Perturabo had truly not anticipated that the swarm's collapse would happen so quickly.
Listening to Dantioch's report, he felt as though he were aging, or perhaps his hearing had dulled after years of quiet retirement.
"The Great Devourer just pulled back? Across all five galaxies, they retreated?"
Perturabo's tone carried a thread of total disbelief.
When had these bugs grown so spineless? The Imperium had not even gone all-out yet!
Neither he nor the Emperor had personally taken the field; neither the Iron Daemon Legion nor the Legion of the Damned had been deployed—and now he was being told the swarm could not hold its ground?
When had the Great Devourer become so pathetic?
Even if the Imperium's Abominable Intelligence armies were far more vast than expected, and Necron technology proved exceptionally difficult for the swarm to endure while inflicting severe biomass losses, the Great Devourer had not yet achieved its strategic objectives by any reasonable metric.
They had not even penetrated the Imperium's core sectors or central heartlands, nor had they secured the genetic material of the Primarchs or the Emperor. Yet they pulled back—what kind of farce was this?
"Indeed. The swarm is steadily contracting its defense lines while intensifying its destruction of fringe worlds. The primary galaxy remains relatively intact, but the outer rims of the other galaxies have been stripped of almost all practical value."
"Post-war, the Imperium will need to expend several times the original resources to rebuild those worlds. We have already begun contacting psionic-specialized abhumans and Craftworlds. Many engineers working inside the Webway have been forced to suspend expansion efforts to assist with planetary remediation."
Dantioch then reported a series of battle losses so severe they made even the Lord of Iron grit his teeth in phantom pain.
"Are you serious? Their teeth are that sharp? Are you sure Lion and Roboute aren't just putting on a tragic show to squeeze more armaments out of my reserves?"
Perturabo stared at the dense ledger of damages, feeling entirely numb.
"Father, Warmaster Lion and the Lord Regent are not those types of men."
"Then was it the Emperor, Malcador, or Ollanius Persson? How else could losses reach this magnitude? Are my creations so flimsy against chewing? How can a heap of biomass outmatch iron?"
"Neither."
Dantioch's voice carried a hint of helpless resignation. He knew his father was joking, but the numbers on the ledger were too glaring—painful even for the supreme commander of the Iron Warriors to behold.
Perturabo obviously knew Lion and Guilliman would never perpetrate such a scam; he was simply using light banter to offset the discomfort caused by a loss report that made his scalp tingle.
Moments ago, he had scoffed at the swarm's cowardice, only to find himself short of breath from sheer financial agony.
Pushing the eyesore of a report aside, Perturabo picked up his long-cooled cup of jasmine tea, took a sip, winced, and set it back down.
"Break down the critical losses for me. Speak only of capital ships from Gloriana-class upward and the advanced assets I provided."
"Also, give me the Imperium's complete preliminary assessment of overall damages. Let me see what we're actually dealing with."
Ground force attrition did not bother Perturabo in the slightest, barring Necron archeotech like the Tomb Titans.
Standard war gear required only adamantium and basic alloys; if destroyed, he could easily locate thousands of mineral-rich planets across the galaxy and forge replacements endlessly.
The universe lacked many things, but raw energy and minerals were not among them. The true scarcity lay in high-tier assets like Necron technology.
"In that case, Father, you need not worry on that front. Destruction among capital ships above Gloriana-class, including Star Forts, has not exceeded two hundred hulls—well within our acceptable thresholds."
"However, the ecological and structural damage to our galaxies is nearly beyond calculation."
"In the primary galaxy, at least ten percent of the outer star zones across the four major segmentums have seen over seventy percent of their worlds thoroughly digested. Surface biomass was completely stripped, atmospheres siphoned off, and crusts drilled down to the mantle. They are currently completely unrecoverable."
"Rebuilding these sectors means starting from absolute zero—activating planetary cores and reconstructing surface biospheres. It will take at least three centuries, costing over fifty times the standard colonization budget, with no hard cap on overall expenditure."
"In the Second Galaxy—"
"The Fifth Galaxy suffered the most severe damage. Due to the Dark King's presence, our forces had to fight the swarm while guarding against traitor backstabs. As a result, opportunities for organized counter-offensives were scarce until the Warmaster arrived with Lord Ferrus to turn the tide, forcing the swarm to withdraw."
"Most critically, the Dark King appears to have deciphered parts of the Webway entrance protocols. Traitor forces have begun probing the Webway network. Reports from psionic abhumans and the Eagle Chapter confirm distinct Chaos corruption at the Terra Webway gate—verified as the psychic contamination of the Dark King, 'Roboute.'"
Hearing this final detail, Perturabo's expression finally shifted. His fingers paused at the bottom of the log for three seconds before he slowly drew his hand back and leaned into his seat.
The Dark King was no true obstacle, and the Webway had suffered only minor breaches. Even if "Roboute" eventually mastered the Webway entirely, Perturabo remained unfazed.
A collection of traitors could not stir up catastrophic waves. Had the full-scale Tyranid invasion not disrupted the Imperium's momentum, Lion would have sought to prove his strategic mettle the moment he assumed the title of Warmaster.
The Dark King "Roboute" remained the Imperium's primary target simply because he was the sole lingering threat within its borders.
Had this Tyranid invasion not intervened, Lion would likely have assembled his brothers by now to sever the Dark King's head.
Silence settled over the study, broken only by the faint mechanical hum of Abominable Intelligences trimming garden hedges outside the window. A plate of fruit his sister had brought earlier sat untouched at the corner of the desk.
Dantioch's hologram remained poised in silent attention, standing like an iron monument awaiting his father's next command.
Perturabo's mind processed the incoming streams of data almost instinctively. Numbers were dismantled, restructured, and slotted into a vast, intricate computational framework in his mind.
It was second nature to him—his organic mind operated with efficiency far surpassing any Abominable Intelligence or supercomputer in existence.
Restoring star sectors devoured by the swarm across five galaxies was no mere engineering task; it was a mega-project that would consume over seventy percent of the Imperium's total resource allocation capacity.
Though the swarm had digested roughly ten percent of total territory, repairing that fraction threatened to drain centuries of accumulated wealth.
It was not repair work in any standard sense; it meant forging entire planets anew within the hollowed shell of consumed systems.
In truth, Perturabo felt tempted to abandon those devastated zones entirely. Sacrificing a thousand years of accumulated Imperial reserves to rebuild them seemed counterproductive—what progress had the thousand-year Imperium truly made if it burned its entire wealth on reclamation?
Mental calculations of destroyed worlds, restoration timelines, and material costs produced a final figure that left even Perturabo deeply uncomfortable.
He opened his eyes and looked back at Dantioch.
"What scale of reconstruction can current Imperial strategic reserves support?"
"Preliminary estimates from the Lord Regent indicate that if we restore those devastated worlds to bare-minimum standards—meaning basic human habitability rather than pre-war ecological and economic conditions—existing strategic reserves can fully cover the cost. Reconstruction could be completed within thirty years."
"The Imperium can endure that route, though full ecological restoration would remain impossible in the near term, relying on centuries of steady labor from psionic abhumans and senior Archmagi."
"However, if we aim for complete restoration—returning worlds to pre-war standards or higher—"
"The cost rises to ten to fifteen times the baseline estimate, stretching the timeline beyond three centuries. During that period, the Imperium would need to dedicate twenty percent of its gross annual output purely to restoration, excluding maintenance costs for the armed forces and ongoing expansion."
Perturabo nodded; the figures aligned with his own projections.
He shifted his gaze past Dantioch toward Olympia's artificial sun. The soft daylight reflected in his deep blue eyes, though the relaxed composure of his morning tea hour was gone.
A long silence followed. The daylight drifted from bright white to a warm afternoon gold, sending green ripples across the terraced tea fields on the hillsides.
He held the cold cup of jasmine tea, his thumb absently tracing the pattern on the porcelain. Though his gaze rested on the distant ridge line, his focus remained turned inward.
Dantioch did not break the quiet. His holographic projection maintained a standard posture, though the luminosity of his optical lenses dimmed slightly—a subtle gesture of patience.
When Perturabo finally set the tea cup down, the sharp click against the desk echoed distinctly in the quiet study.
His deep blue eyes wore a look Dantioch knew intimately: I know I must do this, but I thoroughly despise it.
It was the same expression his father wore whenever the Imperium faced a grinding ordeal—the prelude to another raid on his personal vaults.
The sons of the Iron Warriors had seen that expression many times; it invariably signaled an immense, agonizing expenditure of resources from their father's personal hoard.
"Barabas."
"Father."
"When did I last have the Logistics Division audit the total inventory of my private vaults?"
"Two months ago, Father. You were evaluating whether to transfer the third production line of living metal armaments to the Imperium's new forge worlds, but set the matter aside due to administrative friction."
Perturabo's eye twitched slightly.
The subterranean forge complexes and automated foundries on Olympia continued to operate at staggering efficiency. Though he had not actively expanded production, the hyper-automated lines required virtually no human oversight, continuously generating fresh equipment and material day after day.
Abominable Intelligences automatically categorized, indexed, and stored these outputs, steadily stuffing his already bloated vaults like tireless hoarders.
Could he ever admit to the Imperium that he possessed countless planetary-scale vault worlds—so numerous that he had begun compressing them into glass micro-spheres to store in his private collection arrays inside his daemon forge?
Opening the logic engine, he pulled up the inventory manifest compiled seven months prior. As his eyes swept down the endless columns of data, his brow smoothed slightly.
At least the documented reserves were still vast. The Imperium could be saved after all.
Yet the sheer expenditure still pained him; every item had been meticulously produced along his own forge lines.
He pulled up a public estimate of Imperial strategic reserves and compared it against his private holdings, arriving at a conclusion so complex it defied easy description.
In terms of both sheer volume and technological quality, his personal private stock was considerably more abundant than the official strategic reserves of the whole Imperium.
Had he inadvertently become an empire-building hoarder?
"Father, should I transmit the detailed storage metrics to your terminal?" Dantioch offered.
"No need. I can review them myself."
Perturabo's fingers tapped rapidly across the interface as the logic engine aggregated real-time data from Olympia's subterranean vaults.
As data streams flooded the screen, the figures climbed rapidly, outstripping even Perturabo's initial mental estimates.
The sight gave him a metaphorical headache: mountain ranges of stacked materiel in deep vaults, forgotten stockpiles tucked into remote corners, custom fabrications whose original purposes he no longer recalled—all sat waiting in silent storage.
Had his personal accumulation grown this absurd over the years?
He felt a strong urge to close the report and pretend he had never opened it.
What had the Imperium been doing all these centuries?
Five whole galaxies under its control!
How could its aggregate industrial capacity fail to match the output of the worlds under his personal domain?
"Fine," Perturabo sighed, his voice thick with reluctant acceptance.
"We will draw from our private reserves. But we are not filling this sinkhole alone. A vast Imperium relying on me to underwrite every crisis is absurd."
"I will cover seventy percent. The Emperor and Roboute can find a way to secure the remaining thirty percent. If they cannot manage that much, this Imperium has no business expanding further."
"Understood, Father."
"Also, have the Imperial authorities submit a precise manifest of their requirements. What we can provide, we will—but state clearly from the outset that our coverage maxes out at seventy percent."
"Father, why not cover the full amount? Imperial logistics are stretched to the absolute limit following the Tyranid campaign. Should we not offer complete aid, being part of the Imperium ourselves?"
"Offering this much is already generous in the extreme. Am I expected to personally fund five entire galaxies? If so, they might as well rename the Imperium after me."
"I am retired—a private citizen. Pulling this volume of materiel from my private vaults to relieve the state should earn me the gratitude of the Emperor and his court, not complaints that I failed to give more."
"They ought to reflect on why, after I handed them advanced technological frameworks, their industrial output still lags behind Olympia."
"The fault does not lie with me. Let the Emperor and Roboute locate the root of their own inefficiencies."
"And if anyone dares suggest that since we possess the capability, we ought to assist without reserve—cancel all aid shipments immediately. I refuse to believe they possess such shameless audacity."
Dantioch wisely remained silent. Knowing his father, he translated the rant correctly: I have already surrendered a vast portion of my hoard; do not bother me further.
Whether the Emperor and the Lord Regent would respond with profound gratitude or lament the missing thirty percent would depend entirely on Perturabo's posture during the transfer process.
"One more thing: regarding the living metal production lines, inform the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Astartes Chapters that I am willing to share select technical principles. However, they must send personnel to Olympia to learn directly. I will not package full schematics and logic codes for remote delivery."
"If an error occurs with Necron-derived technology, it can trigger localized self-annihilation. This is no trivial matter. If they wish to learn, let them sit down and master the fundamentals properly instead of obsessing over rapid deployment."
"Rapid progress has yielded precious little so far. Over ninety percent of current Imperial technological updates still originate from my workbench. What have those Tech-Priests and researchers been doing all this time? Resting on ancient laurels for too long?"
"Tell them that if they fail to produce meaningful research breakthroughs, their Magos ranks and research funding will be systematically downgraded. Primary funding has been poured into their forge-agencies for a thousand years! With so little output to show for it, what have they been doing all this time?"
"A thousand years without a breakthrough? Even the Emperor would not tolerate such incompetence!"
Faced with his father's mounting indignation, Dantioch offered no defense, simply nodding in assent.
Perturabo glanced once more at the inventory metrics on the projection, his eye twitching again.
If converted into standard Imperial resource units, those stockpiles could fund the total reconstruction of every damaged sector twice over.
And that was without touching his core private reserves or ultimate contingency assets.
The thought left Perturabo feeling that the modern Imperium was profoundly inefficient—handed every technological advantage on a silver platter, yet advancing at a crawl.
Though a sprawling multi-galactic empire was bound to move sluggishly, Perturabo's extreme perfectionism found the administrative lag utterly insufferable.
Sigh... forget it. Humanity has never stood tall on charity alone. Trust in humanity; trust in the Imperium.
I am retired now. Providing aid is enough; there is no need to micromanage. Now that the swarm is repelled, the Imperium does not truly need my hand on the helm. Better to stay quiet on Olympia.
Is it not far better to conduct research, sip tea, and accompany my sister to art exhibitions and operas?
"Enough. We proceed on those terms," Perturabo said with a wave of his hand.
"Draft a required supply manifest from your end as quickly as possible. I will have the Abominable Intelligences prioritize allocation."
"And make sure the Imperial authorities do not list trivial items. Basic raw ores that can be dug up from any random asteroid shouldn't cross my desk. I supply masterwork systems, not bulk dirt."
"Understood, Father."
After the transmission cut out, Perturabo sat at his desk, staring silently at the saved allocation draft for a long time.
He picked up the cold cup of jasmine tea, set it back down, and let out a quiet breath, his mood a tangled mess.
He felt both relief that he could backstop the Imperium, and frustration at its lingering shortcomings.
He had never calculated his total vault inventory so precisely over the years, assuming his hoards were merely contingency reserves for an ultimate crisis.
Looking at it now, it was no simple reserve—the Imperium was treating him as its ultimate central bank, coming to shake gold coins out of his pockets whenever a crisis arose.
If this pattern persisted, the Imperium he had striven so hard to build would stumble through sheer administrative reliance.
So much for a golden age; avoiding a regression into a fanatic 40K era was accomplishment enough.
Still, as long as the Imperium could hold its ground and maintain its current trajectory, things remained manageable.
He stood up, walked to the window, rested his hands on the sill, and took a deep breath of the cool afternoon air of Olympia.
Well... I will endure it. After all, I helped raise this Imperium with my own hands.