"Father, we've found a target. A planet overrun by Orks. We can go down and sweep through them all, which happens to be the perfect chance to test the might of this Centurion armor."
Ferrix established a vox-link with the Olympia, reporting to his father, who was currently studying the Dolmen Gates.
"What is the value of that planet?"
"According to reports from the scouting vanguard, it's a decent resource world."
"Then do as you please with it. They're just a bunch of vermin anyway. Lock onto their Warboss, execute a precise decapitation strike, and it won't be too late to test things slowly after that. I only need the combat data."
"Make everything after that as brief as possible. There's no need to waste too much ordnance on these dregs. If the fighting gets tedious, just cleanse the surface with an Exterminatus. It's just a single planet, nothing of consequence to the Imperium."
"Understood, Father."
Ferrix let out a sinister grin. This was exactly how he liked it; fighting a war where he didn't have to clean up the aftermath was the most satisfying thing ever.
However, the Emperor, who was assisting with the research, furrowed his brows at this moment.
While he wasn't actively governing, it didn't mean he was completely blind. To the Imperium, Perturabo's careless approach was definitely considered irresponsible.
"That shouldn't be the proper attitude of the Imperium, should it? Eradicate all enemies and xenos, claim all resources, and purge every threat—that is the correct path, is it not? You are the Warmaster of the Imperium, is it truly wise to indulge your sons like this?"
Faced with the Emperor's slight disapproval, Perturabo couldn't care less.
"The meaningless wars fought the way you used to would only drag the Imperium into an abyss. If a war only demands the lives of those on the frontline, then naturally it doesn't seem like much—the Imperium lacks neither materiel nor men."
"But the manpower and logistics required behind these wars are exceptionally troublesome, and the post-war administrative handling is incredibly thornier. Lest you forget the domestic rebellions that erupted across the Imperium when I first took over as Warmaster."
"If we truly did things your way across five entire galaxies, do you even realize how severely backlogged our logistics and post-war reconstruction would be?"
"It's already annoying enough right now. If Roboute and Malcador weren't holding the line here, the Imperium would probably be facing another wave of minor rebellions by now."
"What then? When rebellion breaks out again, will you take responsibility? Or will we have to clean up your mess for you again because of your policies?"
Perturabo mocked the Emperor, leaving him somewhat embarrassed. Perturabo didn't press the matter further, knowing the Emperor didn't understand the intricacies of governance.
"But don't we still have to settle these wars eventually?"
"Yes, but there is no need to treat it like our home galaxy. The other galaxies are primarily being handled by the various fleets and Chapters. There's no need to be so pedantic about them right now."
"At least until we completely stabilize the overall situation, those long-term wars are unnecessary. We only need to purge the traitors or defiant enemies. As for what to do post-war, it depends entirely on the value of those territories."
"We don't need to take responsibility for places that are currently unimportant to the Imperium. We can simply evacuate the humans residing there and leave the systems behind."
"You must understand, even I would find myself overwhelmed when facing so many worlds. The resources consumed are far too high; it's simply not worth it."
"We can easily wait until we free up our hands in the future to re-develop those regions. It won't be too late."
"So we just hand those territories over on a silver platter?"
The Emperor was rather displeased by this. He was a deeply possessive man; meat that entered his mouth would absolutely never be spat back out. Even if it rotted away, he would never give it up.
Not only was the Emperor like this, but the entire Imperium from top to bottom shared this mentality. They would rather reduce these planets to cinders than allow traitors and xenos to occupy them.
"I'm merely leaving them unattended. Who said anything about abandoning those places?"
"Then how do you plan to handle them?"
"Well, isn't it a coincidence—have you forgotten about that group of psychically specialized abhumans under my command?"
"Those Eldar? What can they possibly do?" The Emperor asked, puzzled. Could those xenos actually contribute anything useful to the Imperium?
"Lest you forget the Eldar Craftworlds. These Aeldari can turn a planet into a Paradise World at a certain cost. Curze's new homeworld was modified by them under my orders. In the future, those unwanted, remote territories can be handled the same way."
"There's no need to make them exceptionally grand, but at least those worlds can be made more habitable. Later on, I will randomly relocate some wholesome citizens over there, and I'll also select a few of those worlds to serve as recruitment worlds."
"Proper, wholesome citizens are the true foundation an army ought to have. Look at the kinds of people you and our brothers used to pick in the past. Spending all day running those ridiculous trials—even the best prospects were squandered."
"Since I became Warmaster, I've made significant contributions in this regard. Look at the current scale of the Legions; the Thousand Sons alone boast a strength of 300,000 Astartes!"
"Does that not sufficiently prove that my recruitment criteria are correct?"
Perturabo was actually quite proud of this point. After all, while the Astartes were elite, their numbers were historically scarce. If things had gone according to the original timeline, whether at the peak of the Great Crusade or in the future of 42K, the scale of a single Legion's gene-seed pool would hover around 200,000 to 300,000 at best.
What could that meager amount achieve? They were only powerful when consolidated into a single Legion. Once split into Chapters, they couldn't even fully garrison a single Solar Segmentum.
When all was said and done, the Astartes were more like the Imperium's scalpel. The true bedrock still relied on the Imperial Army and the Adeptus Mechanicus.
But ever since Perturabo took power, the current total scale of the Astartes had long since broken past 1,000,000, and the numbers were still climbing. Though deploying them across five galaxies was still a bit tight, at least the Chapters had begun to take root in each galaxy.
As long as they were given a bit more time, and with the Primarchs still around—along with the Luna Wolves' gene-seed stocks replenished by Perturabo—they could mass-produce and reinforce troops normally. The number of Chapters would only grow in the future.
Though Perturabo's dream of assigning a Chapter to every single star system remained out of reach, at least a man needed a goal. Even if it was difficult to achieve, one had to strive toward it.
Besides, Perturabo didn't need to micromanage. His daily life now was incredibly fulfilling and joyful; whatever he chose to do went smoothly. He only needed to steer the macro-direction, leaving the actual heavy lifting of administration to Guilliman and Malcador.
"I cannot out-argue you. You always have a justification for everything."
The Emperor shook his head, losing the desire to debate with Perturabo further.
"You have to admit it. Look at the Imperium when it was in your hands versus how it is in ours. How many messes have I cleaned up for you along the way? The taxes, weapons, gear, and fleets, even the Grey Knights, Deathwatch, and most importantly, the Abominable Intelligences."
"If it weren't for me, could the Imperium have withstood the last Chaos invasion? If I hadn't proactively launched the Retribution Crusade, would we have this grand prosperity today?"
"If you're going to put it that way, I was the one who led the Unification Wars, and I spearheaded the Great Crusade. Do I have no merit whatsoever?"
"Your faults outweigh your merits."
"Hey, I ought to—"
Just as the Emperor and Perturabo were bickering again, Ferrix had already led the Chapter's First Company in a direct orbital drop into the heart of the Orks.
A thousand massive Drop Pods slammed straight into the Ork Warlord's headquarters, crushing numerous massive Squigs into meat paste upon impact.
Dense waves of Drop Pods continued to rain down, reaching the surface before the Ork Boyz could even figure out what was happening.
True to form, the Abominable Intelligences led the vanguard, the God-Machines marched forth, and the Knight Households provided covering fire—a combined-arms doctrine that all Chapters had mastered completely by now.
Chapters like the Iron Warriors, Imperial Fists, Iron Hands, and Death Guard basically suffered from chronic insufficient-firepower anxiety. Before every battle, they wished nothing more than to feed the enemy several hundred salvos of Volcano Cannons and heavy plasma before letting the armored divisions clear the way.
This tactic wasn't particularly subtle, but as the saying went, saturation bombardment just worked. How many famous generals throughout history—
—had their reputations forged out of desperate, forced circumstances? If one could truly crush the enemy with overwhelming stats, there wouldn't be so many worries to begin with.
The beauty of sheer numerical superiority lay in the fact that even when the enemy knew exactly what you were going to do, they still had absolutely no way to counter it, leaving them with no choice but to face it head-on.
Saturation bombardment naturally fell into this category, and the current Imperium had brought this art to its absolute zenith.
Perturabo was actually very fortunate. Though he was reborn into Warhammer, it was a god-tier opening, and he hadn't landed in chaotic eras like the War in Heaven, the Cybernetic Revolt, or the Age of Strife.
The current paradigm of warfare in the galaxy provided him with unimaginable convenience.
The Lord of Iron's current strength was truly thanks to these wars. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to intercept these absolute victories, leaving Khorne, that meathead, without a single scrap of benefit.
War was indeed an easy way to make a fortune, allowing one to eat until their pockets were bursting. At least ninety percent of Perturabo and the Emperor's current power was provided by these wars.
Though the process hadn't gone exactly as Perturabo envisioned, and Horus had died, things were acceptable. The current galaxy was still filled with hope, and Horus wasn't entirely dead. With some effort in the future, there would still be a way to save him—it was just a matter of when he could be found within the Warp.
Even the Second and Eleventh Primarchs had a chance of being cured. It could be said that although this journey wasn't perfect, it was still filled with immense hope.
Once Perturabo set his mind to researching Necron technology and Golden Age technology, no matter what chaos erupted in the future, humanity would at the very least be able to survive securely within the Webway.
The Old Ones truly lived up to their name—a rare, saintly race throughout history who, even after death, could still bring utility to the species of the present day.
This war ended very quickly. There was no helping it; though the Orks loved war, it didn't mean they actually possessed the strength to compete with Ferrix and his men.
A thousand six-meter-tall Centurions appeared before them, their speed completely unimpeded, their strength astonishing, and the heavy ordnance on their chassis so ferocious that the Ork Warlord was disintegrated into atoms by a Gauss cannon for recycling before he could even react.
Before the fighting could truly begin, their boss was taken out, and the Waaagh! field instantly collapsed.
How could they possibly fight after that?
Thus, right at the onset of the battle, before the main firing lines could even clash in close-quarters combat, the Orks were completely cowed by the sheer presence of the Iron Fist. Terrified, they scattered in all directions, and the battlefield instantly dissolved into utter chaos.
The war proceeded smoothly, possessing the same intensity as bullying a bunch of toddlers. Ferrix used his massive cannon barrel to flatten an Ork Nob in one blow, the sensation akin to smashing a block of tofu, which left Ferrix feeling slightly unaccustomed.
After all, even his massive phase-fist could hardly achieve such an effortless effect.
Especially looking at his current massive size; when facing the hail of gunfire from the Orks, the energy shields and deflector fields managed to intercept nearly every single attack. The battle had been raging against the Orks for an entire Terran hour, yet the Centurion armor remained clean as new, without a single scratch.
This kind of war engine was indeed terrifying. God knew how Father had thought to overhaul this armor, but it was magnificent stuff.
Ferrix continuously charged up the heavy plasma cannon in his hand, his melta sweeping across the battlefield without a moment's pause. A unique aroma of roasted fungi drifted across the field, slightly stimulating the taste buds of some Imperial Army auxiliary troops.
"Commander, the battlefield has been completely swept. Once the final cleansing of this planet is completed, we can begin constructing a Forge World."
"When will the Mechanicus arrive?"
"It will take another three days."
"Then we shall wait. Let us rest and refit as well."
"Understood."
"Father, the real-time data for the Centurion armor has been transmitted. It is indeed exceptionally powerful and can grant us an even greater advantage during decapitation assault operations."
After uploading the message, Ferrix stepped out of the iron shell with the assistance of mechanical arms.
This armor, which was even heavier than a Dreadnought, didn't feel particularly pleasant to wear despite being heavily modified, even after his father's meticulous improvements.
A heavy iron shell wasn't something that could be fully solved just by installing a few built-in power packs. It was genuinely heavy. Even within the Iron Warriors' most elite First Company, a portion of the Astartes expressed discomfort when piloting this armor.
The limitations of this thing were simply too great; it was only useful during boarding actions and decapitation assaults. For any other occasion, it was still inferior to the Abominable Intelligence legions.
Perturabo received the data transmitted by Ferrix, and the numbers matched his expectations perfectly with the real combat results.
This new Centurion armor was excellent, it just lacked cost-effectiveness, had a rather narrow niche, and was quite picky about its pilots.
He would let the Chapters distribute them as they saw fit. They probably wouldn't forge many suits anyway; with these resources, it was definitely better to build Tyrant Terminators and master-crafted power armor instead.
At this moment, Perturabo, who was about to continue studying the Dolmen Gates, suddenly raised his head and peered into the Webway. The brand he had marked inside it was currently glowing brilliantly.
"What is it? News from Cegorach?" The Emperor asked.
"Yeah. Take a guess at what this clown is doing."
"Attacking the Dark Eldar? He actually went?"
"Mm-hmm, and he's putting quite a lot of heart into it too, though he still likes to play a few minor tricks."
"Who cares what they do, as long as they achieve the intended goal, it's fine."
"True. The Imperium's infrastructure workforce will soon gain another significant boost."
Meanwhile, within the Webway city of Commoragh, Raging fires were currently burning fiercely.
This city was massive, occupying one of the largest and most critical nodes within the entire Webway. Yet this city, as vast as a star system, was currently enduring devastation at the hands of its own kin.
The filth and depravity here far exceeded the imagination of the Craftworld Aeldari. They found it somewhat hard to believe. They knew this branch of their kin was highly fallen, but the gap between seeing it in reality versus what they had heard and envisioned was still far too vast.
They couldn't fathom how this group of kin, with their level of depravity, had managed to escape the hunts of She-Who-Thirsts. When they saw that these Dark Eldar could no longer wield psychic powers, and had actively resorted to inflicting torment and torture upon others and themselves just to ward off that consuming gaze, the Craftworld Aeldari understood. I am afraid this group of kin had been targeted by She-Who-Thirsts from the very beginning—keeping them alive simply brought her more amusement.
"Why, Laughing God?!"
At this moment, the Archon of the most powerful Kabal angrily questioned Cegorach. He couldn't understand why these kin would turn their blades upon their own people.
Even if the two sides frequently had friction on regular days, it was all just petty squabbling. It absolutely shouldn't have escalated to such a life-and-death struggle.
Commoragh was strong, but under the siege of eleven Craftworlds combined with the joint intervention of Cegorach and Isha, Commoragh didn't amount to much.
When all was said and done, facing even a single full-scale Legion now would be a life-and-death crisis for them. The Eldar had long since ceased to be the Eldar of yesteryear.
A brawl between weaklings was still highly entertaining. Perturabo watched the unfolding events with great relish, beginning to somewhat enjoy this feeling.
It seemed being pragmatic and enjoying oneself were not mutually exclusive.
"What do you see?"
Perturabo shared the visual feed with the Emperor. The two tech-nerds, tired from working in the laboratory, sat back with their legs crossed, chattering away as they debated the course of the war.
"I think this bunch of Dark Eldar won't last ten days. Those Kabals are already starting to flee."
"I wouldn't be so sure. Look there, aren't those Haemonculi still holding out? With some Kabals remaining, I think they can still last half a month."
"A disorganized rabble, not worth mentioning. Now that the Aspect Warriors have committed to the fray, these Dark Eldar definitely won't last long."
"Then let's place a bet. I'll wager a Gloriana-class battleship with you that these Dark Eldar won't last past half a month."
"How could I refuse a Gloriana-class battleship handed to me for free? It's a bet."
"A victor will definitely be decided within ten days. If it exceeds that by even a single day, I'll do a handstand—"