Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

"I thought we were invited here to imprison a beast with the art of architecture. However, this labyrinth imprisoned not only the beast of heresy, but also ourselves who were betrayed. We walked through countless intersecting aisles, escaping from the bull head. Human beings; this dazzling secret is like the twists and turns of the river network, passing through the upstream and downstream, we go back to the source. Is this what we deserve? Is this what you deserve? ”

"My son, our labyrinths claim the lives of innocent people every year, and our art makes tyrants powerful and powerful. Although this is not what I want, it is true."

"Are we going to never be able to escape and accept whatever the gods give us?"

Damex held the newly written scroll in his hands. The ink on it was not dry yet, and the moist black ink could still reflect the bits of light falling from the ceiling.

When he was immersed in reading, the paper carrying the story was casually pulled away by a hand wrapped in black cloth.

Morse balled up the scroll like it was some worthless waste. Damex could not help but feel angry. After serving as one of the Twelve Tyrants of Olympia for many years, he rarely experienced such blatant disobedience.

However, when he looked up and saw that the mysterious craftsman in black didn't even bother to look at him, he immediately put away his anger and allowed his respect to gradually expand.

Equivalent to disobedience is Morse's astonishing and even frightening ability.

Damex couldn't understand where this man named Morse received his supreme talent and where he obtained his extraordinary abilities.

Although he had to fulfill his duties as a ruler and deal with the priests and priests, he knew in his heart that whether it was the long-standing legend of the "Black Judgment Day" in Olympia or the existence of the gods in the sky. It's just a set of words that are divorced from reality and concocted by ignorant people to seek peace of mind.

Damex really couldn't find a second explanation other than divine blessing to rationalize the existence of Mors and Perturabo.

——On that day when the courtiers in the hall had a face-to-face meeting with Perturabo, did any one of them give the slightest attention to the craftsman Morse who was clearly not to be ignored?

Every time he recalled this incident, Damex felt afraid.

He cleared his throat covertly, wrung his hands together, leaned forward, and put his weight on the small wooden table in front of him.

"Morse," he asked respectfully, "this story has exquisite language and twists and turns. It is both fantasy and warning. I wonder why you want to destroy it? Isn't this still a story you are satisfied with?" Do?"

Morse leaned half of his body against the carved wooden railing on the second floor of the hall, still dressed in pitch black, like a shadow in the sun.

He stared intently at the wide platform below the stage. In his hand, the paper with the story was crackling and burning in the blue flames.

Hearing this, he replied: "Satisfied? It's just a story written casually. It's better to see how Perturabo performs next and what achievements he can make today. I'm also curious.

Damex was still not willing to give up. The story had reached its peak. If it had stopped abruptly, he would probably have thought about the story of the craftsman and his son over and over in his mind thousands of times over the next week. .

"So, can you tell me the ending of the father and son in the story?" Damex said, lifting his slightly fat middle-aged body from the comfortable soft chair, and walked to the side of the wooden railing with his hands behind his back.

"Death, people will always die. At least that's the story." Morse simply said a few words and no longer paid attention to Damex.

It was obvious that he had been concentrating on writing the story for a long time while waiting, but at this time, it seemed that he could not occupy any more space in his heart.

Damex couldn't help but feel lost for a moment, and then he gave up on his delusion.

He had thought that the artist had intended to write a story for him to read, but now it was proven that he had too high an opinion of himself.

He also looked towards the center of the first floor of the theater hall.

On the side of the round platform made of marble, a boy is calmly waiting for the trial he is about to face. Even though there are thousands of pairs of eyes in the audience staring intently, his demeanor and composure are still extraordinary beyond his years.

Perturabo's strength and knowledge are not beyond the ranks of mortals. Compared with Morse, who is full of extraordinary characteristics, he is probably indeed a mortal child.

Damex had wondered many times why, being mortal, his offspring could not be as extraordinary as this boy.

As magnificent music played in all directions of the round platform, a movable cast-iron platform was carried into the round platform by eight strong young soldiers.

Another new bald priest showed up to guide the soldiers in an orderly manner. People had to wonder whether the priest who lost his manners in front of the temple yesterday was safe and sound at this time.

Perturabo turned slightly sideways, sizing up the tool he was about to take over. Damex couldn't see his expression clearly from the high second floor, but Morse on the side put his thumb on his chin and said briskly: "He is confident."

The king nodded. Below, the cylinder of the casting platform radiated a large amount of light and heat. The temperature in the furnace was even higher than yesterday, enough to make any ordinary person flinch.

When the bellows and anvils were deployed one after another, the charcoal burned brightly, and the smoke steamed upward, turning into a gray cloud that lingered in the high tower, Perturabo walked firmly towards the center of the round platform where he would work.

He looked at the dark yellow wooden stakes used to line the anvils and the gun-iron-colored utensils with a metallic luster. He didn't know what kind of insights he had in his heart, and his movements were actually a little gentle.

Perturabo reached out to the silver steel bucket filled with iron blocks, took out the material he liked without hesitation, placed it on the anvil, and let the hammer and fire give it life.

The forging began.

The boy tried to send the iron block to the blazing fire with his bare hands, and he quickly regained his sanity, took the tongs and invisible thick gloves offered by the ceremonial officer beside him, and no longer forced his fragile hands.

This small action caused Morse's eyes to flash with a smile.

After being almost injured by the flames, Perturabo was still not afraid of the flames. He skillfully used fire and steel, as if he was born to coexist with these craftsmen.

The steel burned red in the high temperature, the center was as bright as the golden core of a star, and the edges fell pieces of cooled charred debris.

He patiently turned the iron block over and over again, and the sweat and high temperature made his cloth robe wet, and the light of the melted metal flashed in the eyes of both the boy and Morse on the second-floor platform.

Morse spoke again, perhaps speaking to Dammek, perhaps to an illusion, or perhaps to no one.

He continued the story he had interrupted before, speaking to the father in the story in the tone of a son, and was never stingy in bringing more myths to this distant planet that had never been inspired.

"Father, I will not let us escape forever. Although our destination is uncertain, we should not linger on a lonely and distant island."

"Seabirds will give us feathers, tyrants will leave us beeswax, Apollo will guide our way, Hermes will bless our wings, and we will find freedom in the sky."

Morse's voice was very light, and each clear consonant was as gentle as the chirping of an oriole in early spring, as if it only needed to be louder and more straightforward to disturb a clear and transparent pool of mist.

Dammek was surprised that his breathing was so heavy and rough, so he deliberately softened it. He then remembered that Morse said that everyone in the story was dead, and soon he felt sad for some unknown reason.

Morse turned his head to look at Dammecus, and the tyrant immediately woke up and resumed his normal breathing rhythm. He awkwardly pretended to be calm.