World 33-89.
The planetary assault commenced. Countless drop pods belonging to the Fourth Legion fell like a torrential rain from the Iron Blood and other battle barges, piercing the atmosphere of the world designated "33-89."
This was the Imperium's final solution for the Ork forces entrenched on this world—a campaign to uproot the xenos tribes and stabilize the surrounding sectors once and for all.
If anyone had scrutinized the roster of the first wave of Iron Warriors dispatched to the surface, they would have noticed a chilling pattern: the Astartes sent to the frontlines with the highest projected casualty rates were almost exclusively those who most admired and worshipped Horus Lupercal.
This was a deliberate orchestration by Perturabo. After systematically gathering intelligence on the rhetoric and leanings of his sons, the Iron Tsar had winnowed out the "Horus-loyalists" and placed them in the vanguard of the initial landing.
By doing so, the warriors whose loyalty to the Iron Tsar was deemed insufficient would be "consumed" on the battlefield against the xenos. They would be granted a glorious death, and the survivors would be too few to challenge the absolute authority of their gene-father over the Legion.
The Iron Tsar intended to use this method to complete an internal purge, ensuring the Fourth Legion became a force that truly loved and worshipped only him, while simultaneously avoiding the messy fallout of a direct fratricide.
Crucially, to an Astartes, being part of the first wave was considered a supreme honor. Consequently, Perturabo's hidden intent to send them to their deaths did not arouse suspicion or anxiety among the rank and file. They marched to the most violent sectors of the front, eager to face the most savage of foes.
Command Center, Bridge of the Iron Blood.
"Dammit! Forrix, my company is taking catastrophic losses! What is going on?!"
"The intelligence was wrong! The intelligence was wrong! These greenskins are more cunning than we imagined! They have heavy firepower and a fortified defense system! We need heavy artillery and armor support immediately!"
"Retreat! Fall back! We can't hold! Reorganize the lines!"
The command center on the Iron Blood was filled with the desperate, frantic queries of the first-wave commanders on the surface. Nearly every voice was demanding an explanation from Forrix as to why the situation had deteriorated so rapidly.
Under Perturabo's calculated management, the first wave—comprised largely of Horus-loyalists—had struck a wall of iron. The Orks they faced were stronger and more tactical than initial surveys suggested. The landing force was now trapped in a meat grinder.
Previously, at Forrix's own request, Perturabo had delegated the command of the drop operations to him. Now, the enraged and battered Iron Warriors commanders turned to their superior for answers.
Looking at the holographic projections of the furious commanders, Forrix's face tightened with difficulty. He let out a heavy sigh. "Calm yourselves, brothers. Victory and defeat are common in war. Do not be so impulsive."
"As the first wave, you should have been psychologically prepared for these risks. We will send the second wave of reinforcements as soon as possible. Your current mission is to secure a landing zone large enough for our heavy transports and armored vehicles."
Forrix spoke slowly, attempting to pacify his battle-brothers even as his heart grew heavy.
"That's easy for you to say, Forrix! My company is nearly wiped out! I watched several brothers blown to pieces by Ork explosives with my own eyes! You're doing this on purpose—you're sending us to die!" a blunt-tempered commander shouted over the vox.
"Silence! Your mission is to open a landing field for the main force. Until then, we will provide all the aerial support we can, but the rest is up to you," Forrix snapped, his face hardening into a cold mask. He cut the communication.
Once the vox-link was severed, Forrix's composure fractured. He let out a long, pained breath and turned toward Perturabo, who stood behind him. The First Captain's expression was one of profound agony.
"It seems these 'Horus-loyalists' have yet to realize this was targeted at them. They don't even suspect that this was their gene-father's design," Perturabo said, a playful, mocking glint in his eyes.
"My Lord, I beg of you... start the second wave of landings now. We cannot let them be annihilated by the Orks. If they fall, we lose our foothold on the surface of 33-89," Forrix pleaded, his voice thick with pain. He begged for reinforcements to save the surviving Iron Warriors.
"You still seem quite concerned about your 'Horus-loyalist' brothers. That is not an attitude that pleases me," Perturabo said, feigning a tone of suspicion regarding Forrix's own loyalty.
"My Lord! You heard them—several companies are already gone! The Horus-loyalists have been decimated! If you wanted to use this method to purge their influence, you have already succeeded!"
"Now, please, consider the good of the entire Legion! Do not let the survivors harbor hatred for you! Do not let the Legion splinter! I watched the Emperor build this Legion with my own eyes—I do not want to see it break in your hands!"
Forrix dropped to one knee, desperately imploring his gene-father.
"Forrix, your attitude satisfies me. You remain loyal to me, yet you possess a sense of honor that prevents the kind of disgusting loyalty that would betray a brother without hesitation," Perturabo said, finally revealing a look of satisfaction. He nodded slowly.
"Very well. Notify Horus. Tell him we are ready to launch a full-scale planetary assault."
"By your command, My Lord."
Knowing he could still save his surviving brothers, Forrix felt a wave of relief wash over him. "I will inform Lord Horus immediately and have him prepare for the full landing."