Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Perturabo decided to talk to Angron.

After the anger caused by the period of busyness gradually subsided with the passage of time and the smooth progress of the project, the Iron Lord was finally able to put down the documents, cover his eyes with one hand, and enjoy a moment of leisure in the quiet darkness.

Two seconds later, he quickly reopened the file and stared at the text message Dorn sent him for another two seconds. Several forms of quarrels that might break out between Rogal Dorn and the World Eaters emerged in his mind. Shaking his head from the verbal argument over whether it was possible for the Templar named Sigismund to directly draw his sword on the offending cousin of the Legion.

He trusted Rogal Dorn's decision-making. He trusted Angron's affinity. But if the two were reversed, and considering that no outsiders were listening, Perturabo could safely say that they were both as bad as Morse's moral standards.

Outside the porthole of the command room, except for a few stars, the universe was pitch black. The Iron Warriors are located halfway between the system where the Imperial Fists fleet is located and Nuceria.

Perturabo originally wanted to go directly to join his white-haired brothers to complete the unification of that galaxy. However, if the conflict between the two sides has become too acute - they may always have some way to make the situation worse as quickly as possible that Perturabo can't even guess.

Then Angron must be present, as Primarch, to personally resolve the issue between his Legion and another Primarch.

He picked out a black cable from the re-lengthened hair on the back of his head and connected it to the cogitator. The radio waves were sent to the navigation room, allowing the navigator with the eye of subspace to redefine the relationship between reality and the realm of the non-material universe. Heading to Nuceria.

——

"Morse," Perturabo of Terra realized that he had not followed the regular etiquette of knocking on the door of the craftsman's room after he opened it directly. This thought flashed past quickly and was replaced by more pressing matters, " The auspicious instrument detected an abnormal subspace energy field in Nuceria, and we were able to contact the orbiting Resolute and the command post on the ground in Desia, but Angron's whereabouts are unknown."

"What about you?" Morse glanced at Perturabo, "Looks like you're still watching from orbit."

"And to stop the World Eaters who were about to jump out of the hatch and onto the ground." Perturabo said.

This allowed Morse to further confirm that Perturabo himself was not in danger - in fact, he could sense the Iron Lord's safety from the address pattern of the spell request sent from Perturabo's own location.

"I very much hope that this incident has nothing to do with the attention of some dark power." Morse murmured, pushing away a novel that was popular on Terra two thousand years ago on the table, looking up from the posture of bending over the desk, and deeply He took a deep breath, letting the last breath of the fresh air in the Terra Palace workshop, which he specifically requested not to be scented, echo meaninglessly in his empty black robe.

The next second, his body collapsed and folded, falling into the seat.

Morse's consciousness and soul fell into the back of the curtain, pursuing the beacon that had been fixed for a long time, dialing the colorful lights projected in the senses by the energy of the etheric space that can be understood by human thinking patterns, and avoiding dangerous omens and unknown creatures in the ocean. , stopped outside Nuceria, and began to examine the situation here with the fastest speed and the most cautious attitude.

From an unrealistic perspective, Nuceria, which has red sand as its base color, is being covered by a light layer of blood-red luster.

Morse concentrated his energy, and the energy surged in the transparent rune body, condensing the runes into a long sword, and pierced the crimson light shield. The membrane slid softly and malleably against his sword blade, reluctantly opening to the surroundings under his power, turning into a hole that could be blended in and passed through.

A bloody breath disappeared in the vast ocean. Morse recognized the origin of that power. At the same time, he also realized that the glances of the dark gods were fleeting. He did not know whether he chose to give up strangely or for another reason. Rewind.

Naturally, he would not rashly pursue the Blood God at this time. No matter where this murderous intention goes, the original body of Nuceria is undoubtedly the first important target that must be rescued.

Morse passed through the atmosphere, followed by rain clouds. Without being manipulated, he found that he was approaching the surface of the real universe. This proves that the boundaries between reality and unreality are blurred.

The dark clouds turned into rain of blood, and the thoughts of self-devourment and self-destruction almost formed the core of a hurricane wrapped in blood and fire. However, this place was still one step away from being completely dragged into subspace, as if an anchor had fallen into the depths of the red sand. , fixing the last layer of curtain.

The echoes of the wail passed through the eddies of the immaterial universe and penetrated Morse's formless body. A large number of images fell into his mind during this torrent. Half of them were the iron ropes binding his body, the flowing acid, and the slaughter of giant beasts. The other half were the high sky above the red sand, the warm illusion and the peace under the silver moon.

In this hazy field of vision, he saw an extremely eye-catching red copper star, wrapped in layers of dim and twisted black wandering spirits, which remained bright. Blood flows from the stars to the red sand.

"Angron," he said, falling to the ground. "how's it going?"

The projection of the Primarch looked to him, and a horrifying remains of flesh and blood became clear to Morse's eyes. His skin was torn, and countless small wounds were connected into large-scale deep scars, as if he had been eaten by a group of wild dogs. It was repeatedly scabbed and torn apart, and his exposed organs and bones were exposed. In the thick air. Blood flowed from the blurred organs and entangled black shadows, soaking into the dark red sand, forming a living ruins. It was a derelict mass composed of broken bodies and endless blood.

If this was not a Primarch, Mors would not mind condemning him immediately.

Then the Primarch spoke.

"Artisan Morse, good evening." He said, his voice clear and quiet, coming out through the damaged vocal cords, echoing at the edge of the etheric ocean.

Angron turned his head towards him, and his empty dark eye sockets contained such profound remoteness and tranquility: "They are just hungry, don't disperse them."

Morse's eyelids trembled and he chose to accept the original body's indifference. If a person sincerely regards suffering as a normal thing, he will not insult the other person's heart with unnecessary emotions.

He sent a signal to the real universe, telling Perturabo that they could land here when the auspicious data returned to normal, and those World Eaters who were going crazy with anxiety would also see a "different genetic blood ancestor".

"Fortunately, it's just the dead souls, not a bigger pollution problem - humans are a naturally psychic race, so ghosts are one of the most enduring horror story themes in human history. This is why the old night psykers are everywhere Due to disgust, their souls can cause greater ripples in the subspace. As for the uncontrollable consequences that psykers will cause during their lifetime and after death, everything is unknown..."

Morse spread out a hand, not sure whether the original body's current state could still judge his movements through the flowing runes on his body.

"Psychic?" the Primarch repeated.

"Wizards, warlocks, psychics, mystics, diviners... mainly these people. Have you ever killed them?"

Angron was silent. The ghost's sharp teeth scraped across his finger bones, making a harsh scratching sound.

"I won't comment on anyone you have killed. I got the answer from your reaction."

"In the arena," Angron said, "I strangled a witch to death."

"Okay, is she here?"

A skinny soul with her buzzing collar retreated from Angron, the color faded and disappeared.

"No more," the Primarch said lowly.

Mors glanced at her and sat down among the bones beside Angron, letting the dead soul penetrate his non-existent body.

The rain falling from the sky condenses a very shallow golden red light, like the reflection of a bonfire in the night, burning silently in every drop of rain, dispelling the chill of early autumn and maintaining the temperature in the red sand field.

He exhaled, taking the opportunity to sigh out the tension of coming here, and find his own relaxation and comfort in the rain of bonfire.

"Before you are eaten, I can sit with you for a while." The craftsman said, "By the way, let's talk about what you have been doing in Nuceria recently. What happened tonight that made you come all the way from the sanatorium to fight Selflessly providing free midnight snacks to others like atonement?”

"I have received a letter from Rogal Dorn," Angron said. "My Legions are killing without permission. I can't sleep, and then I stumble upon the fact that my people have reactivated the gladiatorial arena."

He paused. "I already said no once when we were discussing how to adjudicate slave owners. I thought that was enough."

"Perturabo and I evaluated you a year ago," Morse tried to grab a handful of red sand from the ground with one hand. The fine sand slipped from his hand. This touch showed the subspace's influence on this place. The influence is waning as the ghost is freed. "I said you were weak, but Perturabo refuted me and said that the best adjective for your natural character is kind."

"You're right...artisan," Angron said.

Likewise, as the influence of the Warp weakens, damage to the physical body is more reflected in the Primarch's actions. His voice was torn apart by the injury, as broken as the grains of red sand. His breathing became labored, and his frail body was about to force this soul into a necessary rest.

But he didn't stop talking.

"I am running away from...my responsibilities," Angron said, his voice lowering. "I let them govern themselves. I listen to their words...the words of my brothers and sisters, the words of my heirs."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"I'm not good at management," he breathed slowly in the moist air after the rain, his body becoming cold. "I...maybe need to study."

"Oh, it doesn't matter. In the past experience, I have accepted the possibility that some primarchs are ignorant of some things," Morse replied. "Ask your two brothers to help you select those who can take on the responsibility of management." Commander of the Legion, or Guards, whatever you want to call him, let your subordinates take care of you and get scolded, and you can continue to be your good big brother."

Angron smiled lowly.

The influence of the subspace further weakened, and the spectators in the arena fell down in their respective seats. After the souls affected by the dead souls returned to their bodies, the snores symbolizing life floated in the distance.

If Angron chose to break out of the arena, there would definitely be no one alive here.

Morse raised his hand, pushed away some souls blocking the space between the two, and touched Angron's arm. The scars faded under the golden light, and Angron fell closer to sleep. His head tilted downward slightly, and his repaired face showed a deep look of sleepiness.

"Don't let anyone eat you next time," Morse said. "The essential power that makes up your soul is not damaged, otherwise I will have to call the Emperor to repair you."

"Okay. I understand..." Angron said intermittently, gradually lying down in the red sand and falling into a pool of his own wet blood.

He was lying on his side, breathing weakly.

"I'm going to...finish that letter to Dorn...and then we're going to have a...new meeting. I want...Kahn, Kahn can come."

"Finally, I want to say... I want to tell everyone that I am no longer a slave, I am not a slave of the emperor, I just... obey my ideals."

"Okay," Morse said, in a tone that was almost sincere to him, "just do it."

The primarch closed his eyes and fell asleep quietly. Morse stood by his side, thought for a while, and raised one finger into the sky.

A beam of golden light pierced the clouds, then spread rapidly to the surroundings, expanded into a bright golden circle, and then dispersed. Only the thin lines of surging runes remained on the edge of the clouds. Soon, this thin golden line was replaced by the true radiance of the sun. Sunlight falls on the city of Desia.

Outside the city, the sound of the airborne capsule landing was particularly loud, and it only took a split second for the World Eaters to rush into the arena. This group of sad hounds knelt down beside their blood-stained father, uttering a strangled silent cry in their throats, reaching out their hands but not daring to touch their father's body.

Perturabo emerged after the World Eater, chest heaving as he stared at his brother's form. He forced himself to look away and looked at the objects around him. Finally, his eyes locked on a flat fallen rock. Mors knew that Perturabo had guessed his location correctly.

The invisible craftsman who had not yet returned to his body stood up from the edge of the rockfall and walked to Perturabo's side.

+I'm with you. Your brother is fine, he won't die if you leave him alone. If you want to make him faster, throw him to the Apothecaries. +

+Titus is here. +Perturabo replied in the psychic channel.

+What about the World Eaters' own apothecary? +

+ Several of their best apothecaries fought with Rogal Dorn and are currently in the RA system. Dorn told me that many of the World Eaters were at loggerheads with the Imperial Fists and had engaged in infractions. It was for this reason that I returned to Nuceria. +

+As a result, the auspicious bird and your brother were so scared that they kicked open my door in Terra. + Morse said. + Angron said that Dorne also wrote a letter to him. What have they been doing in the expedition recently? +

+That's the problem. +Perturabo said, a gritted annoyance conveying over the psychic comms, +I just discovered we can't contact the Imperial Fists either. +