Warhammer: I don't want to become a stinky can!

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But in some hidden corner, wouldn't he feel even the slightest bit of curiosity about what the emperor had just said?

He listened a little more, thinking that the decision-making power was still on his side.

"Madam, my requirement is for them to be absolutely loyal to me. They will fear me, but at the same time, they will crave my rewards. They will become generals who expand the empire's territory. Therefore, loyalty is essential."

"They must be absolutely loyal; this will be the deepest code etched into their physical genes, encoded on the double helix, flowing in their blood."

Perturabo looked at his hands with trembling hands. Emperor, he thought, loyalty.

General… Perturabo clearly sensed who the Emperor was referring to; he was referring to the Primarchs, Perturabo thought, trembling.

When he craved the emperor's reward, when he resented others receiving honors, when the spoils of war were presented to him time and again, when he secretly hoped... Peturabo was ashamed to admit it, but... but... it must have been from the heart, a son's admiration for his father, a general's loyalty to the emperor, and not... not...

It was deliberately designed by the emperor.

Moreover, Peturab thought, what pronoun did the emperor… his father, use to refer to his son?

it?

it?!

Perturabo seemed to freeze in place, a faint voice in his mind still telling him that it was all an illusion, a lie by the warp creatures—but Perturabo could never mistake the Emperor!

Countless times he waited for the Emperor's gaze to shift from among the many Primarchs to him; countless times he bled, all for the dream he spoke of. He picked up a knife and a sword, not a pen and blueprints, all for him! For the Emperor!

And he didn't even glance at him!

Peturab could have deceived himself by claiming that the Emperor trusted him, and that he trusted him so that he entrusted him with tasks time and time again.

But now... now... he doesn't know.

Perturabo remained silent. At this moment, his heart stopped beating and he stopped breathing, as if he were only waiting for the emperor's words, words that were like a judgment.

"They are all inherently dangerous, so I need to restrain them with physical genes so that they can better serve the Empire. Genetics is of paramount importance, and this step cannot be neglected."

nature,

Peturabo thought blankly, recalling Vashtor's words, which he had captured and distorted in their essence.

So what exactly are we? What exactly am I?

Perturabo's brain trembled. He was the emperor's fourth son, a general of the empire, a steel warrior... His thoughts paused for a moment. He was... he was what he called "it," something bound by flesh, something genetically engineered to be loyal and filial.

Peturabo suddenly realized that the roaring sound of the instruments he was hearing was very similar to the sound of the Geller force field in operation.

He couldn't help but slide towards the abyss, but he still didn't fall.

The Emperor's voice faded into the distance, and the sound of his boots on the ground quietly receded. It seemed that the Emperor had gone to check other experimental areas, no longer striding out as he had initially planned. Peturabo cautiously poked his head out from the instrument.

With just one glance, he saw the subspace entity imprisoned within the giant nutrient tube, which faintly resonated with him.

Perturabo's vision went black; his body fell backward uncontrollably, plunging into the dark swamp—

When Peturabo opened his eyes again, he found himself lying on the deck of the Ironblood.

He stood up blankly and saw that the entire fleet of Steel Warriors was intact, without a trace of rust, and without any exhibitionist cables or nonsensical metal. They were perfectly intact, clean and shiny, as if nothing had happened.

The first thing Peturabo did was check the ammunition level in his Terminator armor. The bullets that had been fired at Vashtor were indeed fewer, which seemed to be the only evidence that all that chaos had happened.

But then Peturabo realized that it had indeed all happened.

He looked at the steel warriors on the deck who seemed to be on routine guard duty. He was about to call the soldier over, but the moment the thought crossed his mind, the soldier had already turned around and walked towards him.

Peturab watched in astonishment as his son approached. In the instant his attention shifted to the soldier, he knew all his stats: height, weight, muscle density, and proficiency with various weapons—but not his name.

Perturabo asked him to remove his helmet, and the Primarch tried to grasp the idea. The Iron Warrior obediently removed his helmet, though Perturabo did not recognize this offspring.

But he named it A00001. Then, Peturabo looked down and, through the deck, the data rushed toward him like a sea.

Perturabo gasped for breath, unsure how to react. This…unbelievable…unbelievable…but Perturabo was certain he was the sole master of these soldiers. The data tube inserted into his skull hummed, reminding him of the hallucinations, no, of the instruments in reality, of that fleeting glimpse.

This is... this is his original ability.

This is an ability that the creature called "Peturabo" possessed from the very beginning.

The warp washed away their souls—or rather, weakened them enough for Peturabo to take them over.

Perturabo chuckled incredulously. Was there truly goodwill in the warp? Was Magnus telling the truth?

impossible.

After realizing he had gained this new ability, Peturabo spent a day getting used to it, while controlling the Iron Warriors to inspect every corner of the fleet. The Iron Warriors' ships remained as new and clean as if they had never entered the warp.

The fleet was anchored where Vashtor had first brought them. After a moment's thought, Peturabo decided to lead the fleet to a physically stable location in this space—he had no immediate plans to make a warp jump.

This new ability greatly alleviated Peturabo's previous frustration. These fools would no longer make mistakes, would no longer stammer to tell him that the plague was spreading, would no longer quarrel in private about trivial matters, and would no longer rebel for petty gains. They would only obey him and follow his orders completely.

Peturabo confirmed it repeatedly, and finally he accepted the fact that the entire fleet was now completely under his command.

However, the Steel Lord's sense of crisis did not subside, and the entire fleet went into a state of combat readiness. After much hesitation, Peturabo ultimately did not choose to call for help from the nearby Imperial fleet. The Steel Warriors began to try to colonize the nearby star system while the main fleet maintained the highest level of alert.

Silent and perfectly efficient soldiers worked like true war machines, while Peturabo himself did not appear. Inside the laboratory, Peturabo raised his bare arm and stared at the perfect arm... as if he could see through the skin, through the blood, and see those tiny, delicate things.

Impossible, Peturabo thought. Full-body gene editing needs to be done in childhood, and even if he realized this now, it would all be in vain.

But he still punctured his skin with the syringe, watching the bright red blood seep out.

Peturabo placed his blood under the instrument, taking that futile step as if only by seeing it could he give up and accept reality.

He may have spent a long time without anyone disturbing him; perhaps the flow of time near the Eye of Fear is inherently flawed; or perhaps he himself is the one who has been forgotten...abandoned.

Finally, he unlocked the last genetic lock.

No… Peturabo thought, you’ll only give up now. You’re an adult now, and gene editing can only work when you’re young.

But he still looked at the screen.

……

Peturabo swallowed silently.

He saw that loyalty gene, which had been partially knocked out, as if it was about to fall off.

He could easily remove it now.

That gene brutally interfered with the expression of several nearby genes, and Peturabo's eye twitched.

He suddenly remembered... he had no childhood memories.

Peturabo looked up and saw the eyes of fear staring at him through the deck.

There is no time in the warp… Perturabo thought slowly. He had lost his childhood memories, but he remembered the Eye of Fear…

After a long period of silence, the Iron Warriors' fleet once again opened the Mandeville Point in the warp.

Combined, 4.9k, no more today!

Ohhhhh!

Chapter 389 Father and Son

The Ironblood drifted silently in its orbit, on the outermost edge of the galaxy, while the fifth patrol fleet dispatched to the subspace was tossed about by the waves of the subspace.

Perturabo was initially worried that the distance between the warp and the physical universe would sever his control over the Iron Warriors, but now he realized he had worried too much. As of now, distance is not a reason to weaken his control over the soldiers.

Millions of real-time maps were running through his mind, but they were no longer deductions or simulations; they were real events happening every moment. The Iron Lord enjoyed the process, finally free from the torment of his failing subordinates.

In the gaps of his thoughts, the Lord of Steel would sometimes think of the steel warriors he had exiled to his base. He tried to recall them, but their data did not appear naturally—he could not control them.

This may be a good thing or a bad thing. The Lord of Steel wants to experiment his abilities on his forgotten offspring, to gain information, and to make everything more efficient. The only price is the erasure of their personalities.

To some extent, Perturabau felt a pang of regret for some of the warriors he admired, but these feelings were quickly erased. As the Primarch who had carried out the eleventh slaughter of the Legion, he would not invest too much unnecessary emotion in his offspring.

Now, within the Iron Warriors' fleet, the warriors quietly carried out their work, just like... just like the dolls of Perturabo's sister. Perturabo realized he could expend excess energy to bring them to "life," but that was unnecessary now.

He has more important things to do.

The Iron Warriors' fleet is colonizing the Eye of Fear at a terrifying pace, searching for resources, building infrastructure, and establishing supply lines. Peturabo doesn't know why he's doing this, but he wants to, and that's all—

In this brief respite, he did what he wanted to do: as an architect, he built, created rather than destroyed, and his newly acquired abilities made building even more interesting, as he "personally" participated in the stacking of every tiny detail.

Of course, for some more subtle and imperceptible reason, Peturabo did not choose to build humanistic buildings, lecture halls, or clock towers, as these were unnecessary because no one would enjoy them.

He chose those buildings he was so familiar with that he was numb to them: trenches, airports... those buildings that had shaped him into a war machine.

This was to prepare for potential dangers, Peturabo thought. He repeatedly confirmed that he was in the real world, and Peturabo would not venture into the warp again until he was fully prepared.

Nothing can interrupt the Iron Lord's construction, except—

Peturab rose from his Iron Throne for the first time and walked out of the corridor.

No one informed him, and busy people silently brushed past him. Normally, he would have been annoyed by their rudeness, but not now.

He walked onto the deck of the Ironblood, and just as the Lord of Steel stood still, the object was simultaneously placed firmly on the deck by the elevator of the fifth exploration team.

It was almost swept up by the subspace turbulence and delivered to the Fifth Exploration Team's ship, where the instrument was emitting a calm hum, and the liquid inside was gurgling.

Peturabo stared at the incubator, the curtains beginning to flutter. This was perhaps the necessary price to pay if he wanted to stay here; he would have to endure it.

He silently took a step forward, and everyone working on the deck stopped and turned to stare at the smooth, docile, and quiet nursery.

Perturabo felt his heart pounding faster and faster, pounding at an unbelievable frequency. He felt dizzy and incredulous. Up until now, he still felt that all of this was unreal, but the fleet of Iron Warriors had been under construction within the Eye of Fear for three years.

Nothing happened. There was no rust, no monsters of iron and fire, not even offspring. For the past three years, Peturabo's entire world consisted only of himself.

Now he's all alone.

In disbelief, Peturabo made an impulsive decision: instead of ordering his soldiers to handle it, he went over himself and stared at the small, wriggling piece of flesh.

He shattered the transparent protective shell with a single punch, and Peturabo's hand churned in the viscous liquid, pulling the child out with overwhelming force, yanking him out of his protective shell.

He felt a burning sensation when he touched his skin. Perturabo knew it was his imagination, but his hand continued to twitch. With a snap, he involuntarily released his grip, and the baby slammed heavily onto the Ironblood floor.

He watched him struggle, he was soaking wet, and he opened his eyes, staring at Peturabo in horror.

The moment the baby opened its eyes, everyone on the Ironblood, who had been still, began to work again. The deck commander shouted and waved his baton, the soldiers changing shifts bumped fists to signal each other, and the returning crew members laughed and talked.

He stared at him.

Your name is Peturabo.

Peturabo spoke slowly, his voice barely audible amidst the noise of the deck, but something was growing wildly inside him.

Now, stand up and follow me. If you show weakness, I will kill you.

Little Peturabo watched as the enormous creature turned and left without hesitation. After pondering the possibility of escape for a moment, he finally decided to stagger after him.

His long, damp eyelashes trembled, and the child looked around at the people on the deck with confusion and fear, who automatically ignored the two of them.

--------

Peturabo sat silently on the floor in the empty room, which was devoid of any furniture. He was given only a pen and a stack of books, taller than himself, piled up beside him.

He quietly wrote and drew in the book, formulas were written down under his pen, and that's how time passed during most of his dark and gloomy days.

He disappointed his adoptive father once again.

Peturabo's consciousness subtly touched upon this idea, and his heart trembled violently, enough to make his body tremble as well. However, after his adoptive father had suffocated him in the pool for showing cowardice for the first time, he tried his best to suppress any action that might reveal cowardice.

Steel inside and out.

Peturabo silently repeated the words to himself, hoping that he would be ready again, rather than disappointing his adoptive father. In most cases, his adoptive father would not punish him; he would simply ignore Peturabo, disregard him, and give him no attention.

Little Peturabo craved his adoptive father's attention. How did this desire grow and take root in his heart? He didn't know, but by the time he realized it, he was already doing everything he could to please his adoptive father.

Peturabo thought that his adoptive father was not an unreasonable person, and his pen unconsciously made scribbling marks on the paper.

On the contrary, he absolutely loves himself, Peturabo thought.

Otherwise, he wouldn't have unconsciously patted his head after the mission was completed, wouldn't have promised him new formulas and books, wouldn't have taught him combat skills without reservation, wouldn't have spent a lot of time and energy checking his body, and wouldn't have told him stories of those great architects.

His adoptive father hoped that he would become strong, strong enough to be steel inside and out.

He needed to meet his adoptive father's expectations in order to receive something in return—perhaps a trip or a new book—rather than the indifference and neglect that would follow his adoptive father's disappointment. Perhaps more than any reward, young Peturabo longed for his adoptive father to even look at him.

In his world, only his adoptive father pays attention to him; everyone else ignores little Peturabo. They are also his adoptive father's appendages; they will not change or influence anything. This world does not belong to them.

After many attempts, Peturabo Jr. gave up trying to get their attention; he didn't need them, just as they didn't need him.

He once asked his adoptive father about the reward after a successful mission. His adoptive father replied that there was no need for him to pay attention to the weak. This world belongs only to the strong, and the whole world revolves around the strongest person. If you can't become the strongest, then you should at least know how to grovel before the strong.

Peturabo's life experience told him this was true: no one disobeyed his adoptive father; everyone else was worthless, only his adoptive father had value.

Only the strongest have value, only the father has value.

he thinks.