Chapter 513 Iron Hand Phoenix
"I am haunted by evil spirits." Fulgrim said with a smile.
He was still holding the steel head of Ferus, sitting on the wheelchair that Perturabo had taken out from nowhere - a wonderful object that was said to have been purchased by Perturabo after he learned about his situation. He made it temporarily, hiding the fire system and engine energy. Although the design was fantastic, it was appropriate and mature. I am afraid that the Lord of Iron had made similar items before.
His swordsman followed him, guarding his wheelchair. There are also three to four warriors from the Imperial Fist and Iron Warriors nearby, helping to complete the records of the short meeting and other temporary tasks.
"I have heard of the devil," answered Perturabo.
In Fulgrim's eyes, he didn't look much different from before, and he didn't have the signs of corruption he saw on Medusa. The Iron Lord wears iron-gray thin armor, with steel skulls and yellow and black stripes decorating his shoulders, and his arms wrapped around the front of his broad chest.
Some heavy chains hang from the ceiling, displaying the prototype designs of new armors and weapons. Their shadows fall against the cold colors of the Cheorwon hall. His eyes are darker and more... Appearing gloomy.
"It's always there," Fulgrim sighed, "I've been listening to its whispers. It's been haunting me... I'm afraid we are indeed involved, give it a chance, I believe it It will rush to our reality and take away what is left of me."
"If it comes again, you will be powerless to resist it," said Perturabo, his inspection commanding him. Grim felt a twinge of embarrassment, although the emotion came and went quickly.
"Yeah, it's hard for me to continue fighting," Fulgrim said sadly, "Give me prosthetic limbs and I can stand up. I am still a leader."
"But no longer a swordsman." The Iron Lord stood up and walked to him, but did not touch him like a brother or bring him some words of comfort. He did change, letting go of some of the personality - or facade - he once had.
“We don’t always need the Primarch to fight on the front lines.” Rogal Dorn said, looking down at the sand table of the holographic image, and reaching out to adjust a few parameters. "The very existence of the Primarch is an immeasurable encouragement to a Legion."
"The sacrifice of Lord Ferrus Manus did have a great impact." World Eater The author Kahn occasionally spoke to prove his existence. Angron recently returned to Nuceria.
He noticed Dorn's comprehensive adjustments to the parameters of the Iron Hands Legion in the adjustment of the preset system. Various parameters in terms of technology have not been adjusted significantly, including the random range of personnel damage and armor damage, which has declined, while the organization level and damage of the legion have been nearly halved.
Fulgrim's remaining movable steel arm caressed the head in his arms. "Yeah - what are you calculating, Dorn?"
"Reset the parameters of the Emperor's Children." Dorn said, "You cannot go to the battlefield, but the data in the Court of Narni are generated based on the Legion's peak state. The initial value of the calculation needs to be modified."
"Listen Look, we were really ready for the rebellion more than a hundred years ago, right? Maybe we should be grateful for our thoughts at the time..." Fulgrim raised his head and looked at Perturabo. , try to lighten the mood.
Everyone here is solemn and cold, he is an exception, and this place needs someone like him.
"Yes." Perturabo said, "But there is no need. An era has ended, and there is no need to use the current time to miss it. I have been moving forward throughout my life, and so are you."
He stepped away from Fulgrim, came to the sand table, and took over the control of the sand table from Rogal Dorn. Soon, a dangerous spot filled with boiling light rose above the simulated battlefield. The violent airflow raged amidst thunderstorms and purple-red rainstorms. The lumpy solids inside gathered and dispersed crazily in the cyan-blue glare. A large number of The detritus of impermanence spills out of it.
"The phenomenon above Medusa?" Dorn asked.
"I saw it in Olympia. An eye staring at the earth, a whirlpool of stars. Even though I only saw it for a while, it was still unforgettable."
Petou Rabo said he had a premonition that one day he would go deep into it and make peace with the first impressions from which his memory was born.
Maybe in Cadia, he thought. If Cadia still existed after the angry iron hands cleansed the surface of the planet near the star vortex.
He will go deeper into the vortex, deeper into—
He paused. To this day, he still doesn't know the name of that place.
Ignorant people call it the Eye of Heaven and the Gate of Heaven. Such emotional words are mixed with blasphemy or piety towards faith, just like any ancient myth would do. The more pious you are, the more ordinary you are.
Currently, its official number within the Human Empire is Cygnus X-1.
Also too ordinary. It fails to show its danger and fails to reflect its essence.
When he conquers it, he will rename it.
"Do you know what that is?" Fulgrim asked blankly. "Ferrus doesn't even know."
"I know he doesn't know. I asked him if he could see it, and the answer was no - it was an anomaly in space, a large subspace rift. . The subspace energy concentration inside it is higher than any explored area in the real universe... but it should not invade reality easily. It will undoubtedly be related to the environmental fluctuations caused by the recent subspace storm."
Perturabo said flatly, his fingers continuing to slide gently on the control panel.
A new data construct is taking shape in real time, joining the surface of Istvan III... as a third party force.
"You will go to war, Fulgrim." He suddenly said, "You will appear on Isstvaan III."
Fulgrim did not refuse immediately. He tried to lean his upper body forward in order to see Perturabo's tactical arrangements more clearly.
On the newly formed sand table, the wilderness was already filled with dark smoke clouds. A line of defense suddenly cracked like a disintegrating snow mountain. The arrows of attack instructions were interspersed with each other, and scorch marks of blood spread on the defense line.
"I'm not very athletic right now, Warmaster," Fulgrim tilted his head, his voice as beautiful as ever. He watched Perturabo's calculations and saw the Lunar Wolf's army. He retreated and said, "Change a pair of metal legs for me, so that I can control them with my mind. Also, I need someone to help me forge a new arm. Even if I am Fulgrim, I can't just Swinging the forging hammer with one arm."
"For what?" Roger Dorn asked bluntly. "It is impossible for Fulgrim to return to the fighting level of the original body for the time being. I do not want an important general who needs strict protection to appear on the battlefield. This will affect our combat planning."
" Lip service No mercy." Fulgrim snorted softly, lowered his head, and his long hair swept over the metal head in his arms.
He sometimes wondered if all the living metal in Ferus' hands had been transformed into this head.
But he will not hang a skull around his waist like Rogal Dorn. He was lost in thought. Ferrus Manus was a practical man... The Iron Hand...
Perturabo continued: "Lorgar Aurelion believed in his own justice, and in his heart he felt Brotherly love is greater than ever. So, you have to ask for help from the throne world, Fulgrim. Tell him that you are being hunted and you need a rescue. No., for friendship and faith, otherwise he will suffer a lot."
On the sand table, the newly emerged demons are fighting fiercely with the Word Bearers.
"Perturabo." Dorn's face became serious and he immediately said sternly, "Are you going to take the initiative to lure out the devil?"
"No need. We will get help in this regard." Perturabo remained unmoved, as if there was no doubt or accusation in Rogal Dorn's tone just now.
A new metric was added to the battlefield measurement element, and the composition of demons and starry vortexes was changed - imitated and replaced by the psychic powers of human think tanks.
"Thousand Sons?" Fulgrim asked, the crimson light reflecting on his white hair, "What is... what is their relationship with the Fifteenth Legion?"
“The Thousand Sons are now the Fifteenth Legion.” Perturabo said without doubt, “Magnus is dead, and the remaining warriors of his legion will be led by Amon after they are repaired. Come. Any questions?"
He glanced around and said with a calm expression: "Then, follow me to the forge, Fulgrim, and I will solve your mobility problem. ·Dorn, the Iron Ring will share with you the current state of the Iron Warriors' war readiness, and don't be shy about incorporating weapons of mass destruction into strategic considerations. If you like, Karn, communicate with my warsmith, you are a. Leader of the Legion, I hope you don't need me to control all your plans."
"You owe me more credit, Perturabo, than I give you," said Dorn. "I gave it to you," Perturabo replied calmly, standing in the doorway, as if it were not a matter worth arguing about.
Rogal Dorn nodded slightly, strangely accepting Perturabo's statement that lacked evidence. He unhooked the golden skull from his waist and placed it on the table, close to his hand.
——
Fulgrim watched absently as the corridor receded around him.
Everything here inherited Perturabo's own style. He recognized the column-like support structures on both sides of the corridor, the marble carvings with simple lines and no redundancy, and the exquisite decorations with a cold metallic luster. Those geometric patterns - straight lines, spirals and intersecting lines, outline that perfect sense of order...
Just like the opera house designed for him by Perturabo at his friendly request, It makes people feel that ethereal and hazy familiarity...
The only thing that cannot make people feel familiar is Perturabo himself.
When he reunited with him, he thought——
What? Do you think he would have all kinds of excitement and hesitation? Do you think Perturabo would have the loss and remembrance of the ebb and flow of friendship between brothers in his eyes? Do you think his resolute face would be sensitive to pain?
No, actually, it doesn't come with any of it. Even Rogal Dorn hid more sadness than Perturabo.
“I feel sorry for Ferrus Manus.” Perturabo suddenly spoke. He was standing next to Fulgrim, his palms resting on top of his wheelchair, like a tall iron tower. Towering - a genius masterful in the arts of architecture and warfare, in his battle fortress, order and power were pushed to the extreme.
Is he aware of his feelings? Fulgrim thought. Perhaps, because Perturabo is very sensitive to emotions.
Fulgrim caught his fleeting thoughts, not knowing whether they were good or bad.
"He at least... left in a way that he would be satisfied with, if he was still lucky enough to know." Fulgrim smiled sadly.
"He has remained pure," answered Perturabo, "the lowest and highest luck and kindness in the universe. What about you?"
"I am haunted, you know." Fulgrim Lean back.
"This is nothing. One day, this problem will be ended." Perturabo said flatly, "This is an inevitable victory. You will not let us down, Fu. Grim."
"You are so confident."
"Of course."
Somehow Fulgrim found some comfort in Perturabo's words. He was in a good mood and patted the steel skull in his arms.
While Perturabo was lost in his own mind the rest of the way, Fulgrim used the time to make a new decision.
"I am pleased with your drawings, Perturabo, and I am grateful for your help and acceptance of our two legions, my brother."
Fogg Rim praised the steel limbs that the Warmaster took time out of his busy schedule to design for him, and by the way once again expressed his gratitude to the Iron Warriors for accepting the two mutated legions. He was not as adept at this art as Ferrus, but could still see the perfection of figures and proportions.
"Make your request." Perturabo looked at him, and he saw through what he had left unfinished.
Fulgrim lifted the steel head from his arms and carefully stared at the metal that solidified the painful face of Ferus at the last moment. His thumb brushed its jaw and looked at it with nostalgia.
"I have no time to delay." Perturabo reminded.
Fulgrim laughed and shrugged. "A very beautiful metal, isn't it? However, a metal that exists alone has neither a continuation of its function nor an immortal value... He should have life."
"You miss him."
"Of course I miss him," Fulgrim muttered, his voice suddenly hoarse, "Don't you think so? At least, you lost a complete legion that might support you..."
"Or against my Legion. Either way, it is a pity."
"I have never read this arrogance in you, Perturabo." Fulgrim whispered softly. He laughed heartily, "Pretend to let him achieve nirvana in me, Lord of Iron, and let this raw material become my iron hand."
Perturabo looked at him deeply. "This is the best choice, my brother."
"Go." Fulgrim urged, watching Perturabo silently take the piece of metal and step into it firmly His forge.
The breath of steel went away as the Lord of Iron left. Fulgrim watched in concentration and did not leave immediately.
The spicy scent of metallic ointment seemed to pass by the tip of his nose, and the walls were glowing with the luster of glass basalt... just like Ferus's private blacksmith shop.
Although it’s not that similar.
He sighed and was still ready to leave. Just as the small vehicle carrying him moved a certain distance, he felt a gust of wind blowing past him.
Fulgrim paused for a moment, closed his eyes with trembling eyelids, and put his hands on his shoulders. "You are actually still looking at me, right? Ferus?"
In a daze, he felt his hand covering another hand. Fulgrim turned his head sideways, not daring to open his eyes.
"Come on," he whispered softly, "go back. I know you thank me."
His hair fell down and fell between the fingers of his steel hands.
Fulgrim tilted his head, and all his white hair reluctantly slid away from his shoulders.
"You're welcome, Ferus...Thank you for not having to appear between you and me."
The spicy aroma of metal drifted away, blending into the forging hall and faintly coming through the walls. In the sound of burning flames.
Fulgrim opened his eyes again, looked at his metal hand, put it back on the armrest of the seat, and controlled the wheelchair to leave.
His Captain was waiting for him at the other end of the corridor, as well as Rogal Dorn, and the remnants of the Thousand Sons who might come to visit at any time. It's time for him to go back.
When he was about to see the light refracted at the last corner, he seemed to feel the weight of his wheelchair for a moment. Then, he was gently pushed forward, allowing the bright light of the hall to be completely caught. he.
Fulgrim did not look. He knew there was nothing around him.
(End of this chapter)