Warhammer 40: My Fiancée Fulgrim.

Chapter 163 Left Brain Attacks Right Brain, Twisting Replaces Thinking

Olympia.

A light rain had recently dissipated on the earth.

The parched ground eagerly absorbed the nourishing fresh water, causing the soil to briefly turn a darker hue.

He walked along this path.

His name is Peturabo.

Peturabo then began his climb.

Perhaps they don't know the purpose of their climb, nor do they understand any memories other than their own name.

But he continued to climb.

The mountain range, sharp as a knife, cuts off the horizon, and a magnificent and complex city rises abruptly before it.

As he walked along the rugged mountain path, he was accompanied by four men in gold and white armor, two in front and two behind, escorting him to the city to meet the king.

Although they were nominally guards, they all seemed to know that their presence was not comparable to that of Peturabo.

If he had even the slightest desire to escape, the guards would not have been able to stop him in the slightest.

The mountain path after the rain was filled with the mixed smell of rainwater and earth. As Peturabo walked up the mountain path, he looked at the thorny bushes on both sides of the road and classified them into each family and genus.

The formation and evolution of these geological conditions, the interaction between extraterrestrial plants and local natural environments, and how plants transplanted from other planets adapted to the local ecological environment and thus evolved their own characteristics.
No, there's no need to think about these things; they're irrelevant to his itinerary.

He took a deep breath, excited by the smell of rain, and in the next instant, he simultaneously formulated hypotheses in his mind about "where the rain comes from" and "why it affects the world in this way."

Everything happened so naturally.

Knowledge entered his mind without him even consciously recalling it.

Peturabo did not attempt to analyze or calculate; his brain simply began to function on its own the moment his eyes received the information.

For him, these were all novel experiences.

Perhaps as a newborn, he doesn't know where his innate abilities come from, but what he does know is that he is carrying wisdom far beyond his age.

"It will be very dangerous ahead."

One of the guards stopped at a narrow platform in front of the stone steps.

He reached out his hand, breaking the long-standing silence among them.

"I don't need help."

Peturabo declined the other party's offer.

He never needed these things, even though he had no memory of human civilization on this planet.

But he still doesn't need it.

Low-lying clouds turned into mist, tumbling down the cliffs and into the valley, revealing diamond-like stars.

The swirling stars twinkled in the sky.

It was still staring at itself.

Peturabona's analytical mind, capable of processing everything it saw, was rendered powerless upon encountering him. To the magnificent vortex appearing in the starry sky, he could only sense the other's malevolent gaze.

Nothing else.

Peturabo had asked his guards about this, but they all seemed to ignore it.

He possessed wisdom, and the eyes of wisdom allowed him to see things that ordinary people could not.

This is a truth that the mediocre people of Olympia cannot comprehend.

He was not afraid of it, so he ignored this meaningless emotion and focused his attention on the world beneath his bare feet.

He continued climbing.

Peturabo is growing up.

Although his appearance seemed to have nothing to do with a "boy", it seemed that others did not care about Peturabo's understanding of logic, art and philosophy.

As the adopted son of the Olympian tyrant Damikos, Peturabo displayed extraordinary talent.

Whether it's mathematics, architecture, or art aesthetics, Peturabo has his own insights—he wants to transform the city into a larger and more beautiful entity.

But the other party only saw, or rather only wanted to see, the sharp blade he had forged.

The tyrant only wanted to use him to solidify his own hegemony.

Peturabo, with his innate analytical abilities, reached this conclusion in an instant.

In fact, Peturabo did not like the almost limitless knowledge that he was born with in his brain.

These experiences and knowledge deprived him of the ability to feel surprise, preventing him from ever experiencing the simple curiosity and emotion of appreciating things, and instead only deconstructing and analyzing them.

Analysis
He quickly came to a conclusion.

They're all idiots.

The combined attacks from the endless stream of political opportunists, superstitious religious priests, Luddites filled with fear of the future, and ignorant skeptics within the royal court left him utterly speechless.

Is knowledge a blessing or a more vicious curse, condemning a genius to spend his entire life among mediocre people on this planet?

The vortex of stars was still watching him, just as it had when he first had memories of climbing the mountain.

The Star Vortex is merely a description of the state of this malevolent gazer, and in the future, Perturabo may give it a more fitting name.

—【The Eye of Fear】

But Peturabo was not a tyrant.

(At least not yet)

He was a cultured scholar and a gentle pacifist.

Filled with ideals of peace, freedom, and enlightenment, he designed exquisite theaters, museums, and bridges for Olympia.

Faced with the brink of an intractable war, Peturabo also strives to avoid conflict through diplomatic means as much as possible.

Compared to his other brothers and sisters he will meet among the stars in the future, his situation is significantly better.

Although Peturab's tyrannical foster father viewed him as an invincible weapon, he also groomed Peturab as his successor.

Moreover, he also has an older sister who loves him deeply.

Kelly Fanny.

As the daughter of a tyrant, she consistently supported Peturab's ideas, even when other politicians and priests found them incomprehensible.

This made him grateful for the other party's support.

But that's about it.

After all, supporting one's own ideas as a wise person is the most basic requirement that any intelligent person must meet.

Kelly Fanny simply demonstrated her righteousness through her actions, which was indeed several points superior to the other fools on Olympia.

But this was not enough to make Peturabo develop an inappropriate emotional awareness of what she should have done right.

Ok.

That's right, that's it.

As time went by, Peturabo's disgust with his situation deepened.

He had conquered almost every piece of land on the planet for his tyrannical foster father, but it seemed that people's greed for power was still insatiable.

To ensure that everything they have acquired in life will not turn to dust after death, tyrants' lust for power only grows stronger with age.

As for the rest of the planet...
Even the most learned sage is nothing more than a useless person who can only recite ancient books verbatim.

They denied the existence of stars in the sky, denied Peturabo's vision of the future universe, and denied all knowledge beyond the established impressions in their minds.

Staying in Olympia, clinging to their past beliefs until they die, is the best they can do.

As for the extragalactic world and the star vortex that has always existed in the sky?

I'm sorry, I don't care.

Everything they asked for or needed from Peturabo had only one purpose—

arms.

A weapon capable of conquering everything.

For uncivilized people, this was the ultimate destination of all languages ​​on Olympia—only by possessing weapons could they possess the power to interpret philosophy, literature, and art, and the power to ensure that the magnificent buildings created by their architecture would stand forever.

And this power resides within Peturabo, within his mind.

He wanted to escape, but he couldn't.

Even from beyond the stars, the newcomer was still after the power within his mind that served as a weapon.

Rather than architects, artists, diplomats, or philosophers.

But this is still an opportunity for Peturabo.

This would give him the opportunity to escape the mundane world of Olympia.

"That's right!"

“Yes,” said Perturapa, “I beg you!” He was almost delirious with amazement at the miracle. “I ask for nothing more! I swear I will serve you faithfully forever, this is my vow.”

Almost in a groveling manner, he begged the golden being before him to take him off this planet.

Perturabbe cheered without restraint. Finally, he felt an overwhelming sense of acceptance. Love emanated from the Emperor, enveloping his found son. Perturabbe was bathed in it. For the first time, he felt a true sense of belonging.

"Then get up, my child."

The sadness in the golden figure's words vanished in an instant.

Unfortunately, it is only today that Peturabo has come to know an eternal truth that exists in the universe.

Human folly does not entirely correspond to the planet they inhabit.

Even within the human empire, there are countless fools, more than Perturabo could ever imagine, who are hindering Perturabo's progress.

As a Primarch—though he didn't care what this status, far superior to that of other humans, meant—he knew he had led a powerful legion capable of participating in intergalactic expeditions.

A very powerful legion, it is said.

It is said that these Space Marines called "Iron Warriors" have inherited Perturabo's superhuman genes to some extent, so their tactical choices and applications in war tend to be more in line with Perturabo's personality.

This statement made him somewhat hopeful.

If that's the case, then the Iron Warrior, who possesses superhuman intelligence like Perturabo, must be invincible and unstoppable in war, right?
After all, he is his son, inheriting his personality and wisdom.

While pride and complacency are not good qualities, for Perturabo, a Primarch, a superhuman demigod, no amount of praise can more accurately describe him.

Let him see what these rascals have accomplished.

With an almost imperceptible smile, Perturabo confidently picked up the storage board containing the combat data of the Iron Warrior Legion.

"Eleven draws and eliminations."

The first thing Peturab did after reuniting with the Legion was to learn about the Legion's battle history.

The second thing is the eleven-draw lottery.

One soldier was randomly executed for every ten soldiers by drawing lots.

The Fourth Army had recently fought a disastrous battle.

These idiots!

Stubborn in tactical choices and fixated on minor details during tactical execution.

Lacking tactical flexibility, they fail to adapt to unexpected situations, only knowing how to increase troop deployment and continue to be brutally beaten.

There wasn't a single tactical element to be seen; it was always about overwhelming the enemy with sheer firepower and numerical superiority!

These useless fools finally managed to defeat the enemy at the cost of 29,000 Astartes casualties plus 2 million auxiliary troops!

This can no longer be called a Pyrrhic victory.

This is a failure, a complete and utter failure!

Father?

You think you're worthy to call me father after being beaten like this?
I am not your father, nor do I have such foolish sons as you!
Damn it, even after going into space, humanity's stupidity hasn't changed in the slightest!

They're just more numerous and less intelligent.

The more planets he conquers, even those Primarchs that show no signs of aging, will he only be able to lead these mentally challenged soldiers around the world to fight the most disgusting and difficult battles, and then die in humiliation in these cesspool-like battlefields?

How then can he realize his ideal future as an architect and a philosopher?

Why can't these idiots ever, ever understand his thoughts and wisdom?!

Peturabo was furious.

"what!!!"

He reached out and swept away all those stupid things that had no value in living.

"brother."

Countless exquisite iron ring robots and tank models were slammed off the table and onto the ground by Peturabo's large hands. Some were even smashed to pieces by Peturabo's powerful force, exposing their delicate tiny parts and constantly operating mechanical devices.

Even though they were nearly destroyed, these models were still making tiny clicking sounds.

The fact that such tiny models can retain their miniature weapons as if they existed in reality is enough to imagine how much effort must have been put into designing, manufacturing, and assembling them.

But in the battle just now, they were all wiped out by Peturabo with a single slap.

"."

Peturabo and Mortalian, sitting opposite him and unsure how to react, remained frozen in their seats, saying nothing.

"Please forgive me, Mortalian. I apologize for my out-of-control behavior just now."

After remaining silent for nearly half a minute, Peturabo removed his right hand from his face and bent down to pick up the many war game models he had scattered on the ground.

Iron Blood.

This flagship from the Iron Warriors is equipped with terrifying firepower that other legions could hardly imagine.

As a result, the ship's hull appeared somewhat bulky.

But that's not all; the Ironblood warship also replaced all the portholes on board.

Petrabo's cold-blooded war logic held that it was extremely foolish to observe the enemy with the naked eye through a window.

Visual observation of the enemy can be accomplished using only a bird locator and a display screen.

Not long ago, Mortalian, the Deathguard Primarch, who was invited to travel to Lycaus with the Iron Warriors to welcome the new Primarchs back with the Sons of the Emperor, boarded this warship.

He came here to deliver the Emperor's orders.

But Peturabo doesn't seem to appreciate it very much.

"Welcoming the Primarch? What does he take me, my Legion, for? A hostess?"

"Will I have to dress up with my Legion and stand in two rows of returning Primarchs with professional fake smiles on my face when other Primarchs return in the future?"

"I'm not going! The Iron Warriors are always the ones who tackle the toughest battles, the invincible hammers, not the ones who return to their original form as mere accessories!"

Again.

Motalian sighed a thick Barbalus breath from his mouth hidden beneath the respirator.

He'd taken on a tough job this time—he might not know what kind of person the new Primarch was, but almost all Primarchs understood his personality, especially his brother Peturabo.

There are already established procedures that can be referenced.

Faced with this demand, his first reaction would certainly be a strong rebuttal.

First, there is denial.

Then, he would launch into a long tirade about the difficulties the Iron Warriors had recently faced, and vent his frustrations about the unfair treatment his legion had received.

This behavior is often accompanied by a dig at the Imperial Fist Legion, with comments implying that they are unworthy of their positions and that their honors outweigh their actual strength.

But if you listen to his account and genuinely believe that they have indeed been treated unfairly and need your legion to provide assistance—well, that's stepping on Peturabo's landmine, perfectly legitimately.

He will tell you in great anger that the Iron Warrior is steel inside and out and does not need anyone else's help.

Even with heavy casualties, they can still win the toughest battles.

The Iron Warriors need no pity!

Pity is only for the weak, while the steel warriors are tough and unyielding, and they will never need anyone's pity!

Pity is an insult to Iron Man and Perturabo!
Do not compare him to the weak and unproductive Rogdorn!
If you were to go along with him at this moment and praise the resilience of his legion's soldiers.
Another trick.

Peturabo will recount to you, filled with his own grievances, how utterly useless the soldiers of the Iron Warriors are.

He had originally devised a perfect attack plan, which, if executed correctly, would have scattered the enemy. However, due to the blunders of this group of idiots, not only did they need to deploy more reserves to reinforce the lines, but the losses were also far greater than anticipated!
Iron Warriors are a bunch of idiots!
If it weren't for Perturabo, the entire legion would be no different from the Imperial Fists!
"."

Fine.

But if he feels that Iron Warrior really doesn't need pity and help anymore, he will continue to complain in your ear like a nagging woman about the unfair treatment Iron Warrior has received: how many tough battles he fought, how many Astartes warriors he lost, and what terrifying alien forces he devoured.

The warriors of other legions either build fortifications and stay comfortably on the planets they protect without moving; or they fight extremely easy battles, in which the enemy cannot organize any effective counterattacks.

Where else can you find warriors like the Iron Warriors, who always have to fight the toughest battles in the most difficult places in the Empire?!

He will continue to proclaim everything he has done for the empire, as if all the sins were on his own shoulders.

You'll never be able to satisfy Peturabo.

"If I'm not mistaken, this will be the second to last brother we've met."

Mortalian continued to persuade, "The Great Crusade has progressed to this point, and we won't have many new brothers to meet in the future."

"Since the Iron Warriors have gone through such a difficult battle not long ago, encountering the New Primarch now is a good opportunity to relax."

Although Peturabo does not believe that

"Motalian, I'll only say it once."

"My steel warrior and I weren't designed to be receptionists!"

Peturabo firmly rejected the offer.

"Alright, bro, let's put the Primarch's return on hold for now."

"Shall we play a game of wargames first?"

As he spoke, Mortalian stretched out his right hand, displaying the newly painted war game model in his hand.

Wargaming?

Peturabo's flushed face calmed down somewhat at this moment.

He stared silently at the tall, thin man in the hooded shirt in front of him for several breaths.

".bring it on."

He did not reject wargaming.

As an architectural genius, Peturabo enjoys designing and building his own wargame pieces.

His pieces were different from others—others might just be models, but the pieces in Peturabo's hands were all scaled-down real combat machines, capable of emitting corresponding lasers and moving on their own in the game!
This will undoubtedly require a significant amount of time for research and design.

Fortunately, the reclusive Peturab had plenty of time to lock himself in his room.

To have more fun, he added various units to his legion to prepare for the challenges they would face in the future.

Therefore, he fine-tuned tens of thousands of military tables in his database, waiting for the right time to take them out and fight with his friends, and then enjoy the painful and helpless scene of the opponent losing to him!
This was a good plan, but unfortunately Peturabo encountered an extremely difficult problem:

Where are my friends?
—This is a social game; it requires at least two people to play, right?

The exquisite iron ring robot model can only gather dust in his collection room.

On one occasion when Horus visited Peturabo for a discussion, he saw these dusty war game pieces.

"Impressive. Such a powerful steel torrent, combined with your absolutely precise calculations and pinpoint kills."

“Even my Shadowmoon Wolf cannot compare to you.”

"It's just a game, nothing serious."

Peturabo's lips were practically curled up to the sky.

But he still said it.

After that, the Primarchs also learned how to deal with this eccentric guy.

He might instinctively reject you.

But as long as you play a game of wargames with him and let him have his fun, that's enough.

Let him struggle with his own thoughts for a while, and Peturabo will convince himself to retract his previous rebuttal.

This trick has been tried and tested.

That's how it should have been done.

Unfortunately, Peturabo wasn't the only conflicted person present.

It seems that Peturabo's awkwardness makes Motalian appear more straightforward and approachable.

But his old problem flared up halfway through the game.

After seeing Peturabo's automatons attacking his defenses, Mortalian, who was originally prepared to surrender, hesitated.

If he loses like this, wouldn't he lose face?
But when it comes to Motalian's forte—counter-attacking defense—he has no reason to lose to anyone.

Even releasing water is not allowed.

Then came the scene where Peturabo was the desktop cleanup master at the beginning.

According to the rules, the battle can basically be declared over.

Under the poison gas of Mortalian, even a steel torrent loaded with countless Iron Ring automatons and tanks will only weaken.

What follows is simply a period of garbage time where the opponent defends and counter-attacks, gradually eroding and eliminating them.

As the most skilled defender and counter-attack unit in the entire legion, Death Guard had been relying on its strong willpower to wear down the opponent in the wargame.

"Your wargame choices are all very correct, you even chose a fully mechanized force to counter my biological weapons."

"But in terms of your tactical choices, there's really no need to keep attacking my strongest defensive point. This will only slowly erode the advantage you established at the beginning."

Mortalian's old habits have resurfaced.

He also has a sharp tongue.

"This is me testing myself."

"This is a lack of firepower, not a tactical one."

Peturabo
He's still being stubborn.

"But brother—"

"enough!"

Peturabo shouted, "I said, that's enough."

He turned around and continued picking up his chess pieces from the ground.

"Please go back. I still have some work to do. Thank you for bringing me news of the Emperor."

Mortalian returned home in frustration.

Peturabo was left alone at the table, sulking.

Why couldn't he beat Mortalian?
Why couldn't he beat Mortalian?
Why? Why is that?

Shouldn't his command abilities, his calculations, and his mathematical skills be the strongest?
Why couldn't he even beat Mortalian in the wargaming game?

Look at that kid's paint job, it's all patchy and looks like he's been soaking in shit, it's horribly ugly!
How could anyone possibly defeat someone who can paint even chess pieces like this?

Ugh!
There must be a problem with the game's balance. It's not his fault; it's that the Death Guard's rules are too strong.

Wait for the next nerf.

Peturabo consoled himself.

Right, what did he say earlier? To go and meet the new Primarch with the Emperor's Son and the Death Guard, that should be it.

The emperor's son; it seems this is the first time the two legions have worked together.

Peturabo recalled that there seemed to be a commander's think tank in this legion, and it was the only commander's think tank.

He possesses extremely strong psychic prophetic abilities, enabling him to predict future events with absolute accuracy.

What was that person's name again? Casca. Yes, Casca.

A guy who can predict the future and know what will happen in the future.
How stupid!

Peturabo thought dismissively.

Only the most ignorant and foolish theists would believe in the existence of fate and prophecy!
Should he listen to what this person predicted?
No.

He won't listen.

But he will travel to the flagship of the Emperor's Sons Legion to meet this person.

The others were there for prophecy, but Peturabo was there to expose this charlatan and to prevent the Primarchs from being deceived!

Unlike those mediocre people who are merely curious about his existence and prophecies!

He's different from them!
He wanted to see Casca, but he also didn't want to see Casca—or rather, the reason he wanted to see Casca was precisely because he didn't want to see Casca.

This was all in order to expose his tricks and fulfill my duty to prevent my brothers and sisters from being deceived by him again.

That's right, that's it.

The left brain attacks the right brain, and twisting replaces thinking.

Tell Mortalian I will go to Lycaea.

He gave orders to his trident-wielding men.

(End of this chapter)