The situation with the Eleventh remained exceedingly complex. Perturabo frowned as he reviewed the data sent by the Emperor.
Inside was a detailed gene-sequence analysis, soul-state scanning records, a complete log of every failed treatment attempted over the past thousand years, and a personal technical assessment written by the Emperor himself.
The deeper Perturabo dug into the records, the more convoluted the Eleventh's condition appeared, though it had not reached the point of total hopelessness or irretrievability described by the Emperor.
At least five of the Emperor's proposed frameworks showed potential to yield positive feedback for the next phase of treatment. However, due to various circumstances, the Emperor had never conducted next-stage testing on those trials.
Perturabo constructed several models in his mind, correcting the oversights and key gaps the Emperor had missed while developing fresh approaches to the Eleventh's care. Though he was not an ultimate medical authority in the conventional sense, his insights carried significant weight.
At the level inhabited by Perturabo and the Emperor, even senior Archmagi Biologis could not intervene; the only individuals possessing relevant expertise were ancient, learned Perpetuals or specialized Primarchs—such as Corvus Corax.
As Perturabo wrote rapidly on the project draft, a communication chime rang out.
"Father."
Dantioch's projection materialized inside the study.
The Lord Commander of the Iron Warriors had grown even more towering—a trait shared by the entire Legion.
Their physical size seemed completely unchecked, further amplified by the surgical modifications Perturabo had performed on them, causing the Iron Warriors to expand in stature daily.
Every Iron Warrior was effectively a miniature giant; even without armor, nearly every battle-brother stood over three point one meters tall.
Once armored, the scale became staggering, particularly with custom-fitted Terminator and Centurion patterns.
Unless an Iron Warriors starship underwent extensive interior refitting, the Astartes could barely move through the corridors without stooping.
Consequently, the Iron Warriors fleet maintained the largest ship profiles in the Imperium simply to allow normal movement aboard their vessels.
"What is it?" Perturabo asked. What could warrant a direct report from his Lord Commander?
"Our successor chapter, the Hearts of Iron, alongside the Salamanders' successor chapter, the Black Dragons, encountered an anomaly while hunting down Tyranid remnant swarms."
"What kind of anomaly?"
"While pursuing the swarm, a Warp rift tore open and deposited a space hulk. The anomaly forced our forces to halt their pursuit and report the situation to me. Lord Vulkan has likely been informed as well."
A simple space hulk? Was that truly worthy of a direct report from Dantioch? Even if it hailed from the Dark Age of Technology, it hardly warranted a personal contact from the current Supreme Commander of the Iron Warriors.
"The space hulk measures two thousand five hundred and sixteen kilometers in length and one thousand kilometers in diameter. We dared not act recklessly and can only ask you to examine it personally, Father."
Perturabo stood up immediately. What did he just say?
"Are you on-site right now?"
"We are traveling at maximum speed and will arrive tomorrow."
"Hold your position there. Aside from my arrival, permit no one—not even another Primarch—to approach. That space hulk is beyond your capacity to handle."
"Evacuate all personnel from the immediate area instantly and maintain a distant blockade. Rebase several of our successor chapters to the coordinates and notify Terra immediately so the Emperor and the Warmaster can send representatives. Ensure that hulk is monitored continuously."
"Report any abnormal activity to me instantly. Understood?"
"Understood."
Dantioch knew the hulk was likely of immense importance, but he had not anticipated his father reacting with such intensity.
The last time his father had shown such grave concern was during the encounter with the Necron World Engine.
What origin could this ship possibly have to provoke such a reaction from his father?
"Accelerate your approach. I will explain the situation once I arrive, which should be tomorrow. Move as fast as possible, Barabas."
"Yes, Father."
Dantioch dared not delay. He cut the connection immediately and commanded the fleet to increase velocity, even though their engines were already operating at safe limits.
"Channel psychic power to the drive cores! Where are the Librarians? Tell them we must arrive at the destination within three Terran hours—whether they burn out their minds or die and resurrect, that objective does not change!"
"Furthermore, notify all successor chapters immediately: any chapter currently on minor duties or standing down must transit to these coordinates at maximum speed. I expect to see them within three days, regardless of circumstances."
"If they fail to arrive within three days, tell them that regardless of their excuses, they will all be sent back to basic training!"
Dantioch's orders were absolute. As Lord Commander, he was not always lenient; whenever an instruction concerned Perturabo directly, he executed it with uncompromising resolve.
"Understood."
The Abominable Intelligences dispatched directives to the successor chapters. Upon receiving the orders, most chapter masters were utterly bewildered as to why their Lord Commander demanded such haste.
However, the moment they learned it concerned a critical matter for their Primarch, the Iron Warriors entered the nearest Webway gates without hesitation. Soon, Imperial fleets inside the Webway watched in astonishment as heavy Iron Warriors battle-groups tore past like rabid beasts.
A few vessels even suffered minor collisions due to the Iron Warriors' relentless pace, though they received immediate automated transmissions:
Any material damage will be fully compensated upon completion of the current objective.
No one knew why these heavy battle-fleets—moving faster than White Scars—were in such a desperate hurry. Yet it was obvious that something major had occurred within the Iron Warriors' domain, if not the Imperium itself.
Though significant, it was clearly not an existential threat to the Imperium; otherwise, more than just Iron Warriors chapters would be charging across the sectors.
Some priceless relic or discovery capable of intriguing the Warmaster himself had clearly surfaced.
A new Necron artifact? Or an ancient technology so vital it drove the Lord of Iron to such haste?
Curiosity piqued, several Imperial vessels followed from a distance, maintaining tracking coordinates even if they lacked the speed to keep pace.
---
After cutting the transmission, Perturabo did not leave immediately. Standing in his study, he tapped his fingers gently against the desk twice, then turned and walked over to the bookshelf. He pulled open the lowest drawer—one that was never locked, yet one no person ever dared touch.
Inside lay a palm-sized black data-slate without external markings, its metallic edges reflecting a muted sheen under the lights.
He picked it up, tucked it into his robes, and walked out of the study.
Calliphone was trimming dry leaves from a potted mint plant in the living room. Seeing him step out, she looked up, her eyes lingering on his face before settling on the subtle bulge at his waist.
"Are you going out, Abo?"
"Yes. A few days at minimum, a few weeks at most. I will return once it is resolved."
"Sister, listen carefully: clear out a major portion of the starport berths immediately. Remember Satellite Two, which I brought back previously? Halt all standard transit traffic there until I return. Olympia is likely to become quite busy."
"Has something happened?"
"A monumental discovery. If the reports and my calculations hold true, humanity's opportunity to reclaim the Dark Age of Technology has arrived."
"Our species' chance for a true resurgence is at hand."
Perturabo's tone carried an uncharacteristically intense surge of excitement, mixed with rare urgency.
"What about the Iron Blood—"
"I will go ahead first. The Iron Blood remains here, though our sons will follow later. Rest assured, Sister, wait for my return."
"Very well."
Perturabo's form vanished instantly from the room, leaving Calliphone alone in the living room.
She said nothing further, simply refocusing her attention on the mint plant. Since her brother had spoken, she would simply await his return.
Olympia might become very lively soon... will that disrupt our quiet retirement? Calliphone mused to herself.
---
By the time Perturabo arrived at the coordinates, Dantioch had already established a defensive perimeter around the unnaturally massive ship.
Forty-four Star Forts and over two hundred Gloriana-class and Abyss-class battleships formed a dense blockade around the vessel, their combined mass subtly distorting localized gravitational fields.
"Father." Dantioch bowed as Perturabo materialized on the flagship bridge.
"What is the status? Has anyone attempted a boarding action?"
"No, Father. We instructed the Black Dragons beforehand, so they held their position."
"Well done. Now, order your ships to fall back further. My presence here is sufficient to lock down the area."
"Understood."
The Star Forts and battleships executed coordinated maneuvers, pulling back in structured formation.
Perturabo turned his full attention to the massive vessel ahead.
Though referred to as a space hulk, the oversized ship bore no structural damage or signs of wear.
On the contrary, despite emerging directly from the Warp, its brilliant golden hull plating radiated a sense of opulent grandeur that left the surrounding fleet awestruck.
What manner of ship could boast such flawless construction? Had Perturabo not issued explicit orders, the surrounding crews would have been unable to resist sending boarding teams to investigate.
The Iron Warriors in particular—having achieved functional immortality—approached challenges with a level of fearlessness that bordered on reckless.
Only Perturabo's strict mandate had kept them from boarding the vessel and dying a few times during preliminary exploration.
"The ship has remained stationary, issuing no transmissions or signals," Dantioch reported.
"We deployed long-range sensor arrays for multi-band scans and retrieved basic preliminary telemetry, though most interior readings remain obscured by an active shielding field."
Dantioch wondered what manner of technology could block modern Iron Warriors sensors. Could it be Necron in origin?
"Father... do you know the true nature of this ship?"
"It is no mere space hulk. If my calculations are correct, this is a surviving vessel from the Dark Age of Technology—a treasure left behind by our ancestors to preserve humanity's future."
The moment Perturabo laid eyes on the ship, he knew his hypothesis was correct. It was the Hope.
It represented the greatest asset left by ancient humanity to ensure a final resurgence should catastrophe strike.
Aboard it lay not only the full spectrum of Dark Age technological advances, but also the requisite infrastructure and corresponding STCs—every single one.
The STC database aboard the Hope covered every technological field mastered during humanity's golden era:
Agriculture, energy generation, material science, medicine, interstellar transit, weapons systems—
Even technologies lost entirely during the Old Night, such as complete photonic engine schematics, gravimetric manipulation arrays, and advanced Warp-transit shielding fields.
Every schematic recorded in Imperial archives—and countlessly more that had left no record at all—existed aboard the Hope.
Perturabo found it difficult to contain the excitement surging within him.
He had never imagined such incredible fortune: that the Hope, adrift in the Warp since antiquity, would return to the Imperium in this manner.
A genuine smile touched the corners of his lips.
As Perturabo explained the origin and significance of the Hope to Dantioch and his officers, a wave of shock and euphoria swept through his sons and the towering Astartes of the Black Dragons.
"You have accomplished a monumental service, warriors."
Perturabo turned to face the Salamanders' successors standing near the rear of the bridge, clad in spiked black armor.
The commander of the Black Dragons was a massive, dark-skinned Astartes of intimidating proportions.
His features were harsh, and the massive bone crests protruding from his body approached near-xenobiological extremes, requiring surgical trimming merely to keep their growth manageable.
"Lord Primarch... you overestimate us. It was mere chance, alongside the efforts of our brothers in the Hearts of Iron—"
"Fortune is a component of capability. I will reward my own sons accordingly, so there is no need for excessive modesty. You may claim your immediate rewards now, and once the exploration of the Hope concludes, further rewards await you."
"We thank you, Lord Perturabo."
The quiet sound of breathing echoed clearly across the bridge.
Perturabo felt the gazes of his sons and the surrounding Astartes fixed entirely upon the Hope, like travelers who had journeyed through darkness for millennia finally sighting a distant beacon.
"Prepare yourselves. I will personally lead the exploration team. Barabas, along with you Chapter Masters, will join me aboard the vessel."
"As you command, Father."
Perturabo cast one final look at the golden ship outside the viewport, then turned and strode toward the launch bays.
His stride was steady yet perceptibly faster than usual, his Astartes following in silent, resolute lockstep, their heavy armor ringing clearly against the deck plates.