Perturabo enjoyed research—especially within the material universe.
Here, the power of the Warp could not interfere. His way of thinking was constrained within the normal limits of a Primarch.
The body could be strengthened. Steel could be reinforced.
But if you couldn't solve a mathematical problem, then you simply couldn't solve it.
This wasn't the Warp, where wild imagination alone could turn anything into reality.
The material universe still obeyed the laws of physics.
Otherwise, why would the Warp constantly seek to invade reality?
If the power of pure imagination could already cause such destruction in the material universe, then if it ever fully broke through—
Wouldn't it become unstoppable?
The Chaos Gods were always eager about this.
Because they wanted to harvest every soul and every emotion in the material universe.
That was what sustained them.
And so, every one of them was greedy.
To the daemons of the Warp, Perturabo and the Emperor were both aberrations.
And the Primarchs as well—
They were clearly the same kind of existence.
And yet so powerful.
So why couldn't they recognize what they truly were?
Humans?
How many of them even looked human anymore?
Were humans this powerful?
Could you find even one like them?
No.
Not a single one.
Was the Emperor still human?
Were the Perpetuals still human?
Were the Custodians and the Astartes still human?
The daemons might not fully understand the Emperor—
But they knew one thing for certain:
The Primarchs were not human.
Every time a daemon approached one of them, the overwhelming aura of Warp power radiating from their bodies was unmistakable.
So whenever the Emperor stood before conquered worlds—receiving the worship of mortals while insisting, "I am not a god"—
It would always provoke laughter within the Crystal Labyrinth, the domain of the Changer of Ways.
And the daemons themselves sneered at that damned "cursed one" for putting on such an act.
Who are you kidding?
Because of that, whenever Perturabo crafted a chess piece in the Emperor's likeness, he always felt something was… off.
No matter how grand and righteous he made the Emperor appear—
There was always a sense of disharmony.
His sister praised it endlessly.
His younger brother, Andos, had even been stunned into reverence by the exquisite golden-armored "figure," almost wanting to kneel in worship.
But Perturabo himself couldn't stand looking at that radiant, gleaming piece.
Until one day—
On a whim, he tried something different.
He altered the Emperor's image.
And instantly—
Something clicked.
Perturabo wasn't one to believe in vague, mystical notions.
In the material universe, things should follow physical laws.
And yet—
He truly felt something like intuition and flow.
The sensation was perfect.
When he finally completed that sinister piece—
The "Dark King"—
In that moment, Perturabo felt:
This is right.
This is exactly how it should be.
This—
Was what the Emperor should look like.
All this time, wrapped in human skin, wielding overwhelming psychic power—
It was easy to forget what the Emperor truly was in essence.
From that day on, whenever Perturabo crafted the Emperor's chess pieces, he always made two versions:
Light and dark.
Even if they still didn't fully meet his expectations—
He believed one day they would.
The chess piece of Lion El'Jonson had a dignified form:
Black armor, two small white wings on his helm, a greatsword in one hand and a shield in the other.
There were multiple variations, but all followed the same core design—every detail from Perturabo's memories perfectly recreated.
But there were also fallen versions.
Still clad in black armor—
But now with red wings atop the helm.
Sword and shield unchanged—
Yet behind him hovered a dark Chaos halo, making him appear utterly sinister.
Still mysterious. Still powerful.
But with the unmistakable sense that he might stab you in the back at any moment.
Though, to be fair—
He gave off that feeling even when he hadn't fallen.
Inside a glass display case was a miniature world:
A dark, sunless forest.
Every tree twisted into grotesque shapes.
Black trunks.
Deep purple leaves.
The ground covered in withered ferns and moss.
In the distance, the faint outline of a rocky mountain.
At its base—a cave entrance.
And before it—
A lone figure.
That was the Lion.
Standing silently, helmeted, as if deep in thought.
This was the quiet refuge Perturabo had chosen for his volatile brother.
But the one he lavished the most attention on—
Was Rogal Dorn.
Perturabo, a giant over five meters tall, was currently lying flat on the ground.
A massive mechanical tendril extended from his power armor, ending in an impossibly fine engraving tool.
His face was nearly pressed against the display case as he carefully added the final detail—
Eyelashes.
The figure he was working on was only sixty centimeters tall.
It was Dorn.
His "dearest" brother.
This was a treatment reserved for Dorn alone.
The scene was exquisite:
Dorn stood atop a massive, precarious scaffold, arms outstretched in desperation, reaching toward a set of architectural blueprints swept away by the wind.
Every fold of the paper—
Every line on it—
Rendered with microscopic precision.
And Dorn's expression—
A mixture of shock, anger, and helplessness—
Was Perturabo's own little joke.
"Hmm."
Perturabo gave a satisfied grunt.
The mechanical arm retracted.
His massive body rose fluidly as he examined the piece.
He loved this one.
It was, in his opinion, the pinnacle of his craft.
Even the figures he made of his sister—
Couldn't compare to this level of perfection.
With a faint smile, Perturabo turned his gaze to another display.
This one belonged to his "ambitious" brother—
The Regent of the Second Imperium.
Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion.
Lord of Macragge—
Roboute Guilliman.
The scene was filled with towering piles of parchment scrolls and ledgers.
They nearly filled the entire display case.
At the very bottom—
Two hands.
Weakly reaching out from beneath the mountain of paperwork.
One still clutching a quill pen, a drop of ink suspended at its tip.
Those letters were real.
Perturabo had written them one by one using microscopic mechanical arms, recreating Guilliman's daily administrative work in Macragge.
The Guilliman figure buried within—
Was one of his proudest creations.
Opposite him stood the "Emperor" of the Second Imperium—
The perfect angel.
Sanguinius stood before a gilded mirror, posing like a dying swan.
Every feather on his white wings was individually sculpted.
His expression—
Narcissistic. Enraptured.
And within the mirror—
Perturabo had even carved a faint reflection of himself, seemingly stunned by Sanguinius' beauty.
Between them stood the Lion once more—
Another "Warmaster" model.
This time, he resembled a prowling beast—
Eyes locked onto Guilliman.
Greatsword in hand.
As if ready to charge forward at any moment and cut them both down.
"This is more like it," Perturabo murmured.
"The Second Imperium should look like this."
He was very pleased with his work.
He turned to the other displays.
The Khan, riding a massive "motorbike," wielding a White Tiger blade, leading white-armored warriors across the open steppe.
Magnus, holding the Book of Magnus, surrounded by red-armored followers, standing before a pyramid in a vast desert.
Konrad Curze, in a dark torture chamber filled with instruments of agony, grinning madly.
Leman Russ, surrounded by wolf pups and two massive wolves, tearing into a slab of grox meat, laughing as he drank Fenrisian ale with his sons.
Lorgar, kneeling before a statue of the Emperor, muttering prayers, his entire body covered in scripture.
Vulkan, in the midst of battle, kneeling with a hammer in hand, shielding a human girl with his body, smiling faintly as he endured enemy fire.
…
Perturabo had created countless such pieces.
Each with its own scene.
But the ones he was most proud of—
Were the Horus Heresy and the Second Imperium collections.
Those were his masterpieces.
Every Primarch, every Astartes, every Custodian, every mortal—
Their expressions and movements perfectly recreated across countless scenes.
The weight of Titan war machines.
The exchanges of fire between Imperial warships.
All of it had been faithfully reproduced.
The Heresy collection alone filled dozens of rooms.
Even his sister didn't know about it.
This was Perturabo's secret.
And who said the Heresy had to be started by Horus?
After all—
The "Golden Word Envoy" piece was also part of that collection.
Perturabo had once considered inviting his sister to play a game using these pieces.
But after some thought—
He decided against it.
Instead, he built numerous naval warship models and played simulated naval battles with her during their free time.
He had also built countless Titan models—
First-generation designs.
Iterative upgrades.
Every type imaginable.
Even discarded prototypes from his own mind.
All brought into existence.
Why?
Because in the Warp—
Such things were effortless to create.
---
The demon factory contained so many Titans that any Tech-Priest would lose their mind upon seeing them—
And likely fall into heresy on the spot, seeking the "true" Omnissiah.
If Mars or Jupiter ever learned that countless Abyss-class warships were docked within the factory—
Who knew how they would react?
Though Warp constructs were difficult to bring into realspace—
All it took was a single anchor point.
And then—
Perturabo's fleets could tear apart any enemy.
Anyone.
Even the Necrons would be forced to kneel.
At least, that's what he believed.
If a Warp rift could be opened on any battlefield—
Then his daemon engines, super-heavy siege cannons, and innumerable Titan legions could dominate the entire war zone.
Even Tyranids and Orks would be insignificant before such force.
Perturabo might not be the strongest duelist in the Warp—
But when it came to apocalyptic warfare—
He was unmatched.
As long as the Chaos Gods themselves did not intervene—
Even if all their forces attacked together—
He could crush them alone.
That was how overwhelming he was.
If not for the concern that those four might "flip the table"—
He would have already joined the endless war of gods and crushed them outright.
After all—
He truly possessed six thousand Vengeful Spirit-class warships.
If they wanted to fight him—
They'd better bring the same.
Otherwise—
What would even be the point?
The only pity—
Was that such power could not be freely used in the material universe.
Only after experiencing it firsthand did Perturabo truly understand why Chaos was so obsessed with invading reality.
The Warp's power was simply too great.
If it were ever unleashed without restriction—
What would become of the galaxy?
Of the universe?
It was impossible to say.
At the very least—
If left unchecked—
Given enough time—
Perturabo could bombard the entire galaxy into dust.
That alone made it utterly absurd.
And yet—
He wouldn't do it.
Because opening even a single breach between Warp and reality would weaken the barrier.
And once that happened—
The Chaos Gods would exploit it immediately, tearing open more rifts across the galaxy.
That would be the end of everything.
So Perturabo would not act lightly.
Even in desperate circumstances, he would think carefully before deploying Warp forces into realspace.
Because once the breach was opened—
Those four would descend like predators far worse than hyenas.
And he could not defeat all four.
Not even the Emperor could, at present.
So the only true solution—
Was still the Webway.
Unfortunately, Perturabo's talent in that area was limited.
Otherwise, he might have already returned to the Imperium to assist the Emperor.
But for now—
He looked at the warship models before him and felt a hint of boredom.
In the end—
They were just models.
They couldn't actually crush xenos across the galaxy.
And he did want to see it—
To see how his lance batteries and macro-cannons would perform against alien foes.
When calculating and commanding, Perturabo was calm—
Almost cold.
But now—
He cared about people.
So sometimes, he was willing to accept losses—
If it meant saving even one more life on his side.
The automata and Iron Circle were not created for decoration.
Still—
That way of thinking was dangerous.
He didn't know how the Emperor would view it.
After all—
Aside from religion—
He had violated nearly every taboo of the Imperial Truth.
If the Emperor found out—
What would he do?
Erase him?
Or pretend cooperation—
Draw him in—
And then deal with him personally after the Great Crusade was over?
Perturabo found himself looking forward to the Emperor's reaction.
After all—
He had practically crossed every single one of the Emperor's bottom lines.
And what about the others?
Dorn? Magnus?
What would they think?
All sorts of scenarios played out in his mind.
The more he imagined, the more excited he became.
Because he liked crossing lines.
He especially enjoyed trampling over other people's rules.
It added a bit of flavor to his otherwise "laid-back" daily life.
Before he knew it, Perturabo let out a laugh.
---
"Perty, what's wrong now? Did I lose already?"
His sister, Stephanie, stood above the naval models, manipulating the mechanical arms to move the massive miniature warships.
They were currently playing a simulated naval battle using the models.
But clearly—
She wasn't very good at it.
Even though she was trying her best.
From Perturabo's smile, she could already tell that her side's "situation" had likely collapsed.
After all, he had only made a few minor adjustments to his fleet—
And hers had already been completely routed.
"Not yet," Perturabo replied calmly.
"But it's getting dangerous."
"Oh… then what were you just thinking about?"
"Something interesting."
Stephanie felt a little embarrassed.
She was bad at this—and yet still loved playing.
Meanwhile, her brother could casually think about something else mid-battle.
She maneuvered one of her largest warship models, ramming it forward with its prow into Perturabo's fleet.
Watching several of his smaller ships get knocked out of play, she finally showed a hint of a smile—
But then—
She saw several equally massive ships closing in to surround her flagship.
Her expression immediately fell again.
"Stop! I want to switch sides. You play mine, I'll play yours."
"Alright."
Perturabo rarely refused her requests.
Even though she had already thrown away all six of her Gloriana-class battleships.
But even after switching sides—
The situation quickly reversed again.
Stephanie had no answer.
She really was bad at this.
Even with Perturabo deliberately holding back, she couldn't gain any advantage.
Then suddenly—
The battlefield shifted.
A massive opening appeared in Perturabo's formation.
Stephanie seized the opportunity immediately, breaking through with her fleet—
And the situation flipped again.
She knew.
Her brother was deliberately losing again.
Every time.
He would crush her completely—
Then hand her the victory.
"…Let's stop. I still can't beat you."
Stephanie collapsed onto Perturabo's reclining chair, clearly tired.
Perturabo didn't say anything.
He simply smiled and lay down beside her.
"Perty… what were you thinking about earlier?"
she asked again.
Perturabo turned slightly.
"Sis… if I told you I had a group of brothers, would you believe me?"
"How many?"
"…About twenty."
Stephanie blinked in shock.
After all, she had seen how capable her brother was.
And now he was saying there were twenty more like him?
"Are they all as strong as you?" she asked.
"Not exactly," Perturabo replied.
"But we specialize in different things. One of them overlaps with me a bit."
"Oh? Then is he as powerful as you?"
Perturabo snorted lightly.
"I'm much better than him. You'll see eventually."
"…Wait, are they all brothers? No sisters?"
Stephanie's focus shifted.
"…As far as I know, no."
She frowned slightly.
"All boys? Wouldn't your parents have a headache raising you all?"
"…Father wouldn't care about that," Perturabo said flatly.
"Someone else would take care of us."
"Your mother?"
"…Something like that."
"Is your father very busy? Too many things tying him down?"
"…You could say that."
Perturabo paused slightly.
"But there's something wrong with him."
"He'll come find me eventually… but I don't want to see him."
"Why? Is he a tyrant too?"
Stephanie didn't quite understand.
Perturabo let out a faint, humorless chuckle.
"He's far worse than a tyrant."
"…Then will you go with him when he comes?" she asked quietly.
"Will you leave us?"
There was a trace of unease in her voice.
She didn't want him to leave.
"I'll go," Perturabo said.
"But only to return. I'll still stay here—with you."
"Then why go at all?"
"Because I have to."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"But whether I follow his orders—that's my choice. He can't force me."
"…I don't want you to meet him," Stephanie said softly.
"Hm?"
"Because from what you're saying… he doesn't sound like a good person."
Perturabo smirked faintly.
"He's the kind of person who hates losing."
"He uses psychic power to manipulate people into doing things for him."
"He has no manners."
"And he's shameless."
Stephanie could tell—
Despite everything, Perturabo didn't truly hate this "father."
Otherwise, he wouldn't even consider going back.
He was just… being stubborn again.
"Then how did you end up on Olympia?" she asked.
"An accident."
"Not just me—my other brothers were scattered across the galaxy too."
"How could that happen? Weren't you supposed to be protected?"
Perturabo's expression darkened slightly.
"…Because the one who abandoned us was our mother."
"…Or rather—our biological mother."
Stephanie blinked, confused.
"She… what?"
"She's insane," Perturabo said bluntly.
"Beyond saving."
"Just like my father."
"…Except worse."
"Our father treats us like tools."
"Then why go back?" Stephanie asked.
"Did Olympia start to feel boring?"
"…A little."
"But no matter what, I still have to go back."
"Our mission is… heavy."
He exhaled softly.
"After I return, I'll probably go back to spending all my time in the lab again."
"…That sounds lonely."
"It's fine."
He glanced at her.
"You're still here."
"That's true," she said with a small smile.
"Anyway, I won't get involved in their affairs."
"Sis, when the time comes, you'll have a lot to handle too."
"The territory we manage will be much larger."
"I'll have to rely on you."
"…A lot?" she asked cautiously.
"A lot."
"…How much?"
Perturabo paused.
"…At least five hundred worlds."
Stephanie froze.
"…Five hundred… worlds like Olympia?"
There was a hint of fear in her voice.
But also determination.
She still wanted to help.
With enough logic engines, it might be possible…
"…No."
Perturabo shook his head.
Stephanie let out a breath of relief.
"…Good."
"Olympia isn't self-sufficient," he continued calmly.
"It lacks agricultural output."
"To count as a proper 'world,' it would need at least an agricultural planet and a forge world supporting it."
"So… how big is 'five hundred worlds'?"
"Planets like Olympia are rare."
"One 'world' usually consists of dozens of planets, along with complete defense systems and supply chains."
"And in the future, we'll still need to recruit armies, reclaim territory, and exterminate xenos."
He paused, then added:
"Even a single star system might not be enough to form one complete 'world.'"
"And if something goes wrong with a star… I'll have to deal with that too."
"That's even more trouble."
"But these things have to be done," he said.
"My standards are strict."
Then, almost casually—
"By my estimate… you'll eventually be managing at least fifty thousand planets."
"No upper limit."
Stephanie fell silent.
For the first time—
She felt that her future life might not be as peaceful as she had imagined.