Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Sometimes, after a swearing-in ceremony for new recruits, Rogal Dorn would feel tired.

This is not a direct effect of the repetitive nature of the ritual. In the vast black hall, each warrior will entrust his sincere oath to the Father of Genes during the process of swearing an oath. They will truly pledge every drop of their souls and beliefs in their flesh and blood to Rogge Doug in the temple. En's own will.

Dorn silently welcomed the touch of their souls. When each Imperial Fist warrior was reborn in the temple, Rogal Dorn was reborn into the world with them, like a stone carving itself out in the purification of faith. . He treasures these precious moments, even if these very similar moments will be repeated thousands of times.

So Rogal Dorn still didn't know why he was tired.

He lowered his head and placed the blanket on the bed on his legs, covering the cold golden armor. The fur, sewn with Invette's skill, brought warmth to his legs.

The next thing he knew it was purely psychological. Donn ignored the prompts his mind gave him and closed his eyes briefly, looking for a few hours of rest in the rare spiritual comfort.

There is no dream. He woke up to find that he was still sitting up, his muscles aching from the completely wrong sleeping position, which, of course, was nothing to mention for a Primarch. Years of ruling in Inwett had taught Dorn that even if he never rested, the only physical consequence would be to further the development of the infinite potential contained within the body forged by the Emperor.

He now returns to the bedroom regularly to gain tranquility in his sleep, simply because he is sure that this is a daily schedule that can maintain individual mental stability at the lowest cost and cannot be ignored.

Rogal Dorn put down the blanket, and for a brief moment felt his fingers holding on to it. The golden skull given to him by Perturabo looked at him silently on the table.

Dorn then left the bedroom and found his brother in the Phalanx's workshop, which had been long occupied and completely renovated by Perturabo.

Perturabo, the only brother he really knew now and whom he greatly respected, showed up at the workshop early as usual, or maybe he stayed all night.

Ever since he got inspiration from the bionic data line of the Genna people, seemingly endless energy burst out from his body so decisively, pouring endlessly into every time Perturabo raised his hand and blinked. If Rogal Dorn counteracted fatigue with determination, then there was simply no trace of this state on Perturabo.

"Dorn." Perturabo could detect his arrival without looking back. Perhaps this had something to do with the camera pointed at the door of the workshop. "Good afternoon... no, good morning."

"Rogal Dorn." came the voice from a data pad that Perturabo had thrown into the corner. Dorn knew that it was Morse, Perturabo's mentor, now on Terra. "You see, I just said that the black data cable is not as beautiful as the silver one, and he threw me aside."

"Good morning, Perturabo, Morse." Dorn said to the two people, picking up the data tablet and nodding at the image inside.

He saw Morse wearing the original black robe, holding a thick gold-rimmed book in his hand. The text on the cover was half obscured due to the camera angle, and only half of the line "... Leather Scripture" could be seen. (Codex:O...)".

"If you have nothing to do," Perturabo stared at the data scrolling on the screen, stretched out his hand to fumble for a while, and picked out a slender data cable connected to the back of his head, "help me connect it to the breadboard labeled on the rear desktop console. Red interface. It’s not convenient for me to move.”

Dorn bypassed Perturabo's large number of data lines connected to various interfaces in the room, took the thin line, and helped Perturabo connect it. His brother trembled at the moment the connection was connected: "No, unplug it!"

Dawn quickly complied. Perturabo exhaled, brought up the motherboard, and began to detect program errors. At the same time, he explained to Dorn smoothly: "There must be something wrong with the magnification."

"I told you earlier," Morse said, "that you can't increase the output signal by that much. Just look at your base current."

"Continue to translate your holy scripture, Morse." Perturabo said, "I have already written the first edition of the holy scripture in Gothic. Why has your translation taken so long?"

"You want me to translate faster, why not simplify the words?" Morse snorted. "Do you know what a terrible job it is to make them understand clause nesting? And I may have to write two translations, considering Where that road may eventually lead, and whether the creatures living on the road are aware of it.”

"What lives there?" asked Perturabo.

"I don't know, I don't want to translate their damn language - anyway, Rogal Dorn, you look like you're not in good spirits."

Dorn, who was suddenly called, immediately reflected on his state. From the large mirror in the workshop, he saw a Primarch who was no different from the usual serious and cold Rogal Dorn. He was a little confused.

"I'm not mentally ill," Dorn said.

"Oh, you do." The data pen in Perturabo's hand hit the data pad hard, testing the upper limit of the pressure that these fragile artificial creations can withstand. "Even for you, you are too quiet today. . What do you want to do with me?"

"...It's okay." Dorn replied.

"Look." Perturabo typed the new variables into the data pad, and the cogitator started humming, quickly giving him a "build successful" sign. He breathed a sigh of relief and then said, "This isn't like you."

The Lord of Iron carefully removed the data cables one by one from the mechanical port that was connected like a spider web, turned the swivel chair, and looked at Rogal Dorn carefully. "I should have told you that I am a person who is very sensitive to emotions. The fact that you came to me today means that you are looking for help."

"Or a more effective relaxation." Morse said, "Recalling the beautiful past that only occupies a small and distant fragment of life with an ineffable inorganic object is essentially a kind of unconscious self-torture."

"You are the last person here to say this, Morse." Perturabo placed Morse's data pad face down on the table. "What's bothering you, Dorn?"

Donne thought calmly for a while, sorting out his thoughts. This started to make him feel relaxed. He knew that under the suspended orbit of the Phalanx, a large number of independent Gennar people were being executed. A smell of gunpowder smoke rushed into his nasal cavity, strange and familiar.

He finally reacted.

"I'm thinking about Inwit." Dorn said, "I have stayed on my home planet for thirty years. I am used to the smell of ice and snow."

"And your skin is burning with the heat of war now." Perturabo's expression remained calm. "When we set off to leave, you did not say goodbye to Invite."

"I know how fast Invit is growing. So I'm not worried about Invit," Dorn said. "I canceled the farewell ceremony. It was a waste of Invit's limited resources."

"It makes sense." Perturabo nodded, smoothed out a data cable, took one out and connected it to the desktop interface. The metal plate covering the portholes in the workshop was automatically removed, and the deep universe was revealed before Rogal Dorn's eyes.

"That's the direction we're headed," Dorn said.

Outside of Ultramar, the auspices had detected a separate planet inhabited by humans, and the two Primarchs decided to make it a priority to include it in the Empire's territory. Now through the porthole, Dorn could already see the outline of the crimson planet.

"Yes, I haven't finished connecting yet." Perturabo said, connecting another data cable. The holographic projection quickly covered the porthole, and a simulated galaxy appeared before Rogal Dorn's eyes. The glistening bright spots of ice and snow were reflected in the pale irises of the Primarch.

"Although it's a little late, you can still say goodbye now," Perturabo said. "That's what the ceremony is about."

Rogal Dorn looked down at his brother and felt the warm breath of his own breath on his upper lip. He closed his eyes for a moment, which was almost the same as blinking due to the short time.

Then he looked at the projected planet, as if an icy wind was caressing his forehead.

"Goodbye, Inwit," he said.