Ahriman did not like Perturabo.
However, that did not stop him from admiring the beauty of the art shaped by the Gene-Seed Primarch.
Listening to Magnus's son's reminder through the Psychic communication while feeling his unrestrained admiration for the scene before him, a thought named 'amusing' couldn't help but arise in Morgan's mind.
Such a scene was understandable, after all, Perturabo—regardless of his personality—was indeed a master of architecture and art.
Everyone knew that Dorn of Inwit and his Imperial Fists were the creators of countless fortresses, yet they didn't know that the Iron Warriors and its Primarch were actually more skilled in this regard; it was just that their talents rarely had a chance to be displayed.
Unlike its rugged and majestic exterior, the interior of Fort Salimarvis had been transformed by Perturabo into an artwork filled with intricate and digital aesthetics, much like an Emperor's palace from ancient legends: the walls were polished marble, adorned with black lamp holders, golden patterns, huge tapestries, and scattered paintings, clean, neat, and orderly.
And in the gaps of these decorations, Morgan could see the hidden firing ports and covert sentry posts, distributed at the corners of corridors and around the main halls, enough to turn the entire fortress into a silent graveyard in an instant.
The group advanced steadily under the Primarch's leadership, quickly passing through the initial antechamber and then through a secret room filled with thinkers and technical terms, where busy Mechanicus personnel worked, their electronic screens flickering with messages from all over the world.
Tens of thousands of messages were filtered and processed in the calculations of these visitors from Mars, from ship loading to material resupply; the vast amount of data was enough to easily exhaust any advisory staff composed of mortals, and even the elites of the Mechanicus could only ensure that these data did not contain overly severe errors; as for the more precise calculations and decisions, they could only entrust them to a more mysterious and core room within the secret chamber.
Specifically, that room was a mezzanine, connected by a wide staircase, appearing from the outside like a square processing workshop, emitting a mixed scent of precious metals and industrial grease.
When they walked in, Perturabo himself was there.
If every warrior of the Fourth Legion was a freely moving and fighting piece of iron, then this Gene-Seed Primarch of the Fourth Legion could be said to be the living embodiment of the word 'Iron'.
Every piece of armor, every chain, and even every screw on Perturabo was crafted by his own hands, making him look like a rock sculpture with a human face; he was slightly shorter than his brothers but still a giant that an Astartes would look up to, his chiseled, hard features forming the complete exterior of a great monster hunter, a ruthless, ever-victorious general, and a divinely gifted art master.
"You are too slow, Magnus; we don't have time for you to delay now."
Perturabo's voice echoed like thunder in the secret room, and Magnus merely spread his hands in an apologetic gesture, in return to his brother.
With great difficulty, the Gene-Seed Primarch of the Fourth Legion embraced his brother for a moment, and the drafting instrument he held tightly in his hand was thus revealed to the high-ranking officers of the Thousand Sons Legion; they could see it was covered with countless data: loading rates, travel times, cargo capacity, fuel reserves, convoy rotations, population influx, food and water supply, air-drop arrangements, and hundreds of variables involved in the evacuation equation.
"Those numbers…"
Atawa, always known for his ruthless computational ability, quietly lamented to his brothers.
"They are too many… They make me dizzy… They overwhelm me like a tide."
Ahriman and Focis did not reply, but their equally serious expressions were the best answer; none of the three noticed Morgan, whose face was normal, as she was intently studying the numbers.
In almost a single breath, Morgan blinked and shifted her attention elsewhere.
"My advisors, you can also call them my Trident."
After a brief greeting, Perturabo pointed to the only two Iron Warriors behind him.
"This is Haka, the other is Balban-Falk, as for Felix, he's outside in command."
"Ahriman, my right hand, the Legion's First Company Commander."
"Atawa and Focis, my senior Psychics."
"Psychic? I thought you had decided to abandon this project, Magnus; our father and some brothers may not like this."
"At least Sanguinius supports me; on this matter, he is truly a smart man."
"Then I can only hope you will be careful enough… Hmm?"
Perturabo seemed about to say more about Psychic powers, but his gaze was quickly drawn to the only mortal present.
"This mortal, my brother Magnus, what role does she play in your Legion?"
"This is Morgan, Ms. Morgan, my Legion's senior advisor, and also one of the Psychic candidates."
As soon as Magnus finished speaking, the silver-haired female officer could feel Focis's gaze, a kind of hostility mixed with astonishment.
"A mortal?"
"She is a smart, diligent, and exceptionally capable mortal; you know, Perturabo, I will not refuse any capable thinker."
"I hope she is truly as you say."
The Lord of Iron waved, signaling his subordinates to continue their work, while he walked to the western edge of the secret room, pressed a switch, and a huge window emerged from its concealment, through which the entire city of Kalena could be easily seen.
As a relic of the Golden Age, Kalena was a city that perfectly blended history and glory; Magnus spent a second marveling at its ingenious layout, then his gaze was drawn to the truly important matter.
"The Steadfast Light, I plan to reactivate it."
Perturabo's voice came from beside him, and what he pointed to was the huge colonial ship in the center of Kalena City; it was this ancient behemoth that carried the first human colonists here millennia ago, creating everything belonging to Dawn Star, and now, it stood there as a pure monument.
"It is already a relic, Perturabo, a pure antique."
Even Magnus was surprised by his brother's brief declaration of ambition; he quickly stepped forward, carefully gazing at the colossal ship, and soon discovered that it was already covered with dense steel: Perturabo's sons and Mechanicus laborers were at work.
"Do you really intend to activate it? Entrust the lives of hundreds of thousands of refugees to an… antique?"
"I have no choice, Magnus."
Perturabo's hand pointed to his workbench, which was already filled with numerous charts and blueprints; Magnus could recognize some of them as data for various cross-orbital transporters.
"Our cross-orbital transporters can perform approximately 200 launches per day, carrying sixty to seventy thousand people away from this dying world to board our fleet; this is still an ideal scenario where ground launch centers are undisturbed, and you and I both know how severe the panic among the populace is right now."
"But that's not the most serious part: the entire population of Dawn Star exceeds two million, and your and my fleets combined are only a few dozen ships; even if every compartment is packed, we can only evacuate no more than one point six million people, and within these last three months, our fleet simply cannot complete round trips between the nearest habitable worlds and Dawn Star."
"In other words, if I don't activate it, then one-fifth of this world's population will be abandoned and die in despair."
Magnus breathed heavily, lowering his head; he could not refute his brother: the Thousand Sons Legion had arrived more than fifty days earlier than the Iron Warriors, but these numbers had never appeared so clearly in his mind.
"You are right, brother…"
Just as Magnus's low voice began to echo, perhaps to alleviate his father's embarrassment, or perhaps simply because he genuinely believed it, Focis of the Thousand Sons Legion stepped forward, indicating he wished to speak.
"We actually don't need to take such a risk, my Lords."
"Why?"
The Thousand Sons Psychic handed the thick document in his hand to Perturabo; it was Hathor and others' report on evacuating the populace worldwide.
"Many people on this world refuse to evacuate; in those remote, wild mountain villages, they are simply unwilling to obey our orders and leave their homeland, and even in the cities, it's the same; in Kalena City's resettlement zone alone, at least hundreds of people secretly flee back into the wilderness every day, and Ahriman can confirm all of this."
Focis first stated his argument, and after receiving Ahriman's silent nod, he slowly revealed his plan.
"Given this situation, I believe that since these mortals who have abandoned reason and logic are not even willing to save themselves, why do we need to care about them? Anyway, these foolish fellows would not benefit the entire Empire even if saved; by abandoning them, our rescue plan can proceed more quickly."
As his last word landed, the room fell into absolute silence, with only the continuous working sounds of the two Tridents.
"…You think so?"
Perturabo leaned against his conference table, his gaze like a torch, bypassing his brother and the others, focusing entirely on Focis; the Gene-Seed Primarch's expression was like a deeply disappointed teacher looking at his unlearned student.
The Lord of Iron's question was low and calm, without a trace of brutality, yet it made Focis involuntarily lower his head, and beads of sweat began to appear uncontrollably on his forehead.
Magnus opened his mouth, wanting to say something for his foolish son, but before that, Perturabo's firm and undeniable declaration exploded.
"Listen!"
"No matter how vibrant the flower, I would not let a young child run to the edge of a cliff to pick it without stopping them."
"Nor would I let you run near the Fourth Legion's minefield in this fortress without a map and proper training."
We must discard this childish and ignorant idea and do the right thing. Now do you understand why we must do our utmost to save more people?"
Focis's head was almost touching the ground; he was as quiet as a dead body, only answering softly and earnestly a moment later.
"Yes, my Lord, I am very sorry."
Almost simultaneously, Magnus had already walked up, smiling, and patted his brother's shoulder.
"Focis is a master of data processing; he is better at arbitrating problems composed of experience and absolute right and wrong, rather than philosophical and moral debates."
"I know, Magnus, I know."
"Such voices have also appeared among my Iron Warriors; they do not know the importance of rescuing mortals, and precisely because of this, you and I need to cooperate more closely, my brother, spur our sons, so that they can rescue more people to the best of their ability."
"Of course, brother, I have always strived for that."
"Then, I hope every warrior of the Thousand Sons will participate in the disaster relief, just like my Legion, instead of excavating ruins and ancient libraries."
On Perturabo's face, Morgan saw a fleeting hint of cunning.
"That's just one squad, Perturabo, I swear I won't send more; one squad is harmless to the overall situation."
The two Primarchs' discussion quickly became swift and intense; they rapidly divided their respective Legion's areas and tasks: the Iron Warriors would gradually take over everything concerning evacuation and construction, while the Thousand Sons would disperse into squads to assist them; Perturabo would be responsible for all these matters, and Magnus would immediately set off for an inland city, where the governor and his team were reportedly already present.
As for Ahriman, Atawa, and Focis, they also had their own tasks, either leading their teams to guard a region or delving into ruins to find the things that haunted Magnus's dreams.
The Primarch brothers' discussion progressed rapidly in a gradually friendly atmosphere until the last question arose.
"No, Magnus, you must leave someone, at least an officer who can directly contact you."
Perturabo vehemently refuted his brother.
"We must be able to maintain constant communication to prevent any emergencies; don't rely so much on your Psychic powers; you know, there are countless means and accidents in this galaxy that can suddenly render such power ineffective!"
"All right, Perturabo."
The Lord of Iron's successive words left Magnus speechless, or perhaps he simply didn't want to argue anymore; the Gene-Seed Primarch of the Thousand Sons looked around and pulled Morgan to his side.
"The senior officer you asked for, my brother."
"A mortal?"
"I repeat, she is my senior advisor."
"Have you personally tested her?"
"My most excellent sons all recognize her wisdom and ability; I trust their judgment."
Perturabo sighed, perhaps equally tired of arguing, and finally nodded, allowing Magnus to quickly leave with three of his sons.
Ahriman was the last to leave; as he passed Morgan, he rather discreetly slipped something to her.
It wasn't until their footsteps faded that Perturabo slowly lowered his head; he casually glanced at Morgan in front of him, then walked back to his workbench.
"Start working, mortal."
"I hope my brother hasn't exaggerated this time."
