"Son, what else do you need?" Damkos asked cheerfully.
Perturabo said, "This is enough."
The Tyrant's private engineering workshop had everything, even though he hadn't used it in a long ti.
Damkos had been passionate about it in his youth, but he beca too busy. The city-state of Lochos and its people depended on him.
Years of comfortable living had made him corpulent, and his authority no longer allowed him to engage in such rough work.
But stepping back into the workshop still lifted Damkos's spirits. His son would be using it now.
It ant sothing was being passed down through his offspring, even if Perturabo wasn't his biological child.
Perturabo inspected the tools, bellows, anvil, forge.
His gaze slowly swept over everyone in the courtyard, parents, sister, brothers, and Caelan.
There were no outsiders here. All were his family.
His eyes lingered on Caelan for a mont, then moved away.
He had promised to prepare a gift in return for Caelan, but that gift now seed inadequate.
Caelan had given him the Evolution Truster. He couldn't give a hastily prepared gift in return; he had to offer sothing truly worthy.
Herakon's gaze was especially intense, filled with anticipation for Perturabo's upcoming gift.
Perturabo could even sense the complex emotions mixed in that anticipation, a desire for recognition, tinged with anxiety. He was the firstborn, born with the burden of honor.
He was Damkos's heir. He would be Damkos IX, or so other title.
But he wasn't outstanding. People often felt he wasn't up to the task, couldn't asure up to his father.
Damkos often showed worry, could his son keep Lochos strong? Could he uphold the family's honor?
Herakon had never truly earned his father's recognition. It made him uneasy.
And this feeling was almost identical to Perturabo's.
"Twistedness."
Perturabo suddenly realized that, in fact, everyone had a twisted side hidden within them, just to varying degrees.
He had been more twisted than anyone before.
Caelan had taught him that human needs are divided into five levels, physiological, safety, love and belonging, esteem, and self-actualization.
He was a primarch, born above mortals. He feared no danger.
Physiological and safety needs never troubled him.
But love and belonging might haunt him his whole life. He would instinctively seek approval and acceptance from others.
But he was too twisted. When warmth and care ca, he cruelly shut them out.
If he couldn't confront his own weakness, he would be trapped forever.
Perturabo's hand ran over the displayed iron ingots. The cold of the tal seeped into his skin.
He picked one up casually, tapping it lightly on the anvil, producing a clear, resonant note.
He listened carefully to the subtle overtones of each ingot, like a musician tuning their instrunt.
Knowledge flowed into his mind; the grain, density, and impurities of each ingot were laid bare before him. He chose the best one.
He took that ingot straight into the forge fire. The leaping flas licked his skin.
He heard the Tyrant and his sister gasp, but Caelan remained silent.
Caelan knew him. He trusted that Perturabo wasn't acting without reason.
Yet, inexplicably, a sense of irritation welled up in him. 'Why couldn't Caelan be worried about ?'
Smack!
The crisp slap drew shocked looks from everyone.
Perturabo rubbed his reddened cheek, expressionless, muttering, "Mosquito."
It was just a fleeting thought, already extinguished.
But even thinking it was wrong. Thinking it was a cri!
"Son, at least wear gloves."
Damkos's eyes were a mix of concern and alarm. Even in battle, he'd never been so shaken.
Perturabo didn't argue with his father. He silently pulled on thick leather gloves and picked up tongs to retrieve the glowing ingot.
Steel never bends. Only in the refining fire does it soften, its unyielding nature forged into a blade.
Perturabo threw himself into the work.
His movents were dazzlingly fast, far quicker than Lochos's most experienced blacksmith.
The tal seed to co alive under his hands. With hamr blows as dense as rain, sparks flew like brilliant stars, dancing and spinning on the marble floor before fading.
"I, too, am steel," Perturabo thought as he worked.
He was unyielding steel, but he was not a blade.
He was not sharp. Unforged and untempered, he was too blunt.
He could be a hamr, heavy, powerful, unstoppable, crushing his enemies with every swing.
But he was not a blade, not precise enough, not swift enough.
He was not an iron fist, unable to conform to the hand.
He was too clumsy, too heavy.
Clang! Perturabo hamred.
He was crude steel, unrefined, impurities not removed.
He longed to beco a blade, yet resisted the forging fire and the countless hamr blows.
What was holding him back?
Impurities. Twistedness.
Crude steel is born rough, with inherent cracks and flaws. It is both hard and brittle.
If not refined, crude steel will beco scrap, covered in rust. No wall stands forever; no steel is impervious to wear.
Cracks spread, wear increases. A blade can chip in battle.
Then, one should return to the forge.
Through a thousand temperings and ten thousand hamrings, cast off impurities, shed the marks of age.
Clang! Perturabo hamred, shaping.
Refinent removes impurities, like those brilliant sparks.
They are beautiful for only a mont, leaving debris behind when they fall, revealing their true nature as coarse, dark fragnts.
Clang!
Steel reshapes itself in the fire, but also wears down under the hamr.
If not reforged, it will eventually be worn away.
From hamr to blade, from blade to dagger, until it can no longer be forged into any weapon.
Clang!
He reshaped steel with a will more tal than steel itself. Through countless hamr blows, he forged the rough billet into a new blade.
Clang!
Steel is honest and true, straight and unyielding. It holds no treachery, no deceit.
It is the tal of warriors, not delicate like gold.
Sweat soaked Perturabo's clothes. Salty droplets blurred his vision.
But whenever a bead of sweat threatened to fall into his eye, an invisible hand would gently wipe it away.
Clang!
So, gold has its aning too. It is precious and exquisite, rare by nature, an art form.
Gold can adorn steel, just as art can adorn a warrior.
It stays on the surface, never softening the steel.
It is rely decoration to awe the enemy.
Clang!
The blade was forged in fire, hamred repeatedly, tempered again and again.
Each strike drew a resonant ring from the tal. Sparks flew, leaving tiny scorch marks on the floor.
But it was growing tougher, sharper.
Hiss!
The red-hot blade was plunged into the quenching pool. The water surface erupted in rolling white steam.
The tal hissed in the heat. Steam filled the workshop. Ti passed.
Perturabo wiped the sweat from his brow and took the weapon by its tang.
The blade was plain, without decoration, its edge not yet sharpened, still rough.
Forging had given the steel the shape of a sword, but one step remained: sharpening.
Perturabo walked to the grindstone, blade in hand. Steel t stone, sparks flying.
As he worked, the rough edge grew smooth. The blade's grain beca clearer. A cold gleam ran along its spine.
Perturabo's wrist suddenly twisted. The blade humd through the air, its edge gleaming!
"Excellent sword!"
Herakon applauded excitedly. Though he knew little of forging, this sword looked magnificent!
Damkos was even more astounded. 'Perturabo's skill was masterful. Hard to believe this was only a six-year-old child!'
Perturabo wrapped the hilt in leather and sheathed the sword in the golden scabbard he had already made. It fit perfectly.
"Brother, accept this." The boy held the sword level with both hands, presenting it to Herakon.
Herakon received the longsword ecstatically, caressing the ornate scabbard with care.
The leather-wrapped hilt fit his palm perfectly. This sword had been made for him.
As he slowly drew the blade, the cold gleam reflected the undisguised excitent in his eyes.
Damkos frowned. He genuinely liked this sword.
'Herakon didn't need it for battle; giving it to him was such a waste. Better to leave it with !'
But Damkos suppressed that selfish thought. Reluctant as he was, it was a gift Perturabo had personally forged for Herakon. It wouldn't be right to take it.
Besides, Perturabo was his son. He could just have him forge another sword later!
"Is he even human?" Andos's face was etched with disbelief. Then, realizing his gaffe, his cheeks flushed crimson. He lowered his head, flustered. "I... I didn't an that. I'm sorry."
Is a Primarch human?
From a biological standpoint, it's hard to say.
Adult Primarchs generally stand four ters tall or more, partly to accommodate their various special organs.
Each organ is the Emperor's masterpiece. The nineteen organs of the Space Marine implantation process are the simplest. Primarchs have a vast array of complex organs whose secrets remain unrevealed.
Even possessing a Primarch's original genetic sample, it would be difficult to uncover all their organs' secrets.
Yet the genetic foundation of a Primarch is still human.
They must be human, and can only be human.
"It's fine." Perturabo shook his head gently, prompting Damkos to swallow the reprimand he was about to give his second son.
Perturabo walked to the easel. The image was already fully ford in his mind; his movents were as natural as breathing.
Calliphone tiptoed closer. When she saw the erging outline on the canvas, her bright eyes widened in surprise, her rosy lips parting slightly.
The brush seed alive in Perturabo's hand. In just ten minutes, a lifelike portrait was complete.
Andos took the painting, dazed. "For ?"
Caelan asked, "What is this painting called?"
Perturabo replied, "To Andos."
Andos looked down at the painting. In it, he sat under a tree in the garden, bathed in soft morning light, reading a book. Dappled shadows danced across his face.
"Is this really ?"
Andos touched his face unconsciously. He did enjoy reading under the tree in the garden.
'But how did Perturabo know?'
Sensing his thought, Perturabo said, "I saw you once."
He had considered painting grand mountains and rivers, or the brilliant stars.
But he gave up on those ideas. He chose the boy under the tree.
Because of aning.
Grand mountains and rivers, brilliant stars, they were indeed magnificent.
But what did they have to do with Andos?
A gift like that would be aningless, re showing off.
So, better to paint a person. Paint Andos himself.
That was the most aningful.
"Only once? And you could paint so lifelike?" Andos choked up.
"I hope you like it, Andos... brother."
The word 'brother' ca out a little awkwardly, because his brother was crying.
Not stifled sobs, but heart-wrenching wails.
Perturabo was stunned.
'It was just a painting, an ordinary portrait. What was Andos crying about?'
"Stop crying." Herakon leaned in close, lowering his voice. "Everyone's watching."
Andos wiped his tears with his sleeve, but couldn't stop the sobs. "Th-thank you, brother. Thank you for painting so beautifully. This is the most precious gift I've ever received!"
Damkos edged closer, beaming. "Son, what about my gift?"
Perturabo was prepared. He had Calliphone bring out a laurel crown.
This crown was ticulously woven from pure gold olive leaves, each vein clearly visible. Brilliant gems adorned the leaves, sparkling in the light.
The craftsmanship of this crown was far more complex than the sword or the painting. Perturabo had prepared it long in advance.
"Father, I hope you like it."
Damkos eagerly removed his own crown and placed the new one on his head like a sacred relic. The golden olive leaves glead in his hair.
"Calliphone, how is it?" Damkos turned to Calliphone, his smug voice like a child showing off a new toy.
"Father, it complents your bearing perfectly. It shows the majesty of a king while retaining its original simplicity and elegance."
Damkos laughed heartily, patting Perturabo on the shoulder with a broad hand. "Good son, good son!"
This was the crown he desired, simple yet exquisitely beautiful!
Caelan asked, "What about my return gift?"
Perturabo glanced at Calliphone, then turned solemnly to Caelan, "Aren't Calliphone and I the best gift you could ask for?"
Calliphone gently took Caelan's arm, playfully coaxing, "Yes, isn't having enough? Brother Caelan!"
Caelan had said it himself: seeing his students succeed was his greatest reward.
Caelan deliberately kept a straight face, but the smile in his eyes was unmistakable.
He smiled. Perturabo didn't.
He stared at Calliphone's arm. She was holding on too tightly!
Who said having her was enough? What about him?
Calliphone had no sense of boundaries!
Perturabo hated that the most.
Smack!
Another crisp slap broke the warm atmosphere. A faint mark appeared on Perturabo's left cheek. He muttered, "Damn mosquitoes!"
This ti, it really was a mosquito.
Human civilization expanded across the galaxy, but these damn mosquitoes expanded too?
Mosquitoes couldn't cross the void alone. It had to be a conspiracy! Who was it?
....
"My Lord!" Zoris scrambled to his feet as Perturabo entered.
Perturabo stared at the boy. "Zoris, tell , what do you want to do? What can you do? What are you able to do?"
"I... I can..."
Zoris lowered his head dejectedly. It seed he couldn't do anything.
Perturabo snapped, "Head up! Look in the eyes! Answer !"
Zoris flinched. His face reddened, and he clenched his jaw. "I, I am willing to give my life for you!"
He seed to have exhausted all his strength, his body shaking like a leaf.
"Rember what you said today."
"The old barracks in the commoner district have been renovated into an orphanage. All orphans can go there. Even non-orphans under twelve can go."
"Starting tomorrow, your job is to recruit for the orphanage."
Zoris asked timidly, "My Lord, how can soone like recruit people?"
"Spread the word on the streets, or find other orphans directly. You wandered Lochos for a long ti; you probably know quite a few. Get them all mobilized. Tell them the orphanage is free, with free room and board and free education. Do you think anyone will co?"
Zoris nodded earnestly. "Yes, my Lord. As long as room and board are free, people will co!"
Not just orphans. Commoner children would co to save their families money.
Even nobles' children might join, because the orphanage was run by the royal family and carried Perturabo's na.
His legend had spread throughout Lochos. Everyone spoke his na.
Everyone wanted to see what made this boy so special.
Nobles' children wouldn't co for food and lodging, but for contact with Perturabo.
They didn't care about the food either. They wouldn't be used to barley bread; they'd bring their own.
These things were foreseeable. Perturabo had considered all possibilities.
But he still had concerns.
Perturabo murmured to himself, "Will I be a good teacher?"
He was only six. Maybe not even six.
He had amnesia; he didn't rember when he ca to Olympia.
But knowledge told him he was growing much faster than a mortal.
The legend of him slaying the Hydra had been circulating for eight months, and the Ipir Dae within a year.
His true age might be only one.
The legendary boy was soone who hunted the Hydra to protect villagers. People revered him, loved him.
He had no mory of this. If he did, would he have beco that boy too?
"No."
Perturabo lowered his head, gripping the Evolution Truster in his hand, murmuring, "I will beco better than him!"
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