Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

"I give up," the Iron Lord announced. "Everything on the Phalanx will be returned to Rogal Dorn, and my dear brother will take care of it. I have interfered enough in the internal affairs of the Imperial Fists."

"You have killed enough germs." Morse patted Perturabo's arm in a friendly manner.

Perturabo pulled out a chair and sat down. The tabletop that had been cleaned by the strong corrosive gas was now clean except for pits and pits. Some tiny burnt black and green dots marked a small pile of dead lives.

This gas is the best cleaning micro-green prop that he has concocted in recent days. For this reason, Perturabo urgently learned a lot of chemical knowledge, half practice and half deduction, and based on practical operation, he came up with a solution that must be preserved in ceramic steel. The gaseous detergent in the compressed tank can not only destroy the green skin's body structure, but it can also corrode most of the organic matter in the world, and even some inorganic matter.

"Dorn can take care of the rest." Perturabo put one hand on the edge of the table, not very energetic.

"Orc spores have been lurking in every tiniest crack on the Phalanx." Morse sat down opposite the Primarch. "Dorn is so lucky."

During this period, Morse returned to Terra once. After checking a whole round of files, he identified some species similar to orcs from a few documents, and then discovered the reproductive ability of this branch that Roger Dorn encountered. Seems to be far beyond their brethren.

Give an orc a bite of bread crumbs, and within twenty-four hours they will eat all the mold on the bread crumbs. If these orc spores are thrown onto an inorganic surface, they will immediately fall into a long and stable dormancy.

Perturabo shook his head and found the calm accent in the sentence: "Rogal Dorn mentioned that the orc fleet he was chasing had fled into the subspace, and I don't know when he will return."

"When?" Morse blocked the light in front of him with one hand and closed his eyes. After a few seconds, he lowered his palm and the bright golden light in his pupils faded. "Already on the way back."

Perturabo asked in surprise: "It is not in line with Rogal Dorn's character to give up hunting for no reason. Did he encounter an emergency?"

"I don't know." Morse said simply, picking at the small bone fragments hanging on the side of his brown soft leather clothes. "Ask him yourself. I only saw one planet being blown up everywhere by the empire's fleet. Dorn sets sail for home.”

In the remote spying at that moment, he saw that the starry sky was burned red by the fire, the mountains collapsed, the oceans boiled, the plasma exploded in low orbit, and the entire planet's atmosphere was sucked into the vacuum after deflagration. Mountain rocks and a small amount of forest trees and Large tracts of green skin on it were burned into crystal amber, permanently sealed into the passing time.

Dorn stood on the deck, lips moving, silently saying "I am not an alien."

"This is the most efficient way to eliminate the greenskins." Perturabo commented, and his frown disappeared without leaving a trace. "It's a pity that it's not available on the Phalanx."

"Oh, what do you want to do with the fort where you keep Brother Yi's rug?"

Perturabo lifted the ceramic jar on the table and put it down again, with a cold tone: "Spray the disinfectant all over his fortress."

"If you can pay the price of scrapping 90% of the Phalanx's precision instruments, I can help you create a sealed space."

"And temporarily drive all his garrison Astartes out of the Phalanx?"

"And there are mortal servants."

"There are also prepared aspirants." Petulabot paused, "They seem to be called the expected ones here."

"It's all about the kids who are going to join the Legion," Morse said. "Shall we start execution?"

Perturabo pushed the ceramite jar further away from his hands. "No, Dorn will be back soon."

Morse yawned. "Is the news coming?"

"Here we come," Perturabo said. "He will return to the front deck of the Phalanx within one day. His heirs are required to prepare complete disinfection measures and to reorganize the place in the center of the Phalanx that was once a field that you burned black. , place a stone pillar in the center of the floor, install a copper plate on the top of the stone pillar, etc. "

"Sounds like something an Emperor would do."

"Why?"

"A ceremonial place," Morse accurately pointed out Roger Dorn's idea and snorted softly, "He obviously wants to set up a ceremonial place."

——

Thirteen warriors knelt silently outside the hall. Their cleaned bright yellow armors were closer to the light source itself in the dim light.

The obsidian-like smooth corridor stretches all the way to the end of the line of sight. The four walls of the corridor are left with black embers from the burning flames. The dark residual shapes like the swaying shadows of the candlelight will surround the wall leading to the temple. Warrior, burn silently and eternally.

The clear stone surface reflected the shadows of the warriors. They were the first Imperial Fists to leave their reflections on the black stone surface.

Sigismund clenched his blackened right fist and pressed his knuckles against the surface of the black stone. The darkness seemed to extend from his hand to the ground, closely connecting him to the new temple. In the long silent kneeling, his soul and consciousness flowed into the temple along this hand, and he absorbed the iron soul from the cold black stone slab.

Looking deeper along the corridor, at the intersection of the long dark road, a flickering golden light swayed in the distance, connecting the hearts of the thirteen Imperial Fists.

Unlike the hundreds of layered isolation zones on the outside of the mountain formation, in the core of the mountain formation, this corridor does not have any protective gates or iron locks, not even a single guard. However, no one dares to take even one step forward. This is not out of fear of death, but out of loyalty to the father of genes.

Upon their return from battle, the new order was quickly communicated to each warrior's will.

Rogal Dorn set up an oath temple deep in the mountain formation. Sooner or later, every soldier of the Seventh Legion will kneel here, waiting for the summons of the Gene Father, waiting to swear an oath to the Glory of the Eagle and the Imperial Fist. Moment.

The first to receive this honor were the thirteen warriors whose fighting style was remembered by the Primarch during the first battle of the Imperial Fists. After that, according to Rogal Dorn's plan, the remaining warriors on the Phalanx will enter this pure black temple in batches to swear an oath. I will also make an oath here in the future.

If an unfortunate warrior dies before taking the oath, a battle brother will remember his name and carry his name here to take the oath.

Black Temple - This is the name of the Oath Temple.

Tens of thousands of years after the birth of Man, the Imperium has replaced old beliefs with truth, and the last church on Terra that worshiped false gods has been burned by the Emperor himself. For most people, Imperial Truth is the new faith.

However, Sigismund could keenly taste the difference.

Even though these words are disrespectful, Sigismund can feel that this silent black palace will exist more permanently than any kind of concrete faith. While being guarded by the Imperial Fist, it will also be protected by the Imperial Fist. The most silent and simple way, guarding the thoughts and souls of the Imperial Fists.

Even if the last warrior allowed to enter this place dies, this eternity will not change.

"My heir, stand up." The Gene Father's command echoed deep in the temple.

The first warrior stood up.

The moment he stood up straight, Rogal Dorn asked: "What name do you bear here?"

"Zisero," the warrior replied, the red gold inlaid on his face reflecting. "I come with the names of myself and my brother Sardar Fleming. He was killed in the battle."

"Come forward," said the Primarch. Qicero walked through the corridor and disappeared into the room where the golden light spot was.

"What name do you bear here?"

The second warrior replied: "Rafa Toma, I come with the names of my brothers Salem and Kaczynski. They were killed in the battle."

"Issac..."

"Euro..."

The soldiers stood up one after another, and the bright yellow battle armor merged with the golden light.

"Sigismund, I come bearing the name of my brother Iscus. He is in fearlessness."

Sigismund stood up calmly.

"Sigismund, come forward."

He stepped forward towards the only bright light in the black corridor.

After passing through the corridor, the room at the end shows infinite breadth. Thirteen candlesticks circle a circular base made of black stone. In the center of the base stands a pure white stone pillar, with a brand new copper plate on the top of the pillar.

Nothing was unsealed until deep in the darkness, a torch was lit, illuminating a tall figure.

Rogal Dorn approached the base of the circle, torch in hand. The sharp claws and beak of the aquila are almost flying off the golden helmet, which further strengthens the firm and cold rock appearance of the white-haired primarch.

The flames crackled and burned, and the tiny echoes extended infinitely into the depths of darkness, like the silent wind, blowing away the shadows of the void that were difficult to observe. The outer edges of the flames reflected in the primarch's pale irises, and the oath was conceived in the flames shared between primarch and offspring.

Rogal Dorn tilts the torch. The flames flowed into the copper plate and ignited the fuel that had been prepared.

The flames rose, and the echo of some eternal burning kept the howling darkness from the circle. A real and majestic force penetrated the heart of every warrior. Before the brilliance of the fire swept through the darkness, the first thing to be swept away was the warrior himself. Something is burned out, hollowed out, replaced, and something new and bright is permanently ignited in the void.

"Children," Dorn said, looking around at his first sworn heirs. "What do you think of fire?"

Sigismund met Dorn's gaze, and there was an underlying cold trust in those ice-like eyes. This deprived him of his breath. The wind and snow of Inwit had washed away his distracting thoughts, and the fire, like the black temple, presented a new immortality.

"War is fire," Rogal Dorn said, "bringing endless pain, death, and blood. We will be the creators of war, the destroyers of worlds. We will become fire, because we cannot retreat."

The Primarch raised his hand. At the end of the golden gauntlets he wore no gauntlets.

Rogal Dorn clenched his hands into fists and placed them in the center of the fire. The flames directly wrapped around his huge palm, like an eternal piece of pure white stone.

"Purification is fire," said the Primarch, "burning is the price of cleansing. We burn away the smoke and extinguish the filth. When the fire burns, what remains are the foundations of a new era. We will become fire, for we are burdened with heavy responsibility.”

The microservers buzzed, and it was Sigismund who took off his gauntlets first, even though he had received no orders.

Sigismund stared at the Gene Father, seeing neither condemnation nor encouragement in his eyes. Dorn looked at him calmly, waiting for him, until he put his palms into the fire. In the pain of the flames burning his skin and peeling off, he returned the same calm gaze to the Gene Father.

In that stone face, Sigismund's soul was touched and enveloped by an understanding that words cannot convey.

The one who felt the same way was Rogal Dorn. The flame illuminated the gem-like blue eyes of the descendant in front of him, and the burning pain strengthened his eternal determination. At this moment, Dawn knew that she and this child were sharing everything they had.

He thought of a blanket. An old man used a poker to loosen the burning firewood in the fireplace. The warm fire light blocked the wind and snow. The energy tower shook out orange light spots in the dark night. The world was quietly spinning slightly. The pulsing firelight became warm.

He asked the old man why Inwit was still hunting using primitive methods, and the old man told him what the inheritance of the will to survive was. He doesn't pretend that he once understood, and he doesn't pretend that he doesn't understand now.

"Survival is fire." Rogal Dorn said, looking along Sigismund's fist, only the hot flames remained in his field of vision. "Warmth, light, vigil, hunting, cooking, forging. Everything begins with fire. We fight, purify, and then we keep humanity alive. We will become fire, because humanity will survive in this distant, cold, dark universe."

More descendants took off their gauntlets in turn, and thirteen fists that were much smaller than the Primarch's hands guarded his hands. The cruel will is transmitted through the flames, and the oath and pain are engraved together.

"For the Emperor," Dorn said. "For Humanity."

"For the Emperor," his heirs swore in unison, "for humanity."

Dorn took his hands out of the fire, and his heirs took out their hands in the same order as they put their hands into the fire, and let them hang naturally at their sides. Blood dripped down their fingers, dripped onto the obsidian surface, and melted into the foundation stone of the temple.

"Goodbye, children." Rogal Dorn said, hearing the warmth of fire in his voice, "Sigismund, you stay."

The blond swordsman did as he was told, walking around the copper plate and approaching him. His burned palms did not tremble in the slightest, calmness overcoming the pain on his nerves.

Dorn stared at him, then asked, "Are you a warrior?"

"Yes," said Sigismund.

"Do you want to fight?"

"In no mood."

"So, why are you here?"

"For the war," he answered. "For purification."

"Not for survival?"

"For those who want to live," Sigismund said calmly. The shadow of fire on the walls of the Black Temple burned eternally behind him.

Rogal Dorn drew his sword. It is not a chain saw sword used to kill enemies on the battlefield, but a steel blade forged from Witte, which is bright silver, simple and cold.

"I need to build my guard."

He placed the sword on the warrior's shoulder.

"Sigismund, you are my first Templar."