Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

When Azak Ahriman arrived on the surface of Inwit, his keen spiritual senses had already smelled some unusual waves.

The etheric perception ability given to him by the Black Crow School made him very sensitive to the psychic tides driven by emotional waves. As he approached his destination, he gradually saw the illusion of two similar huge fortresses standing in confrontation.

The atmosphere ahead was as tense as the insects flying low in the night before a heavy rain, and the omens of danger were like water vapor lurking in the humidity-saturated air, which made Ahriman's heart beat faster.

Fortunately, there seems to be an imperceptible void between the two fortresses, which neutralizes and relieves the pressure of the etheric aura, allowing Ahriman to gradually relax.

When Ahriman opened the curtain of the temporary tent and stood next to two primarchs who were frowning and gritting their teeth, holding the table with one hand, one wanted to pull out the non-existent sword from his waist, and the other wanted to pull out the non-existent hammer from behind. , he silently recalled the peaceful red face of Magnus, the father of genes, and drew the mental strength from the smile that Magnus once showed to be enough to cover up his embarrassment.

Then he respectfully greeted the tense Primarchs: "Azhak Ahriman, the first school of the Sun of Thousand Dusts, reports for duty and pays tribute to the Primarch."

"Come here, Ahriman." A familiar man in black robes spoke, and Ahriman immediately recognized him as the mysterious Friend of the Emperor who had saved his brother, and even the entire Fifteenth Legion.

Morse, he remembered this person's name, and then remembered that Frix had asked him to divine whether this person really existed last time. So seeing him in person again gave Ahriman mixed emotions.

The red-armored warrior saw that neither of the two original bodies had any intention of stopping him, so he summoned up the courage to move forward, and finally stood at the large table where the two original bodies stood facing each other on the left and right, facing Morse face to face.

He noticed that there were only two Primarchs and a craftsman in the camp now, and all the rest of the entourage were missing.

The table was covered with scattered drawings, some related to architectural design and some to regional planning. The painter's brushstrokes are all exactly the same, precise and steady, and the lines are clean and powerful. If it weren't for the seemingly different styles, they could almost be regarded as the work of the same person.

He didn't understand more details. After all, he was not a professional in this field.

"And you can sit down, Perturabo. What's there to be angry about?" Morse continued.

The Primarch of the Iron Warriors glanced at the white-haired Primarch reluctantly, and sat back in the large chair amidst the trivial sounds made by the armor.

"That's Rogal Dorn." Perturabo tilted his head in the direction of the white-haired original body. "This is Azak Ahriman, a warrior from the Fifteenth Legion's Thousand Dust Sun who came here for exchanges."

The way Rogal Dorn looked at Ahriman made the latter feel like he had been thrown into ice water and soaked again. Fortunately, the white-haired original body quickly withdrew his gaze and sat down like Perturabo.

"Is he a just man?" Donne asked.

"He is not your Invite, nor is he my Iron Warrior." Perturabo said coldly, every emphasis highlighting his unfriendliness, "As an independent warrior, his courage and reason I approve as well. I could not find a more just man - since you must think that my warriors will favor me, Rogal Dorn.

"I'm just stating the objective possibility, brother." Dorn sounded no longer calm, "It's a common situation that subordinates under command will tend to defend their superiors. Whether it's my Invites or yours, Warrior, you cannot blindly assume that they are impartial just because you love your heirs.”

Perturabo's burning anger finally infected him, and he was not without a temper. When a large cold wave swept through Inwit a few years ago, the bodies of those speculators who took the opportunity to clamor to overthrow the Dornish family and pursue freedom are still frozen deep in the ice.

Of course, this does not mean that he is going to do anything to the Iron Warriors. Rogal Dorn is just a little angry.

"You know your Inwit, but do you know my warriors? Do you have to accuse them of favoring me?" Perturabo said.

"It's part of common sense, just like I don't need to know the coordinates of your ship to know that the product of one and one there is still one."

When the white-haired giant said this, Ahriman noticed that Morse raised his eyebrows, shook his head quietly, and seemed to say "maze".

Dorn continued, his voice low and solid: "Your heirs who are close to you must be affected by the close relationship between them. This is an undeniable subjective factor. I am not blaming your warriors, we need Face it, Perturabo!"

"So you said in front of me and my heirs that my warriors, my warsmiths, are not qualified to be our judges by nature? You... Rogal Dorn..." The Lord of Iron swallowed one Dirty words.

"I said this wasn't an accusation." Dawn frowned.

"I know you mean no harm, of course I know!" Perturabo slapped the table with a heavy palm. Ahriman clearly saw a fleeting golden rune supporting and repairing the wooden table, so that the table would not be damaged. Collapse, "But you have to insult them?"

The scholar of the Fifteenth Legion began to feel that he should not stand here, a stake in the quarrel between the two Primarchs.

He was supposed to be here wearing a helmet, Ahriman found the humor in the pain, so that he could relax his muscular face through the helmet.

"Does anyone here remember that you invited an innocent warrior here?" Morse let the words drift into the unfriendly atmosphere at the right moment before Dorn spoke, cutting off the intensified quarrel, "Primarchs, time to chat. it's over."

Perturabo covered half of his face with one hand, and Dorn's calmness could be compared to the speed of wind and snow cooling stone.

"Ahriman, look at these drawings."

The Lord of Iron spoke in a dull voice while taking out several controversial drawings and comparing them.

Dorn was doing exactly the same thing opposite him. Although his appearance was completely different, his actions mirrored each other.

The two of them worked very quickly and without any communication, and their four arms worked tacitly without interfering with each other. They sorted out the drawings on the table with extremely high efficiency, placed them on the corner of the table without any dispute, and placed the rest in categories. .

"We can't decide whose idea a certain design should be based on, and we can't convince the other party." Perturabo snorted coldly. "And Dorne believes that my own warriors cannot give impartial advice."

"The drawings here have been classified and similar drawings have been merged." Dorn had calmed down. "In each pile, we need you to choose one drawing fairly and state why it is better than the other design options."

"This warrior instantly conceived the training of an entire town without even looking at a blueprint," Morse continued. "I can model it for you to demonstrate."

Ahriman was surprised at first that the Primarchs almost took out their weapons just for this matter, but he soon had no time to doubt the Primarchs while he was mourning for himself.

Every building concept projection that rotates 360 degrees above the square table is extremely beautiful, and the town planning is easy to understand and excellent, which often makes him, a layman, shine.

However, at the same time, he had to withstand the cold eyes of the two original subjects at the same time, forcing his tight throat to work, and squeezed out a string of simple comments from his mouth that he felt were unprofessional.

This mental torture wracked his soul far more than any psychic training he had done so far, and Ahriman's pride pinned his feet to the ground as he endured the ordeal.

The Crimson King, he thought, why are there so many drawings left?

When Rogal Dorn and Perturabo inexplicably began to develop in a harmonious direction later, harmoniously having friendly discussions with each other on the conceptual model floating in the air, Ahriman really couldn't help it. I know whether I should be grateful that the pressure of the ether in the air has disappeared, or feel exhausted because I may have to stand here as a stake for a longer time.

No matter what, Astartes' physical strength was enough for him to easily stand for several more hours...or dozens of hours.

They probably wouldn't really chat for dozens of hours at a time.

The prophet suddenly discovered that the division of the Milky Way galaxy in 30k may be different from that in 40k...

It’s hard to change the previous article, so let’s leave it as it is (eyes closed)