Only two aspects of the Emperor truly warranted trust.
The first was his overwhelming power, evidenced by his ability to psychically subdue the largest fragment of the Void Dragon as far back as Ancient Terra's Middle Ages.
The second was his research and technical expertise, widely regarded as comparable to the Omnissiah itself.
Though the Dark Age of Technology was lost to history and the Emperor had failed to pass down those lost super-technologies, no one across the galaxy—or even the Warp—questioned these two capabilities.
Beyond these, however, the Emperor possessed virtually no trustworthy traits.
Anyone meeting him for the first time might easily be dazzled and entranced by his terrifying psychic charm.
Yet upon closer acquaintance, one quickly realized precisely why he had remained utterly alone and repeatedly betrayed throughout history.
Ollanius Persson and Malcador stood as the most severe victims of this reality.
Had they lacked a broader strategic perspective and a deep sense of responsibility, they would have fled long ago.
In fact, Ollanius Persson had already run away once.
If anyone dared hope the Emperor would act with basic human decency, Perturabo could only say that disappointment was all they would ever receive.
---
Outside the window, breezes rustled the curtains. The leaves of the garden's tea trees shimmered with gold in the afternoon light, while bees quietly gathered nectar from the blossoms—a scene of gentle, familiar tranquility.
Inside the study, however, sat a thoroughly fuming Perturabo and a holographic projection of the Emperor, who was calmly chewing a burger, sipping cola, and looking back with total innocence.
Perturabo had seen that expression countless times, and every instance sparked an urge to hurl whatever was at hand straight into that face.
The Emperor's aggrieved look was purely performative; genuine grievance belonged to someone who felt genuinely misunderstood, whereas the Emperor's version usually signaled a scheme to strip away another layer of your skin.
"My son, how can you say such things?" The Emperor set the burger down, his tone measured with a subtle trace of hurt. "Imperial reconstruction truly demands massive resources, and my laboratory is indeed short on funds. It is hardly an unreasonable request."
"Your lab is short on funds because you diverted Imperial Treasury reserves to stuff your personal vaults," Perturabo sneered. "Did you think I was unaware? Though you appeared detached from governance over the years, you intercepted at least this much from the funds flowing through the Departmento Munitorum and administrative systems via Olympia."
Perturabo held up three fingers. The Emperor glanced at them, his eyelid twitching slightly.
"That was an investment. My projects will ultimately yield returns for the Imperium."
"Then show me a return right now! How many centuries have you researched that so-called Golden Throne upgrade project? Has it yielded a single presentable result? Is that what the thirty percent intercepted from the Munitorum's annual budget went to feed?"
"And what about the Eleventh? You have researched that for years—have you found a solution? You take vast funds and resources from me every year, so where is the progress?"
The Emperor fell silent for a brief moment. Then, he committed an act that incensed Perturabo even further: he picked up the burger, took a bite, chewed slowly, washed it down with cola, and spoke in an exasperatingly infuriating tone.
"It is a plan. Which of my projects isn't long-term? You cannot focus solely on short-term returns; you must exercise patience."
"A thousand years! What manner of experiment requires a thousand years?!" Perturabo's voice rose several pitches.
He took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to drag the Emperor out of the projection for a beating. Leaning back into his chair, he took a sip of tea.
The jasmine tea had cooled, its temperature less pleasing than before, yet he swallowed it anyway.
"Your absurd conditions hold no weight here. Do I require your permission to do as I wish? Do you truly believe being Emperor makes you the absolute authority?"
"I tell you this: even if you declare me a traitor today and dispatch my brothers and Imperial fleets to besiege me, they would treat your words as empty air—Lion included!"
"You think these ridiculous schemes work on me? Try again in another lifetime! Whenever you and those four abominations perish together, my brothers and I will follow Ancient Terra's Dragon Realm customs and burn paper money worth an entire star zone for you."
"Speaking like that truly breaks my heart, my son—"
"Save it and get out. Resolve your own problems. I have already covered the largest share, yet you sit here whining. I am retired; helping the Imperium to this extent is more than generous, and whatever you do moving forward is none of my concern."
With that, Perturabo raised his cup in a clear gesture of dismissal.
He knew the Emperor would not cut the line over a simple rebuke. The old man's skin was thicker than the Phalanx's armor; the more one told him to leave, the more persistently he lingered.
Predictably, the Emperor did not disconnect. Instead, he pulled three more burgers from the plate, unwrapped one, and took a deliberate bite, chewing slowly as if deliberately stalling.
Watching that face, Perturabo felt his back molars grind again. The Emperor then spoke in a drawling, unhurried tone.
"Come now... forget the rest. Just return to help me fix the Eleventh. I've hit a bottleneck and simply need a capable hand to assist."
"If father and son join forces, what problem in this universe could possibly withstand us?"
Yet Perturabo's expression—plainly communicating who do you think you're fooling?—made the Emperor realize the pretext was still somewhat forced.
"You think I'm using the Eleventh as a trick to lure you back?" The Emperor swallowed his food, his tone suddenly adopting a layer of seriousness.
"Otherwise? Have you spoken a single word of truth?" Perturabo set his cup down, resting his crossed hands over his lap. "If you couldn't resolve it after all these years, do you think my return fixes it instantly?"
"You simply lack a pretext to recall me from Olympia so you can use my production and vaults to plug your budget gaps."
"Using the Eleventh is a clever excuse. Your shamelessness remains undiminished—you know I've always felt a sense of debt regarding that matter."
"You guessed half-right."
"I do need you back, and I do need your capacity to plug those reconstruction gaps. It isn't just me; the entire Imperium needs you."
"However, the Eleventh is no excuse. I truly wish for you to examine him. You have immersed yourself in the Warp for years, and your understanding of soul essences is no weaker than mine. If even you see no hope, I will truly give up."
"And... and my Firstborn—"
The Emperor's voice carried a rare, trembling catch, his eyes welling with a vague mist.
There was emotion in the performance, but precious little sincerity; Perturabo saw through the theatrical display instantly.
"Keep acting. Keep crying right there. I'll have my sister make me more snacks, do nothing for the next few days, and simply sit here watching you weep—from dawn to dusk, and dusk to dawn. Unless you cry two whole oceans into existence, I won't believe a word."
"No matter what flowery words you spin, I am not leaving Olympia. No one disrupts my retirement."
The Emperor's brow twitched slightly, abandoning his tragic display instantly. Just as he opened his mouth to speak again, Perturabo cut him off.
"Get lost. There is nothing to discuss."
The Emperor's expression froze for a moment. He set the half-eaten burger back onto the plate, rested his hands flat on the desk, and leaned forward, adopting a serious posture.
"Name your terms then. What will it take for you to return? As long as you return and fill our shortfalls, everything is negotiable. I will grant whatever you ask."
"I want nothing. Have I not made myself clear?"
"I am retired. I refuse to be dragged back into Imperial messes. After straining myself for so long, I've barely enjoyed a few days of peace, yet you come to bother me again."
"When Roboute was forced into the Lord Regent's seat, he hasn't had a moment's peace to this day. Why don't you offer him terms to step down?"
"Is that remotely the same?"
"Stop talking nonsense and return to wherever you came from. I am not coming back. Push me too far, and I won't even plug the main shortfall."
The Emperor fell silent, his gaze drifting from Perturabo's face toward the darkening sky outside the study window.
Olympia's dusk was settling gradually, the artificial sunlight shifting from warm gold to orange-red. The mountain shadows along the horizon stretched long across the terrain, as if the land itself were stretching its limbs for the night.
"In the past, you would curse, but you would still get the work done afterward. Now you don't even bother cursing; you simply want us gone," the Emperor said, his tone softening significantly.
"That is because I carried responsibilities then; now I do not. I have carried enough, and it is your turn to worry."
"Besides, how have I failed to help? Were those fleets and technologies not supplied by me? Are the supplies rebuilding those star zones not provided by me?"
"Have I not done enough for this Imperium?"
"Fine. If you won't return, so be it," the Emperor lowered his voice. "What about my budget gaps then? As for Imperial finances, with so much inventory at your disposal, a tiny fraction won't hurt. Do a good deed, clear this debt for us. You lose nothing, we stop worrying—a win-win."
"I have already covered the main gap for you. The first shipment has been dispatched, and follow-up loads are being boarded. When I said seventy percent, I meant seventy percent—not a single gram of adamantium less."
"And what about the other items I mentioned?"
"My answer remains unchanged: let the Imperium cover it, or figure it out yourselves. I will not assist."
"A domain of this scale cannot possibly be unable to fill a thirty percent deficit. Combine the Treasury with whatever else you can scrape together. If all else fails, open your own vault and release everything inside."
Perturabo took a sip of tea. The Emperor's expression shifted subtly—a detail Perturabo caught instantly.
He set the cup down, a cold smile touching his lips.
"Reluctant, are we? Yet you had the nerve to demand it of me?"
"Or does your vault hold vast stockpiles you simply refuse to yield, prompting you to come here not only to make me the scapegoat, but to trick me into returning?"
Looking at the projection of that guilty yet stoic face, Perturabo suddenly realized that the resources and funds squeezed from him over the years were likely far greater than he had calculated.
He had always assumed the Emperor diverted funds solely to finance his own experimental deficits, but those experiments were clearly only a small portion of the whole.
The Emperor offered no immediate response. Sitting at the far end of the transmission, holding the long-cooled burger, he stared at an unseen spot on the desk as if weighing his words or facing a difficult choice.
Perturabo waited patiently, holding his cup. The warm porcelain against his palm balanced comfortably against the cool evening breeze entering through the window.
Had night fallen already?
"My vault does contain substantial assets, but they cannot address immediate crises, and they are far too dangerous."
"Those items were accumulated starting from the early Dark Age of Technology—not only what I stored, but what we seized from techno-barbarians during the Unification Wars."
"They are too dangerous. Should anything go wrong with even one, resolving the fallout would demand immense manpower and resources."
"How could items from that vault be used to fill financial gaps? Do you wish to see Terra's past crises replay across multiple worlds?"
"Stop lying. How could it be that severe? Even if there were causal weapons, Malcador mentioned back then that their activation conditions were exceptionally strict, and they weren't as formidable as imagined."
"Even Necron technology, advanced as it is, doesn't claim to freely manipulate space-time."
"That may be, but do you truly believe items from my vault are suitable for plugging budget deficits?"
"I don't care about your excuses. When I asked for those items back then, you refused; now I don't want them, and I won't cover your remaining deficit. Figure it out yourself. If you die, die outside—if you dare reincarnate anywhere near my domain, I will pin you back into the Warp and reinforce the seal myself!"
"Don't be like that. You may pick anything from inside—choose whatever catches your eye. Estimate its value, and use it to cover that extra thirty percent. How about it?"
"No."
"You can come to Terra and pick freely."
"Not going."
"I can personally deliver the items for you to choose."
"Get out!"
"Fine, I won't press further. Eighty percent—just eighty percent. Add a single ten percent, and we will cover the rest. Also, I sent you the current status and project progress regarding the Eleventh. Take time to review it and send a reply."
Without waiting for Perturabo's agreement, the Emperor cut the transmission directly, acting with total rogue defiance.
Perturabo chose not to press further; an extra ten percent was inconsequential, even if the old rogue's antics annoyed him deeply.
Still, the Eleventh genuinely needed saving, making it worth reviewing the data when time permitted.
Why must this broken Imperium refuse to leave me in peace even during retirement?
Perturabo let out a quiet sigh just as Calliphone finally walked over, serving that evening's dinner.
The dishes were prepared from ancient recipes originating from the Dragon Realms:
Cabbage in Supreme Broth, Dragon-Tiger-Phoenix Stew, Roasted Suckling Pig, Steamed Sea Bass...
Calliphone had spent the entire afternoon preparing the feast single-handedly, only for the Emperor's interruption to ruin the atmosphere.
Yet she understood that whenever material interests were involved, people naturally became calculating and stingy.
Not everyone possessed wealth and domain on the scale of Perturabo.
"Let's eat, Abo. After dinner, we'll go for a walk."