"I am Rogal Dorn, the new chieftain of the Dorn Clan."
When the three-meter-tall giant strode into the Inwit Imperial Council chamber with steady steps, the entire hall fell instantly silent.
All attendees unconsciously held their breath, their gazes firmly drawn to this imposing giant. It wasn't until Rogal Dorn completed his resounding self-introduction and sat down calmly that the frozen air began to flow again.
"Old Dorn is damn lucky!"
Someone muttered sourly. They had all heard of the Chosen One taken in by the Dorn Clan. He was only four years old now, had been clan chieftain for a year, and was already twice the height of an adult. Calling him the Chosen One was no exaggeration.
The Speaker's voice echoed slowly through the hall, "I won't reiterate the content of this meeting."
"Rogal Dorn, if you wish to become the new ruler of the Inwit Empire, you must complete one trial proposed by each of us."
"Is that all?"
Dorn's gaze swept over the assembly. There were eleven councilors present. Eleven trials.
"All?" A councilor sneered. "Listen carefully. My trial for you is to design a new starship whose performance must surpass existing Imperial vessels in at least one aspect!"
Then another councilor spoke, "There's a rebellion on Corobus. Suppress it, and you'll complete my trial."
"Survive alone on the ice field for seven days with no supplies."
"Conquer a world."
The councilors made their demands one after another, the trials becoming increasingly absurd, leading one to suspect they never intended Dorn to pass.
The Inwit Imperial Council had ruled the Inwit Empire for over a thousand years. Dorn's demand to become the new ruler meant seizing power from them. Of course, they wouldn't agree. Even if Dorn was the Chosen One, he was the Dorn Clan's Chosen One, not theirs.
But rules were rules. A warrior who passed the clan trial could become the new chieftain. Only a warrior who passed the eleven trials could lead Inwit, and the Council would not resist any of his orders.
If Dorn could gain the councilors' recognition, the difficulty would naturally decrease. If not, he couldn't blame them for making it hard.
Dorn asked, "Is there a time limit?"
The Speaker slowly raised his gaze. "No. As long as you complete them alive."
The trials carried inherent risk. If he died during them, it had nothing to do with those who set them. No one forced him.
The Speaker questioned, "Any other difficulties? You can raise them now."
Dorn clarified, "To conquer a world, must I first find a new world?"
"There are still unsubjugated worlds within the Empire's borders. Conquering any one of them will complete the trial."
"To suppress the Corobus rebellion, must I do it alone?"
"You can seek the Council's support for any trial. The army or fleet will be at your command. The fact you can participate in the trials means we have recognized your qualification. Don't worry about us sabotaging you."
"What are the requirements for designing the ship? Do I need to build a brand new one?"
"A reasonable design proposal is sufficient."
"I have no more questions." Dorn's gaze swept over every councilor in the hall. He gave a brief declaration, "Three years. That is my Twelfth Trial as a councilor. I must complete all trials within three years!"
"Impressive!" The councilor who had proposed the ship design trial gave Dorn a thumbs-up. "Even if you ultimately fail on other trials, as long as you complete mine, the Orn Clan will obey your every command!"
Dorn didn't speak, just looked at him strangely.
...
"Three years? Are you confident?" Old Dorn frowned worriedly, then quickly shook his head, laughing wryly.
"Look at my memory. If you weren't confident, why would you propose a three-year limit? I'm just old."
When people get old, they tend to worry about gains and losses. He no longer had the ambition of youth, not daring to fight like a young man. Time had worn down his edges; his enterprising spirit was gone. If he continued to lead the clan, he could only maintain it. Only a young, capable warrior like Dorn could make the clan flourish!
"Several trials can be completed right now. Grandfather, prepare for me. I'm going to the ice field. In the meantime, have the blueprints in the database distributed to the other clans as soon as possible."
He was a Primarch. Surviving seven days on the ice field was no different from surviving seven days in an ice-hive. He would have to hunt alone for food, but for just seven days, even without eating or drinking, he was in no danger.
For an ordinary person, redesigning a starship would require tens of thousands of top scientists working together for years.
Though the lack of aerodynamics and gravity in space freed ship design from atmospheric constraints, leaving the shape to the designer's aesthetic, this freedom wasn't unlimited. Consistency with the overall style of the Imperial fleet had to be maintained.
And a starship several kilometers long involved the intricate integration of tens of thousands of different functional modules. Each ship was the painstaking work of countless scientists.
The Orn Clan's trial set no limits on the number of participants or the ship's size. The Orn Clan had deliberately left this loophole, allowing the candidate to mobilize all clan members to complete it together.
They could also cheat by simply designing a small vessel, making it much easier. But Dorn had already completed the ship's design, a joint intellectual effort between him and Perturabo.
As primarchs, they possessed astonishing learning talents, their accumulated knowledge surpassing that of ordinary cogitator databases. Like someone burning with energy, they needed appropriate outlets. They found two perfect releases, combat and design. Intense battle to vent excess energy, ingenious designs to turn their inspirations into reality.
Their works spanned numerous fields, from intricate mechanical devices to grand architectural blueprints, from personal weapons to starships, almost everything imaginable. And these works could precisely complete three of the trials.
Dorn wasn't prescient; it was serendipity. His daily efforts hadn't been wasted.
For him, the two most challenging trials were undoubtedly suppressing the Corobus rebellion and conquering a world. To complete them, Dorn had to leave Inwit, consuming significant time.
Suppressing the Corobus rebellion could trap him for months or longer. Conquering a world was even harder; he had to accurately assess its military strength and formulate a strategy to ensure ultimate victory. Time was his greatest enemy.
...
When Orn received the blueprints, his face was full of disbelief. "Was this design completed by him alone?"
Old Dorn's wrinkled face showed pride. "He and his brother designed it together. The Dorn Clan didn't participate in any form; we only provided knowledge."
He had intended Dorn to submit a civilian ship design, perhaps excelling in comfort, the easiest way. He had left room for cheating, and he would have accepted the result even if Dorn had taken advantage. But Dorn hadn't submitted the small civilian vessel Orn had envisioned; it was a standard cruiser blueprint!
If converted to paper drawings, they would cover the entire world! With such a massive workload, how had they done it?
"Orn, can this trial be considered complete?" Old Dorn asked cheerfully.
"What's the hurry! I need to verify and test. Wait a few days. Your grandson is still on his ice field trial, isn't he? I'll give you a definite answer before he returns!"
Different Ice Caste clans on Inwit had different specialties. The Orn Clan was renowned for exquisite craftsmanship and high aesthetic standards for industrial works. This aesthetic wasn't limited to appearance but extended to firepower, protection, speed, and every other aspect!
When Orn examined the design, every detail seemed meticulously polished. He couldn't find a single flaw! His intuition told him the design was perfect and would definitely complete his trial. But he had to be stubborn.
"Oh no, I've been had." After seeing Old Dorn out, Orn's face immediately fell. "Trouble indeed comes from the mouth!"
He only had himself to blame for being too rash in his prime, making promises too easily, never expecting to be proven wrong so quickly. But the Orn Clan's pride was inviolable. Since he had given his word to obey every command, even if his guts were turning green, he would never renege.
...
Zoris stood straight in the Anvil Camp formation, his gaze resolutely fixed on the reviewing stand.
"Forward!"
With Zoris's command, the formation began to move slowly, following the others.
Zoris maintained perfect spacing with his comrades. The soles of their boots struck the stone floor with a dull, rhythmic sound. Formations of the Guard and the Siege Host passed the reviewing stand in turn. Beside the purple-robed Tyrant Dammekos stood Perturabo, as towering as a mountain.
Zoris could feel the primarch's gaze. It was both recognition and silent encouragement. Zoris and the other warriors involuntarily straightened their backs further. They were warriors personally trained by Perturabo. They had to prove themselves worthy of this honor through sacrifice and honor!
As the Anvil Camp formation reached the front of the reviewing stand, Zoris suddenly raised his right fist and struck his chest plate.
"Iron within, iron without!"
The war cry of hundreds of warriors shook the sky, like thunder rolling.
Their gold-and-white armor gleamed in the sun. The rhythmic thunder of their footsteps was awe-inspiring.
On the platform, Dammekos waved and smiled. Perturabo's gaze swept over every warrior's face. He knew each of them; their names were etched in his memory.
This was his legion, his masterpiece, the sharpest sword he had forged for Lochos!
Rumble!
Amidst the deafening roar, dozens of steel behemoths designed by Perturabo drove towards the reviewing stand.
The newly cast armor shone with a cold metallic luster in the sun, emblazoned with a new emblem, a golden anvil surrounded by a halo of olive laurel leaves, symbolizing the royal power of Lochos, like stars around the moon.
These behemoths, weighing dozens of tons, were driven by new engines optimized by Perturabo. Their wide tracks trembled violently as they moved. Nobles in the stands turned pale with fright. Some knocked over their gilded goblets, unaware their clothes were soaked with wine.
These steel behemoths, almost as tall as Perturabo himself, were like moving fortresses, completely overturning their understanding of war!
When the shadows of the main guns swept over the stands, the dark muzzles sent chills down many spines. They feared the tanks might misfire, wiping out everyone on the stands!
"They are exquisite, A-Bo."
Calliphone had seen the intricate blueprints on paper, but when she witnessed these behemoths in person, she unconsciously held her breath. Lines on paper were just fantasy, but Perturabo had made them reality!
Perturabo reminded, "They are fragile. The materials and power are too primitive. In a real war, they would be slow, moving targets!"
At the same weight, tanks from other worlds could completely outclass Perturabo's designs. This wasn't a design flaw; it was a fundamental difference in materials.
Human civilizations in the galaxy were numerous, each with unique tank designs, but they all used ceramite. This excellent, versatile material was harder than steel yet lighter than ceramic. For the same weight, ceramite could provide thicker armor than steel, taking more punishment.
Though different sources of ceramite varied in purity and craftsmanship, leading to uneven protective performance, they at least represented a comparable level of technology.
Olympia hadn't even mastered ceramite smelting. Perturabo could only use steel, relying on brute engine force to compensate.
A sly glint appeared in Calliphone's eyes, "But on Olympia, they are the invincible gods of war. Just like you, my A-Bo!"
"There are no gods."
"It's a metaphor! A metaphor! You always ruin the mood!"
Calliphone looked up at Perturabo in annoyance, but the primarch's towering height forced her neck back almost vertically. Her eyes would dry out before her neck got sore.
Perturabo was three and a half meters tall. His shadow alone enveloped her, shielding her from the sun's glare. His shin bone alone was over a meter long; his legs were over two meters. If Calliphone wanted to attack Perturabo, she could only punch his knees.
So Calliphone decided to use her special move.
"Brother Caelan, A-Bo is bullying me again!"
Perturabo immediately compromised. "I apologize, sister. I accept your praise, but allow me to reiterate, there are no gods in Olympia!"
Perturabo wasn't good at arguing, but he wasn't afraid of anyone. Unfortunately, his sister always used outside help. The referee was on her side. How could he compete? But they were just playing around, never really getting angry.
"Alright, Calliphone, you should be more tolerant of your brother. A-Bo, you should be more tolerant of your sister."
Caelan played peacemaker as usual, knowing all they needed was a way out.
Calliphone gently took Caelan's arm, affectionately resting her chin on his shoulder, blinking softly. "What if I want to be more than a sister?"
Perturabo ignored her, not wanting Caelan to respond either, and changed the subject.
"Father, is this a just war?"
Caelan replied, "There are as many Hamlets as there are people. The same event appears completely different in different people's eyes. Everything has two sides. Supporters rejoice; opponents recoil. War is no exception."
"Supporters seek to make their mark, bring honor to their families, or pursue higher goals. Opponents fear the flames of war reaching their homes; their fear of national ruin outweighs their desire for victory."
"You cannot gain everyone's support and approval, nor can you satisfy everyone. What matters is that you have a clear conscience."
"Why are you waging war?"
Perturabo answered, "For unification. For peace."
Division inevitably ignites war. His war would end the chaos as quickly as possible, minimizing casualties and destruction.
"Can you promise the people of Olympia that when the war ends, their lives will be more stable and prosperous than now?"
"I promise."
"Do you have selfish motives?"
"Yes."
"Are you acting solely for your own selfish gain?"
"Never."
"Has your original intention changed?"
"No."
"Then you need not hesitate. Step forward bravely!"
"Even if a few misunderstand you, question you, despise you, as long as your heart believes the path you walk leads to truth, as long as each step makes this world a better place, your conviction needs no shaking!"
Perturabo's voice was very soft, "Then what is the standard? Who sets it?"
"No one can set it for you. What you firmly believe in is the standard."
"But what if I become extreme too? If They truly exist, we must guard against it."
Caelan fell silent. Yes, who could guarantee that wouldn't happen?
Perturabo knelt on one knee, bringing his eyes level with Caelan's. "Father, I need your guidance."
"Please set the standard for me, define the boundaries, so I can walk my path within the rules you set."
"But what if I change one day too?"
Caelan's sigh was particularly helpless. "This is an unsolvable paradox. No one is immutable. If you seek an eternal, unchanging standard, perhaps the Emperor is your best choice."
"Things change, seas turn to mulberry fields. Only he has always maintained this original intention of protecting humanity."
Perturabo's eyes held unprecedented solemnity. "But I don't need him now. I need you."
A flicker of complex emotion passed through Caelan's eyes. After a long silence, he slowly spoke, "Then..."
Caelan took a deep breath, as if making a decision. "I will guide your path until you no longer need me."
Perturabo's response was decisive. "That day will never come. I promise!"
....
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