This is our Warhammer journey

Chapter 274 Iron Warrior: Daddy Daddy Daddy

Just as the massive Dawn Fleet, after a brief moment of deliberation, continued its unwavering march toward the next destination, far inside the Eye of Fear, the glorious Queen 'Iron Blood,' who had been lonely for nearly ten thousand years, once again welcomed her vassals, her offspring.

Perturabo installed portholes on the Steelblood, allowing him to better inspect his sons' warships.

Meanwhile, on countless screens in front of him, images from the real universe flashed continuously.

Most of them depict scenes from the Dawn star region.

Don't misunderstand, as an entity that hasn't paid attention to the physical universe for ten thousand years, Peturabo naturally wouldn't make any spy deployments in the Dawn Sector in a short period of time.

The fact that we were able to obtain so much information is entirely due to the Dawn Sector's openness to communication with the outside world.

Although surrounding star sectors have explicitly banned any publicity about the living environment of the Dawn Star Sector, the pilgrimage groups have preserved a considerable amount of video footage.

Peturabo is fully capable of learning about these 'brothers' through legal channels.

Then he became intensely jealous.

The Star Ring Base of Dawn Star, the eternally burning sacred torch of the Pield Research World, the weather control device above the Ishtar Agricultural World, and the giant shipyard above the Mars Casting World.

Not a monotonous fortress or fortress, not a war creation entirely focused on practicality and devoid of any artistic beauty, but floating in deep space, its radiance is enough to eclipse the stars.

Especially when his gaze fell upon that colossal art installation floating in the deep space of the Pioneer Star System, a record of the history and culture of countless worlds, dating back to the time when humanity first set foot among the stars, the flames of jealousy in his heart could not help but erupt.

'Look at them, wasting countless resources just to please those mortals.'

As Peturabo thought this, his eyes never left the screen, observing the colossal structures of the Pioneer Galaxy, his extraordinary mind analyzing these buildings.

Functionality, safety, practicality, and other factors appeared one by one in his mind and were transformed into precise data.

'Moreover, these designs are far too redundant and utterly devoid of aesthetic appeal; these brothers have a very shallow talent for architecture.'

'If it were me, I could definitely design it better.'

He was thinking this, completely ignoring the descendants he had summoned.
-
Baben Falk.

One of the Trident, he was a well-known figure in the post-Great Rebellion era, and also one of the most active and powerful Iron Warriors in the Warband.

After witnessing the grand scene of Forgrim's ascension to the occult, Folke developed an unusual obsession with ascension.

He was amazed by the power of that force, by the wonder of the power of chaos, and by the fact that humanity could evolve into such beings.

Thus, for thousands of years, Falk has been slaughtering mortal lives to accumulate power.

He assembled the Warband and brought the most powerful Trident, formerly under the Iron Lord's command, to his side.

He collaborated with Abaddon, outwitting him while also leveraging Abaddon's reputation to expand his own influence.

He actively participated in worldly affairs, uniting his cousins ​​who were trying to abandon their false imperial beliefs, and the Mechanicus who intended to embrace the power of chaos, and making them worship him as their master.

All Falk did was to travel to his destined planet, the Heart of Hydra, defeat his enemies, and complete the ritual.

But the Lord of Iron issued a call.

Ten thousand years later, the Lord of Iron once again raised the anvil and summoned his offspring.

So the Warsmith abandoned his cooperation with Abaddon, rejected the Chaos decorations on his body that made him less steely, donned the MK4 with no paint left except for the shoulder armor, and chose to come to his father's side.

My father needs me.

Thinking this, Falk's gaze grew increasingly serious and cautious.

Having submitted their boarding permits and assembled at the 'Steelblood' in Cambridge, the various generations of Tridents, seeing the Iron Lord's somber figure, all sensed that the Father of Genesis was not in a good mood.

Unhappy.

This is normal.

Peturabo has only ever shown them two faces in the past.

Unhappy, and very unhappy.

This allowed them to keenly control their breathing and keep their bodies upright like statues.

The Trident members are the elite of the elite. Their long experience of dealing with Peturabo tells them that they should remain silent at this moment and try not to make any noise, lest they end up like some unlucky guy next to them, getting dragged out, beaten up, and sent to the Fearless.

Having finally been summoned by the Primarch again, it's not good if the Primarch dislikes them for whatever reason.

Looking at the imposing figure surrounded by the iron-ringed robots, Falk couldn't help but glance with disgust at the Dreadnought beside him, the Dreadnought known as Besoros.

The commander of the second battalion of the Berossos Iron Warriors Legion lost to the Imperial Fist's Pharax due to a strategic error in the Battle of Fal, which led to the Imperial Fist boarding the Ironblood, and the Primarch directly confronting the Imperial Fist's boarding force.

From that moment on, Peturabo’s wrath fell upon him, and at his Primarch’s command, Berossos’s remains were finally placed in a fearless place, a humiliation that had tormented him for centuries.

The other trident members also loathed it.

It was because of this fool that they completely lost the Primarch's trust.

Some people glanced at Fricks, who was lost in thought, hoping that this Terran veteran, who had been highly valued by Peturabo in the past, would say something.

But Fricks just stared blankly ahead, as if he had lost his soul.

Time passed like this minute by minute.

As Peturabo continued to critique the megastructures and redesigned better solutions for those facilities to place in the Ironblood's data center, several days had already passed for the Ironblood.

The Iron Lord glanced back at the tridents that still stood tall.

The Tridents knelt on one knee, motionless and solemn. Perturabo first looked at the leader of his Trident. To be honest, he still couldn't imagine that such a commander with extraordinary wisdom and excellent organizational skills would stand behind the unremarkable Falk.

He met Fricks' gaze and saw only weariness and indifference in it; even his kneeling motion slowed down by half a beat.

But Peturabo did not use this as a pretext to accuse the other party of not being tough enough, nor did he resort to physical violence.

His illusions about war were shattered, and like Peturabo himself, he could only continue down the path of heresy. Unlike Peturabo, Fricks did this simply because he had no other choice.

Perturabo saw this; Frick was no longer as afraid of his wrath as others. He had only come to obey his superior, Frick's, orders.

His son was nothing but a walking corpse.

“Stand up, Fricks.”

Peturabo is getting closer.

He wasn't wearing a helmet, and his face had turned a necrotic, faded, deathly pale, like a corpse dragged out of an abyss.

Thick data transmission cables were embedded in his skull, hissing as his brain thought, while his dark eyes shone brightly.

As the King of Steel approached, the surrounding Steel Warriors all lowered their heads.

Fricks silently stood up.

The Lord of Iron raised his palm.

Falk closed his eyes, unable to bear watching.

He had been demanding that Fricks accept the Blessing of Chaos, but the other party had consistently refused, and it was unclear whether he could withstand the beatings of the Ascended Primarch.

Almost everyone, including himself, believed that this was yet another instance of the Iron Lord venting his emotions through abuse.

That's how it always has been.

slap~
A crisp echo.

That was the echo of a steel-clad hand slapping against the shoulder armor.

It was not heavy, nor did it make any creaking sounds of being unable to bear the weight.

One second, two seconds.
"Fricks, I need you."

The Lord of Iron spoke.

His face was tense, revealing neither joy nor anger, and his tone was unusually calm, as if he had rehearsed it countless times.

A suffocating silence filled the air.

Frix stared blankly at Peturabo, his numb eyes suddenly sparkling with life, as if a puppet had been brought to life.

Falk stared blankly at the ground, his eyes wide, instinctively wanting to attribute the Primarch's unintentional display of gentleness to Frick's slow reaction, and then regretting that it wasn't he who was slow to react.

Five seconds, six seconds.
"I need to wage a war, and I need you, my right-hand man, you will continue to be my trident."

The Primarch's voice was unusually calm, devoid of any emotion.

Even so, it sounded like heavenly music in the mind of the Iron Warrior.

Fricks' eyes became increasingly lively, even taking on a thin layer of mist.

Ten seconds, eleven seconds.
"Respond to me, respond to your Primarch."

That steely voice rang out again, piercing deeply into Fricks' eardrums and completely awakening the sleeping soul within.

"The Primarch of Energy".

This made Fricks murmur unconsciously, before he suddenly realized what was happening and forced his body to make the most steely sound.

This made Peturabo's lips curl into a smile.

This proves that his words were effective.

Yes, this is him, these are his descendants, and his descendants should rightfully belong to his ranks and fight for him.

"So, let's talk."

In a good mood, the Primarch put down the Broken Forge and placed his palm flat on the table.

A holographic projection unfolds.

This is a kind of 'mini-game' commonly used within the Iron Warriors. It's a simulation sandbox that they often use for tactical communication. Peturabo also frequently uses this type of sandbox to test his offspring and determine if they have the talent for command.

"Just like before, let me get to know you now through a match, let me see if my commander can still fulfill his duties."

He looked at Fricks.

Watching the steel warrior transform from a corpse into a living person in less than thirty seconds.

He wasn't looking at him.

Fricks picked up the rank insignia.

But so what?

(End of this chapter)