield algorithms to actively deflect the trajectory of the swarm's beams during that specific window, the maximum tolerance of their armor will increase by at least fifty percent."
"This will also extend the survival time of the Abominable Intelligence units, lending greater support to the Imperial forces and preventing casualties from escalating further."
Calliphone fed another piece of fruit into Perturabo's mouth.
"What about what we agreed on yesterday? Going out for a stroll together, checking out Andos's work at the art gallery, and watching an opera at the theater... are you still going?"
Perturabo fell silent, offering no answer to his sister, only tightening his arms around her.
Calliphone let out a quiet sigh. She knew it—her brother simply couldn't stay idle; he was never someone meant for a quiet retired life.
It had been hard on him, spending all this time living a life that went against his core underlying code just to accompany her.
Calliphone buried her head into Perturabo's broad chest, a trace of reluctance lingering in her mind.
She wanted her brother to stay by her side forever, yet she knew deep down that it was impossible.