40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 827 Extra: Round Table Cinema - Peturabo Branch

Discovery: The air is filled with a deadly poison that is continuously damaging my body. The ground is warped by forces that are currently unanalyzable and are as lethal as the air.

Conclusion: This was not a mere illusion; its realism was even stronger than the two previous experiences I had.

That so-called narrative machine did some very dangerous things.

Having finished his thoughts, Peturabo looked up. Everywhere he looked was a horrifying sight; though he found it unbearable, he continued to observe the monsters.

He has read many rare and precious books that have been passed down from the ancient Terran period, covering various aspects, some of which are distorted products of the author's divergent imagination.

Judging from their appearance, they might be the 'demons' in folk tales and religious stories, responsible for tormenting people's souls after death according to their sins in life.
According to Peturabo, those texts and paintings are full of religious fear and longing for a so-called afterlife 'paradise'.

However, even if all the monsters in it were made real, they still couldn't compare to the hell before him.

Humans cannot imagine things they have never seen. No matter how bizarre the monsters in rare books are, they always have cow horns, sheep eyes, and curved hooves. While these creatures may share some similarities, a single glance is enough to realize that they are real, not fictional or imagined.

A chilling feeling, an aversion that seemed to rise from the very marrow of his bones, was genuinely swirling within Peturabo's heart.

He unconsciously pursed his lips tightly, barely suppressing his anger, and then assessed the situation.

If I were to defeat them, how many troops would I need?
Five hundred men? A thousand men? The cold iron armor of the Fourth Legion flashed through his mind, along with the training ground he would head to immediately after his daily lessons.
Each Primarch who returned to Terra made connections with their respective Legions. Some were not used to it, some expressed their displeasure directly, and others felt sad and troubled by the current state of their Legions.

Peturabo was not like any of the above. His attitude towards the Fourth Army, this massive military organization, was the same as his attitude towards his courses—cold analysis, cold calculation, and finally, acting according to the conclusions.
Will the course allow him to learn more?

can.

Both the war history lessons from Oranius the Terran and the psionic instruction from Makado the Marksman were of great help to him in the role he would assume in the future.

So what about the Fourth Army Corps? What can they do for the future of Peturabo?
After observing several exercises at the training ground, Peturabo had a better understanding of the situation.

Even while he was still in Olympia, he was already familiar with war. Although the wars fought then were confined to the realm of mortals, he considered himself at least to have entered the field, and had at least understood what this cruel discipline required.
Therefore, he understood that the Fourth Army only needed to make slight modifications to his plan to make an irreplaceable contribution to the Great Expedition.

But that's a matter for the future.

What would happen if the current Fourth Legion, with its stubborn warriors who prefer head-on confrontations and are largely inflexible, were to fight against such a massive demon army?
The brief period of reflection quickly came to an end, and he was unable to reach an answer—the sample size was insufficient.

He didn't know the true fighting strength of these demons, whether they were as terrifying and frightening as they looked, or whether they were all show and no substance.

The problem was quickly solved, thanks to the hands of the armored men who faced them directly.

Perturabo's vision blurred, and he immediately realized that something within the demonic tide had moved, and it was rushing towards the man at a speed that even he found dizzying.

But he didn't dodge; he simply raised his warhammer and smashed them, flesh and bone, to pieces. Soon, even more demons pounced on him.
Among them were those as strong as oxen, and those that swelled slowly, but those that truly spearheaded the charge were the ones with serpentine characteristics that charged forward at lightning speed.

The sound of their fine scales rubbing against each other made Peturabo's eardrums ache, but the key was their speed—they were far faster than any of the Fourth Army's Astartes he had seen on the training grounds.

The young Primarch suddenly widened his eyes, ignoring the blood flowing from his ears.

Amidst the intense tinnitus, he exhaled a breath of mostly purified poison gas, and with a tension he himself was unaware of, watched the man raise his warhammer once more.

It was incredibly fast; the explosive power caused the snakes to let out a miserable yet strange howl in an instant.

Blood and bodily fluids spurted out together, and Peturabo froze, his face turning ashen.
But the man's expression remained unchanged, cold and ruthless, completely unaffected.

With a flick of his wrist, the warhammer seemed to come alive, hurtling forward and crushing the remaining parts of their bodies into dust. Then, he immediately adjusted his stance, turned sideways, and raised his left hand. A flash of dazzling fire illuminated the powerful monsters, tearing their flesh apart.

They roared furiously, some even brandishing their weapons and slaughtering their own kind, bathing in their stench of blood.

Peturabo immediately discovered that this behavior even caused their previous injuries to heal rapidly.

He finally showed a hint of astonishment and shock that was clearly visible to the naked eye.

The man chuckled, unmoved, and took two steps back to the tall corpse. He beckoned to them, and the battle resumed. This time, however, the fight, dominated by the strong demons with deep red skin, was more of an unwise series of one-on-one duels.
They stepped forward one by one to fight the man one-on-one, disregarding their numerical advantage.

Peturabo frowned, unsure how to comment—indiscriminately killing friendly forces, yet maintaining this bizarre sense of honor in such a place.
Can these demons really be called an army?

Filled with resentment, he looked at the armored giant, only to find that the latter remained unmoved.

He fought as if devoid of emotion, each move simple yet precise, without any superfluous actions, and he even disdained to make deceptive moves.
If the enemy wants to confront him head-on, he will defeat them head-on; if the enemy is agile and nimble, he will simply stand still and stare at them coldly, like a king watching a clown perform in his palace.

He absolutely has the power to despise them.

No demon was his match, not a single one. Every monster that dared to leave the demonic tide and challenge him died without exception—heads and bodies shattered, weapons and glory vanished.

He killed and killed until they fell silent, until only low, furious roars echoed in the darkness, and no more footsteps were heard.
He remained standing there, blood streaming down his armor, expressionless, his warhammer hanging idly at his sides.

"Continue," he commanded the demon tide.

Peturabo looked at him, remaining silent for a long time.

Several minutes later, a crucial question came to his mind: Where was this man's army? Where were his soldiers? Why had he been fighting alone without any support?
Peturabo instinctively took a step forward, a step that seemed to break some rule, making the pervasive poison in the air even more terrifying—or rather, more real.

His lungs, which had become accustomed to them, now protested fiercely, but his nasal cavity and respiratory tract were the first to lose sensation. After a burning pain, he could no longer feel their presence. The air seemed to appear directly in his lungs, bringing a knife-like pain.
He resisted for a long time, but finally couldn't hold back and vomited a mouthful of blood. Fragments of half-rotten internal organs mixed with the viscous blood sprayed out, but did not fall to the ground. They dissipated into the air, both real and illusory, without causing any impact on the surrounding environment.

Peturabo forced himself to remember this, and then slowly straightened up.

"I can adapt." He told himself, or rather, commanded himself. "If he can adapt, then I must adapt too."

After a few more breaths, amidst the intensifying pain, he growled, ignoring it, clenched his fists, and forcefully controlled his breathing rhythm, beginning to take slow, deep breaths.

A few minutes later, his body barely adjusted to the situation, and his senses returned. He subconsciously sniffed, and cold liquid immediately rushed into his nasal cavity.
Peturabo wiped his hand and saw it was covered in blood, followed by a severe dizziness and unbearable weakness.

He desperately tried to stop himself from falling to the ground, but it was all in vain.

If there were a mirror right now, he could clearly see how terrible his face looked—that kind of deathly pallor couldn't be faked.

In the midst of intense pain, Peturabo thought of a new problem.

He managed to lift his head and look at the man.

He couldn't possibly escape the effects of these toxins. He might be much older and stronger than me, but the primal body's structure doesn't change much with age, especially its internal organs.
The Emperor considered the various dangers we might encounter in the future when designing it, and toxins were naturally included. I can already drink a whole jug of Fenris mead now, so where is his limit?

He may have been in a high-risk, high-pressure environment for a long time. Under such circumstances, even an ordinary person's body would make adjustments, let alone someone who is a progenitor. Therefore, his tolerance to highly toxic substances is probably two to four times that of mine, making it absolutely impossible for him to be immune.

This means that he was fighting while physically unwell.

Peturabo swallowed blood as he stood up, his eyes fixed on the man.

How strong are you exactly?

The man suddenly looked at him calmly.

Peturabo was startled, but quickly realized that the other person wasn't looking at him.
He forced himself to turn around and saw a faintly visible face in the dense darkness behind the demons.

Even though it was just a fleeting glimpse, it was enough for him to confirm that it was Loga Aurelion's face.

However, compared to the person he remembered who was always smiling and full of enthusiasm, this face looked much older and uglier.

Most importantly, those eyes contained absolutely nothing of what he knew about Luo Jia; only primal evil remained.

Peturabo could hardly believe he had used such a vague adjective.

He angrily commanded his brain to find the right word, but his brain said: No, it's evil.

A few seconds later, he was convinced by himself.

Yes, it is evil.

Looking into those eyes, Peturabo realized that there was no more fitting word.

“Give up,” the entity residing within Loga Aurelion’s body whispered. “You can’t protect him; you can’t even save yourself.”

The man calmly raised the warhammer and hoisted it onto his shoulder.

"Don't you understand? Everything you believe in from the past has collapsed. The empire will be destroyed, but humanity will be reborn, Peturabo. You are perfectly capable of securing a prominent place in the future the gods have ordained for humanity. Why be so rigid?"

The armored man finally let out a cold laugh.

"Abandon freedom and become a slave, to bow down and be grateful like a dog? You can continue to repeat those lies a thousand times, I don't care, but it's your business if you like being a dog. Humans will not become slaves to any god, not before, not now, and not ever."

"You still don't understand." The thing sighed and then fell silent.

Perturabo turned around and found that the battle had resumed. This time, however, the thing's voice echoed around like a spell, extremely annoying.

He swallowed another mouthful of blood and slowly walked towards the man.
The demons roared, the darkness was vast, and in this ruin, only the spot where the iron armor stood seemed to offer a faint light. Blood and corpses covered the world before him, but the ground behind him was spotless, with only the huge human corpse lying quietly.

Peturab approached it, examined it closely, and finally, in a mixture of shock and anger, barely recognized the corpse through the shoulder armor that had fused with the bones.

It was Vulcan.

The face of the taciturn yet kind Nocturne flashed before his eyes.
It's true that he wasn't familiar with the other person, but that doesn't mean he disliked Vulcan as much as he disliked Roger Dorn, Riemann Ruth, or Alphareis.

On the contrary, he believed that Vulcan was an absolutely reliable person and would become a reliable general in the future war.

But he died.

Looking at the corpse, the immense shock momentarily forced Peturabo to forget the difference between reality and illusion. The blood connection that the designers had painstakingly placed into their bodies snapped briefly, and the boundless grief and indignation that surged up made the young Primarchs grind their teeth, their eyes involuntarily turning bloodshot.

He turned around quickly, as if forgetting the pain in his body—just then, a sudden explosion erupted in front of him, followed by the man's roar.

"Come on!" roared the man beneath the armor.

Peturabo limped over to him, looked up at the face, and saw pale lips and a trail of blood.

His earlier conclusion had come true; the omnipresent, curse-like toxin was indeed affecting the other party.
Can you keep going? How much longer can you keep going? Peturabo thought, clenching his fists.

His rationality had returned, and he began to think more realistically—first and foremost was the issue of support. Since the start of the battle, support had been nowhere to be seen, and combined with the enemy's extremely clear determination to fight to the death, the answer became obvious.
There would be no support, and the general had only one soldier left to command, the man before him who had fought until he was out of ammunition and supplies.

What to do? How to get out of this predicament?

Peturabo instinctively became anxious and began to immerse himself in the situation.

They couldn't abandon Vulcan's body; who knew what these things could do to him? But there was no support, and their belts were already empty; what they'd just thrown were probably their last few grenades.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with that person, Peturabo looked into the distance and saw the demonic tide that seemed to have not diminished in the slightest.

He exhaled a breath of air that still carried the smell of blood.

How to win?
He couldn't think of an answer.

The demonic tide surged forth, and no matter how unwilling they were, it suddenly dispersed, revealing a giant in a long robe, barefoot on stones stained with filth and blood, yet untouched by them. He slowly approached, calling out with heartfelt sincerity.

"brother!"

Hearing that sound, Peturabo felt an urge to vomit.

He was now observing the man with his own eyes, not through a thin veil. He could clearly see Loka Aurelion's skin bulging beneath it, surging in his face and throat as he spoke, making the Colchis's face particularly repulsive.
Kill it! Peturabo thought furiously.

Those around him seemed to hear what he was thinking; they suddenly took a step forward, raised their warhammer high, and brought it down heavily.

This attack was clearly a serious one, instantly killing five or six demons and injuring countless others.
Luo Jia understood what kind of attitude he was expressing, so he spoke again, his voice now tinged with anger.

"Why are you still doing this? Damn it, you can't win! I'm tired of saying this, you're all so stubborn! What? Have you all suddenly turned into Roger Dorn? You can't win, so why do you keep fighting to the bitter end?! I just want you to see the truth!"

The truth? What kind of truth? The truth about turning yourself into a monster, like you? Peturabo thought with disgust.

"Save your breath."

Beside him, the man in the armor slowly spoke, his voice deep and thunderous.

"Keep your bullshit truth to yourself, you beast. I've always despised cowards, but you're worse than a coward. I don't know what happened to Loka Aurelion, but he's definitely not a piece of trash like you who can't even deceive himself properly. You're shockingly stupid, you can't even see what you really are, you're laughably weak, and yet you dare to talk to me about the so-called truth? Shut up, and come here to die."

Well said. Peturabo's eyes widened. Yes, that's exactly it—

Luo Jia roared with resentment.

“You will pay for these words, I swear to the gods! What do you know to dare insult me ​​like this? Where were you when the City of Perfection was burned down by that false emperor?! Do you think he would love you like a father would? No, he wouldn’t!”

"Love? Is this what you've always craved?" The giant sneered as he killed a massive canine creature. "What a naive child you are, possessing power yet so mediocre, not even daring to have ambition? You've committed such heinous crimes, and all you want is to beg for your so-called father's love?"

"you--!"

"Shut up!" Thunder rumbled, and the giant's eyes flashed with terrifying killing intent. "Cowards have no right to confront me! Come and die!"

Luo Jia screamed and charged at him, her golden staff bursting forth with light, sending all the surrounding demons away.

Gazing at this scene, Peturabo felt a complex mix of emotions that he himself could not understand, but above all, the strongest emotion was joy.

He didn't like to talk much or explain things when he was doing serious business, and he believed the other person felt the same way.

Therefore, those few words just now were likely a deliberate provocation, aimed solely at drawing out the ringleader. It seems the plan succeeded, although it certainly relied on the folly of that fake Luo Jia. Now, at least they have the strength to fight.

Kill it! Kill it! Peturabo shouted in his heart, watching them charge at each other like two cannonballs colliding head-on.

A shockwave unlike anything he'd ever experienced swept over him, and shards of rock, like bullets, pierced his body. He groaned, raising his hand to defend himself, but remained rooted to the spot, continuing to watch.
He had witnessed Primarchs playing around or fighting many times, and had even experienced it himself a few times, but a true death match like this? Never, not even once.

He watched the battle intently, absorbing every move the man made like a sponge, trying his best to understand the logic and function behind them—but it didn't last long. Soon, the battle ended briefly when the warhammer smashed the fake Loka's right leg.

Peturabo had barely had a moment to rejoice before he immediately realized something was wrong, for the golden staff in his hand had once again begun to glow.
"Watch out!" he shouted instinctively.

No one heard the warning; the light flashed and disappeared in an instant, and the fake object vanished from its spot.

Peturabo instinctively turned around and saw Vulcan's corpse floating in the air, the smug smile on the fake man's face, and his outstretched right hand.
No!--
"No!"

Peturabo woke up roaring.

A hand pulled him up, and when he looked up, he saw it was Roger Dorn.

That face he knew so well, always expressionless, was now filled with an extraordinary respect.
How intelligent was Peturabo? He only thought for a moment, and combined with the illusory, soft light around him that was clearly different from the real world, he realized where this respect came from.

He straightened up, then shook off Dorn's hand and asked coldly, "You saw it, didn't you?"

Before Dorn could answer, he looked around and saw the Primarchs lying haphazardly on the ground.

The only people who were awake and standing were the two of them.

“Yes,” Dorn said, then paused and uttered a single word. “Hero.”

Such high praise, and that calm yet unusually gentle tone, made Peturabo realize that he had finally achieved a stage victory in his long struggle against this Inwit, but he couldn't be happy at all.

He remained silent with a sullen face for a long time before finally asking, "How did you see that?"

Dorn didn't speak, but simply pointed to the ceiling, where many pulsating light screens floated.

“Damn it!” Peturabo laughed in exasperation. “That narrator is simply—”

The curses were on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't bring himself to say them.
What did the machine do wrong? They wanted the truth, and it gave it to them, but only as an individual experience for each person. And this scene is just part of the deal it made with the Emperor, which has always been the case, clearly their father's will.

The young master of the Fourth Legion took a deep breath and forcefully suppressed his nameless rage.

He knew that his anger at that moment was simply because Roger Dorn had witnessed the battle.

But he still had something to say.

“That was his achievement, it has nothing to do with me. And judging from the final scene, he ultimately seems to have failed as well.” Peturabo raised his chin and said coldly. “You’d better remember that.”

After saying that, he turned and left, leaving Dorn behind.

"Wait a minute."

Peturabo stopped, but refused to turn back—though he didn’t know where he was going, as the golden space was only so big.

He asked in a cold voice, "What are you doing?"

“I don’t think he failed,” Dorn said slowly.

Peturabo immediately turned around.

“He has achieved his tactical objective,” Dorn continued. “He is you, and you obviously wouldn’t venture alone into the heart of the enemy without being prepared. Therefore, the battle either occurred when they were ambushed, or it was intentional on his part. I think the latter is more likely.”

Peturabo frowned.

“Go on,” he commanded.

"Since he did this on purpose, and considering his actions of protecting Vulcan's body, his tactical objective is not hard to guess—he wanted to retrieve Vulcan's body. If that didn't work, destroying it might be another option."

“Destroy?!” Peturabo demanded sharply.

“Yes, destroy it.” Dorn nodded calmly. “I believe you didn’t notice that Vulcan also agreed to this, did you? During their battle, Vulcan’s chest was flashing. I examined it several times and confirmed that it was a detonated bomb planted there. In other words, whatever that thing intended for Vulcan’s body, it couldn’t have succeeded.”

Peturabo was silent for a moment, then suddenly asked a series of questions at a rapid pace.

"What makes you so sure? What if the bomb isn't powerful enough? What if its evil magic can bypass the basic principles of physics?"

He became more and more agitated as he spoke, his face growing increasingly contorted with rage, until finally he even laughed in exasperation.

"You don't understand anything at all!"

Dorn gave him a strange look, then raised his hand and pointed to one of the light screens.

There, Robert Guilliman, with his full head of white hair, Peturabo, wearing worn-out armor, and a corpse placed behind them, were all in a small room.

“Perhaps I do not understand anything, but I know how to observe carefully,” Dorn said.

Peturabo's eyes twitched as he began to take deep breaths.

"Fine," he said grimly. "You win."

“No need,” Dorn said. “Would you like to see Robert’s experience?”

“Yes,” Peturabo replied immediately.

(End of this chapter)