Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

No one understands Perturabo, Damex thought.

After Perturabo made a confusing move, Damex's habit as a king made him observe his courtiers immediately: he could not help but worry about whether his authority would be undermined by Perturabo's displeasure. got damage.

He saw the priest raising his head high and kneeling down, looking up at Perturabo as if his neck was about to be broken. He looked horrified, murmuring in his mouth, and his lips and tongue trembled.

He saw the soldier's lips parted up and down under the upper half of his face covered by armor, and his breath of surprise was sucked into the human body protected by the iron helmet.

He saw the courtiers tugging at the sleeves of their robes, or their bodies tensing up like fish caught in the sea. Some lowered their heads to avoid trouble, while others raised their heads to look at him.

He finally looked towards the center of the crowd. In the center of the ring, envoys from other countries maintained their hypocritical etiquette and stood upright, with elegant and steady expressions.

No one questioned Perturabo for his offensive and abrupt behavior, and Damex excused himself for his brief panic.

Then he discovered that the pauses Perturabo gave in his speech were intended to allow others to make eye contact with each other in surprise.

Damex sighed in his heart: This may be the talent of the Almighty Son.

If his biological son, the ambitious Harkon, the child who will succeed him, has such innate abilities; or if his second son, the weak Andos, a craftsman obsessed with art, has such courage, then how great will Lokos be? Lucky?

How can other tyrant countries defeat the solid city wall that Lokos has not built for six hundred years?

Although he himself does not mind war, he also knows that peace is what the public wants.

As for Callifon, his only daughter. Although she possesses the rare common sense of a leader, the Olympians will not let a woman become a tyrant, at least not yet in Lokos.

"I forged a blade," said Perturabo.

When the truth comes out of the boy's mouth, it adds a decisive dimension of divinity. He simply stood there with the forging fire burning behind him and became part of the ancient myth of Olympia.

"I give shape to steel and make the metal bend to me. I listen to the song of gold and iron, let creation find their place in my hands, let the sharp tools come into the world. This is what a craftsman taught me, and today I will It worked; and, I succeeded.”

Morse listened quietly, his messy black hair covering half of his pale face. When Perturabo mentioned him, his eyelids closed and then rose again, blinking.

Perturabo's voice gradually became lower: "I am here today to prove that I am exactly who you think I am. And from the eyes of each of you, I see that you have given me a proof."

"Although you don't speak, I heard everyone saying that I am a descendant of the gods, a boy who came from the top of your mountains, and an extraordinary person."

Mount Telefus, Damex thought, he was talking about Mount Telefus, which is covered with ice and snow all year round and has an unreachable summit.

For so many years, the Olympians have persistently conquered each other, to invade other people's lands, to seize, to conquer, but no one has ever conquered Mount Telephos.

That is no longer the realm of mortals.

"But!" Perturabo suddenly raised his voice, and his voice struck Damex's heart hard.

"What exactly did I use to prove this rumor? With a hammer, a furnace, a bellows? With a sharp blade that any craftsman can make as long as he works hard? Is this the evidence I produced? This is what you want All of them?”

He looked around, and there was some unbridled sarcasm on his serious face. If anyone had talked to Morse, they would find that this sarcasm was exactly the same as the expression Morse often showed.

"My body, my strength, my knowledge, and my memories are all beyond the reach of mortals." Perturabo said coldly. "I am a mortal now, just like anyone else here, with two arms, two eyes, one... one heart."

"And now you tell me that I use things that mortals can do to prove that I am not a mortal. Think about it again, everyone, is this what you are thinking?"

He let his words float through the hall.

The priest's head was raised higher, and Perturabo noticed him, so the boy looked at the priest with a grim determination that any sentient being could sense in that deep mockery and powerful disappointment.

"Is this how you prove that gods are gods? Tell me, priest, is this how you steal the achievements of mortals as evidence for the existence of gods?"

Then he looked up again.

"You have proven your beliefs and I have proven mine," Perturabo said. "That is, your god is indeed a figment of imagination."

Damex grasped the wooden railing with both hands eagerly, forgetting that he even had a golden scepter in his hand.

Perturabo's performance caused the boy to use the stage he had built to trample on the heads of all the Lokos, which made Damex eager to defend his subjects.

The tyrant must defend his subjects, otherwise he will lose face from today on.

Then, the golden staff that fell from Damex's palm and was about to fall to the ground suddenly floated strangely, and a layer of frost climbed onto the grapes placed on the low table near the tyrant's seat, coating the surface of the fruit with a delicate and beautiful veil of frost.

Morse let the scepter fly back to his palm, playing with it boredly, rubbing the golden bird carved on the top of the scepter with his fingertips.

He whispered, "Look, my father! How warm the sun is, and how clear the sea is. Ikaros sings, hovering at a height never before reached in this life, enjoying a freedom never before known. He sees everything on earth, and sometimes thinks that Helios' sun wheel frame is at hand." Dammex has no time to analyze Morse's work, even though his wisdom warns him that what Morse said is the condensation and artistry of what is happening now. He must focus on dealing with Perturabo, who is looking into his eyes. "Perturabo," Dammex tried to maintain his tolerance and dignity. He said kindly: "Faith will only touch you when you have a call in your heart, and the gods do not force the love of their subjects."

"If you think so."

Damecus felt the weight of the iron crown on his head and drew strength from it: "Everyone present has witnessed your talent, and talented people deserve some arrogant privileges. Any wise monarch should do this, right?"

"In any case, Locus will always open the door for you and the craftsman Morse. Although you were extremely determined when you threw the blade into the furnace, I still hope to get your answer, why did you destroy your work, Perturabo?"

He quietly changed the subject.

Perturabo looked back at the furnace, then looked around the hall, from the electric lights decorated as candlelight on the ceiling, the automatic gears with steam around, to the towering stone pillars, the shields held by the soldiers, the armor they wore, and the clothes and accessories of the courtiers.

Then he said: "You are a rational person, tyrant, so I want to communicate with you."

Damecus didn't know whether he should be happy about this.

The boy said, "There are many things I don't know. I want to know where the energy for electric lights comes from and whether there are better designs for steel machinery. I need to learn. Of course, I am not a rude person." "Morse told me that every gain is worth every effort, and the price should be given by both parties." The boy's expression was a little subtle when he said these words, "I will learn everything I can in Lokos, but I will also pay my labor." "Will you forge more weapons?" "No, this is not my talent. I burned the blades for this reason. I have no intention of making weapons for anyone. I am a craftsman. Water wheels, wooden plows, roads, stone mills, sculptures, paintings, ritual vessels, bronze statues... these are what I will leave in Lokos." At this point, the boy paused. "If I knew how to forge sickles and plowshares, I would have reforged the blades into tools for the people. But I don't know."

"What about war?" Damex asked cautiously, "My child, war is necessary. The peace of Lokos will not purify the soil of other countries that desire violence like the rain from the snowy mountains."

The boy's indifference was even worse, "Fortresses, walls, machinery, and weapons. I don't like this, but I may be good at it."

Damex was about to speak again and try to appease Perturabo with kind words, but he heard the priest in the audience tremblingly move his limp tongue: "Lord Perturabo, if you are a mortal, where did you learn your knowledge of forging? ? Did you learn it from Lord Morse? Who is he? "

"Maybe Lord Morse is the apostle of God. God sent him to be your mentor. He just didn't tell you."

Damex felt angry instantly. He was troubled by the golden scepter being fiddled with by Morse. He couldn't knock the ground for a while. He had to slap the wooden fence with his palm: "Priest Fedra, stop your provocation! Don't you find your behavior extremely absurd to make irresponsible comments in front of the guests invited by Lokos?"

He shouldn't have listened to the words of God today, and was blinded by Fedra's obedience. He invited these troublesome religious scammers to defend some traditions!

Perturabo immediately glanced at Morse. Morse's fingers gently tapped his lower lip and looked down calmly. He was not only indifferent, but also unwilling to pretend to be encouraging.

This was the only answer he gave that could not be considered an answer. Damex began to guess what the contradiction between the two was-he couldn't guess. Or is this the way craftsmen get along with craftsmen?

Perturabo retracted his gaze and walked forward. For a moment, Damex thought the boy was going to kick the priest.

Thinking of the consequences of doing so, Damex was worried at first, but then he found that he was actually looking forward to it.

In this way, he would have a reason to have a small friction with the priests of the cult who always spread panic prophecies, and turn to be closer to the nine wise men of Perecontia.

Perturabo did not do that.

"If you always cling to the tragic mythical sacrifice in your mind pitifully and want to rigidly install a divine cause for everything in the world, then reason cannot save you - you can't be saved by something that does not exist in your heart."

Perturabo said, stepping past the priest, too lazy to waste more words.

He put more energy on Morse.

Morse's silence at this moment has a more real weight. His eyes and waiting are already an entity that cannot be ignored, and his attitude no longer needs to be described in words.

Language itself is a ruler constructed by humans to quantify this world, a converted modulus.

Perturabo gritted his teeth and gave up any further hesitation.

"Morse is an excellent craftsman. I have never seen the complete works he left in reality, but his skills undoubtedly surpass the sum of Olympia's achievements. What I have seen so far is enough for me to comment like this ”

"He taught me forging, taught me life, and he changed me. However, there is really no unnecessary relationship between the two of us. We just often appear together, and he will leave at any time, not because of the guidance of gods, but because his own will.”

He paused and continued: "I will never veto his help to me, nor will I recognize him as a mentor against his will. I am qualified to respect him in this way, but who are you to speculate on him and belittle him? As a messenger of God?”

Damex quickly let his voice drown out the possible comments from others.

"Perturabo," the tyrant said, "you have proven yourself, both in talent and ability. The city-states and fortresses of Lokos will wait for your designs, and craftsmen and scholars will also gather in front of you. No matter what Whether it is knowledge, bricks and stones, or earthly honors and flowers, whatever you want, as long as you can bring glory to Lokos."

"What about Morse?" asked Perturabo.

"How exactly should we treat your relationship with Artisan Morse, Perturabo?"

In Perturabo's eyes Damex saw some echoing hollows, some trivial tremors, some low dull colors, some vague pain; these emotions were not separate, but like The lump of solidified molten iron uniformly aggregated into shades of gray. He experienced emotions, not by reason, but by shared feelings - which reminded Damex of his own father, whom he quickly forgot about again.

"He has nothing to do with me, Tyrant. Although I have expectations," another pause, "and dependence on him."

The next second, Morse suddenly appeared in the center of the round platform.

No one saw how abruptly he changed his body in the center of everyone's attention. He just flashed there, as if he had been standing there for a long time.

"Perturabo is one of my apprentices," Morse announced haughtily, putting an arm around the boy's shoulders, "and I am a craftsman."

His behavior was severe and rude, and he lacked inquiring about other people's opinions, but Perturabo happily accepted Morse and allowed the black craftsman to trap him in his arms, as if he had been waiting for a long time.

Mors lowered his head slightly: "Do you want to stay here, Perturabo?"

"I think so," the boy said.

Morse smiled and said, "Tyrant, you heard me."

Damex braced himself, suppressed the panic faced by the unexpected, and immediately dealt with various affairs in an orderly manner.

He ordered his soldiers Patroclus to prepare to take away the annoying priests, announced new decisions to the courtiers one by one, used hearty laughter and occasional gloominess to consolidate his authority, and bravely withstood Morse. With half-smiling eyes, he was thinking about how to deal with the multinational alliance of wise men in Olympia in the future...

These things consume a lot of his thoughts. Although he is still considered to be in his prime, he cannot be called young by any means. His mood has been ups and downs today, which is really tiring.

It wasn't until everyone dispersed, the lights dimmed, and Morse and Perturabo left together - Perturabo actually kicked the priest in a very interesting way when he left, that Damex relaxed and lay down on him His body slumped, and he breathed the sweet air of the empty palace with ease, sighing at the mental fatigue of the past two days.

Then he saw a soft note pressed under the engraved fruit plate containing grapes still dripping with crystal ice water on the low table with soft sides.

It should be noted that he was just following the function of this "paper" and temporarily found the noun that best suited its characteristics from the knowledge base to interpret it.

On this thin, pure white creation, which is seamless, extremely smooth and light, and beyond the imagination of the world, is written the ending of the story described by Morse.

As Damex read, he tasted the fruit of the abundant surprise from his heart. When he finished reading the story, the juice of the full fruit slowly gave him a hint of wonderful sweetness.

He imagined several of the most common tragic endings in all dramas on Olympia, savoring the artistic beauty of disaster from its shortcomings, inferring the fate of the two of them from the previous clues, but not once did he expect that he would A complete story can be seen from Morse's writing.

"I'm going to touch the sun, my wings are on fire, but I'm going to touch the sun, and my wishes are no more. Are you going to abandon me? Then say goodbye, my father, this is not you either Leaving me for the first time. Father, I am going to fall into the sea!"

"Don't panic, my son. There is an island in front of you. My wings still allow us to land here. Rest on that island. I will name it after Ikaria, and your name will be Gongzao." The symbol of earth.”

"Since then, craftsmen have enjoyed paradise. Although they have been far away from the world and have lived on isolated islands for a long time, hunting, building, and planting on the islands; but their works have transcended the scale of mortals, making stone statues made by human hands as if they were mythical. Step into eternity.”

"When people describe the work of the craftsmen Daedalus and Icarus, they often say that they are the origin of artists who give creation souls."

"When the masters in the past carved stone statues, the statues could only close their eyes, hang their hands, and sleep softly. It was not until the two of them touched the stone chisels for the first time that the statues opened their gilded eyes and looked toward them. He stretched out his hands far in front of him and opened his legs, as if he was eager to embrace the world. "

Finally, at the end of the note, there was a line of small words written in thin strokes.

"I didn't create the story. I just put it back into the world."

Thanks to the guy who cut the wallpaper with a knife orz