Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 188 Listen to Roger Dorn

Between unraveling the complex protective measures inside the fortress layer by layer, and destroying all obstacles in front of him through violent energy output, Morse chose to step out of the window and float upward against the airflow outside the fortress until his invisible body fell. On the top tower of the fortress illuminated by golden light, he stepped on the broken bricks that collapsed on the ground and walked to the seriously injured original body and a half-dead World Eater Astartes who fell beside him.

Since Morse had no time to reshape his body when he came here through the subspace, the two people who knew nothing about psychic energy and ether could not see him. They continued to talk to each other as if there was no one, dying but tenaciously trying to Kick the opponent completely into a state of death through verbal blows.

Roger Dorn's injury was more serious than Morse could have imagined. He could not imagine what kind of opponent could break a Primarch's sternum and leg bones, cut off half of his shoulders, leave a big hole in his chest, and have a heart that was hooked by a scythe, which was almost transparent from top to bottom. The body saw the floor tiles covered with blood beneath him.

Considering that no Astartes or even Custodes could survive a minute at the hands of a Primarch, it was at least another Primarch who was good enough to attack Dorne.

Could it be that in just a few days, Dorn successfully relied on his unique language talent to find a brother and form a deadly feud with him?

+ Found him. +Morse said +his health is stable. +

There was a burst of noise over the psychic communication, and then Perturabo responded quickly: +We'll be there soon. Me, Angron, and that templar from Dorne. +

+Good. +

The craftsman patrolled around, looking for a carrier to board.

He noticed that in the middle of Rogal Dorn's left palm lay the golden skull that Perturabo had given him, and the spell gem used to drive the skull was dim and broken. He raised his left hand, and the appropriate runes were woven into a soft golden thread invisible in the real universe. He repaired the gem quietly and completely, and invaded the original body's body through the inch of area where the gem connected with Dorn's skin. Internal structure, providing insight into Dorne's internal organs.

A few seconds later, Morse sat down on the section of the wall beside the tower, feeling speechless at the excessive vitality of the Primarch.

Within this huge body, which has been seriously injured enough to make anyone sacrifice their lives several times, and whose many organs and bones have been completely smashed and destroyed from the inside out, there is still a power that is almost like an early star. It continues to maintain the turbulent fire of life of the original body. In fact, the energy naturally possessed by this mysterious and mysterious non-artificial thing is slowly regenerating muscles, coagulating blood, and reshaping broken bones.

Morse even thought that if Rogal Dorn was left here and basked in the bright sun for a whole year, maybe he could slowly stand up and stand on the ruins.

He closed his eyes, paying attention to Rogal Dorn's physical condition, listening to the extremely long conversation between the World Eater Apothecary and Rogal Dorn, continuing psychic communication with Perturabo, and dividing his energy. Contact someone who is long overdue.

——

"Morse said Dorn was arguing with a druggist named Garland."

Perturabo sat behind his iron table, using a few pieces of paper to cover the dent on the table that was half-marked by the punch.

Opposite him sat Angron, a Primarch who was no longer seriously injured, but was still covered in white gauze, with only a pair of yellow amber eyes exposed.

Sigismund moved from one corner to the other, which was probably the most agitated a Templar could express in being in the same room with two Primarchs.

"Garlan," Angron repeated, and Perturabo had never heard anything close to an angry whisper from his brother, as if the name was squeezing out of his throat as he spoke it. At the same time, he scratched his tongue, "Garan Surak. Is he still alive?"

"Alive." Perturabo's voice was steady. "But according to Morse, he was almost strangled to death by Roger Dorn with one hand, and is now paralyzed and falling to the ground due to a broken cervical spine."

He moved his hands from the top of the table to the bottom of the table, using the iron table to block the opponent's sight, and twisted his ten fingers together.

Every time he saw Angron's unfortunate posture wrapped in white cloth, he had to reflect on why he had personal negative emotions caused by his busy work, temporarily forgetting about Dorne sending a letter to Angron, so that he invisibly This is the gap between the vicious fermentation of world affairs.

"What...were they talking about?" Angron asked in a low voice.

"The Apothecary is promoting some remarks that are not conducive to the harmony within the Legion. He zealously insists on cultivating a fighting-first philosophy within the Astartes, making the Space Marines completely loyal to the duty of war, and believes that Rogal Dorn is in The grim ethos and fighting spirit promoted within the Imperial Fists proves that our brother and his ideas are fundamentally similar."

At this point, Perturabo found that Sigismund in the corner was pressing his thumb tightly on the sword grid, and he was about to draw the sword.

"Dorn was seriously arguing with him. From the origin of mankind for dozens of thousands of years to the present moment when the Emperor's glory shines in the sky, any war that loses his faith is a meaningless aggression. , any army that does not have ideals will be devoured by itself."

"Is this how they keep arguing?" Angron asked. "Did our brother Roger Dorn allow that pharmacist to waste his time and energy like this?"

"What did Garlan Surak do, Angron?" asked Perturabo, "to make you so angry with him."

Angron's gauze-covered face twitched visibly, and the pain showed in his eyes. "He knew clearly that the Desian gladiatorial pit in Nuceria was being used, but he concealed it; he transformed the custom of gladiatorial combat and brought it into my legion; and, we found that he even developed Aspen in his laboratory. Butcher’s Nails for Tate…”

Angron took a deep breath, letting the clean and odorless air from the Iron Blood clean his lungs, thereby exhaling the angry blood trapped in his chest. After exhaling this breath, the Lord of Red Sand's face showed dejection.

"I trusted him. I trusted everyone."

"What are you going to do?" Perturabo asked, beginning to worry about Dorne's situation. Based on his understanding of Rogal Dorn, his white-haired brother really shouldn't have such unlimited patience with such a person. He was more likely to send his third letter directly to Angron than to engage in a verbal tangle with Garlan Sulak.

Unless that's all he can do right now.

In this way, the term "stable health" in Morse's mouth seems to have a richer meaning.

Perturabo was not willing to think too much emotionally, but his reason had already sketched out for him a primarch as bloody as Angron, but the victim had a colder face than Angron. And a stubborn, stubborn face.

His fingers trembled slightly because of this imagination, and they twisted together even more tightly.

From the corner, there was the sound of air flow from the power armor when the armor was locked. Sigismund took his hand away from the hilt of the sword for the first time in three days, and his arms hung as stiffly as stone sculptures at his side. This was his effort to stop himself from pulling out the blade.

"Tell Dorn not to kill him immediately," Angron said. "Leave him to me."

"Then what?" Perturabo raised an eyebrow, sincerely hoping that Angron would not show his kindness at an inappropriate time again.

Angron didn't change his breathing rhythm, he didn't even blink.

The Lord of Red Sand looked at Perturabo and calmed down to the point of near death. All the anger and sadness were silently compressed and folded in a few seconds, turning into a small, dense, condensed, white-hot, and intoxicating energy. The source of fearful outbursts. And before this unparalleled emotional power exceeds the limit of his endurance and explodes like a dying star, his eyes and even his soul will always retain the pressure hidden behind his calmness.

"Starting from Garlan Surak, I want to start a comprehensive investigation to see how many people from the World Eaters and Mortals were involved in this incident." Angron said, "How many people support these actions, how many people Conceal from me how many people’s misdeeds and crimes are unforgivable, and how many people are still worthy of reform and atonement.”

"Nukeria needs a new set of rules, and so does the World Eaters themselves. I will do it with the Trustees. Garlan Sulak is the second person to be put on trial."

"Where's the first one?"

Perturabo asked after a second of silence, knowing Angron's answer before the question was spoken.

"Me." Angron said.

"I do not support this candidate." Perturabo replied, finally placing his still slightly hot hands on the table after the scratch marks on his hands faded. "But I will be there from the beginning."

——

Donne knew someone was there for him.

He felt a golden image, and a void entwined with runes loomed in his vision, not sure what it was.

After he returned to reality from that bloody space, his sensitivity to another vision seemed to have temporarily or permanently increased as a side effect of some unknown good or bad. He could vaguely feel some vague spiritual lights and shadows rising and falling around him, and the mysterious void forcefully sucked in a large amount of energy tides, squeezed into his perception, and made him self-conscious about the conversation he was having with the pharmacist next to him. Distracted during discussion.

Then, the power came towards him and quietly slipped into the skull in his left hand. Dorn relaxed a little, knowing that it should be Perturabo's black-robed mentor.

So he continued to talk to Garland Sulak intently.

Dorn found himself nearly strangling Garlan to death in anger after the World Eater's first appearance had severely disparaged Angron, himself, his Legion, and the Emperor's crusade.

He then abandoned the World Eater and took back his hand, which had been more completely severed as a result, attributing his actions to the sequelae of the Blood Domain that he had just experienced on his mind.

After that, the pharmacist's painful chatter was gradually drowned out by Donne's loud narration. He used this to organize his thoughts and remind himself to stay awake and not fall asleep. He needs to be completely in control of himself with his conscious will at all times until he is in a safe situation.

A few hours after Morse's phantom appeared, he heard some unusual noises, like the collision of iron armor and masonry, climbing up from the other side of the fortress tower. It sounded like the owner of the armor chose to directly remove the armor and boots. The spikes drove into the tower wall and reached him in the quickest and most direct way possible. There seemed to be an unspoken consistency between this and Morse's sudden appearance, he thought.

Dorn turned his head with difficulty and saw a pair of familiar steel boots coming into view. Drowsiness immediately surged violently from every extremity of his immobile limbs, impacting his extremely tired brain that was constantly issuing severe warnings. Dorn's eyelids slowly drooped, then opened again after blinking hard.

"Perturabo," Dorn said. "If you're considering treatment, I can be moved. My injuries are as follows: Multiple ruptures in the left heart, total ribs..."

"Stop, Dorne." Perturabo's voice floated up, and the trembling and weakness in it had already overflowed. His rare fragility was breaking through the iron-hard dam of his heart.

Something else must have happened. Don thought. He did not think that his own injury alone could cause such grief to his noble and steadfast brother.

Like many times before, he shut up at Perturabo's prompting and stopped reporting on his injuries.

His brother crouched down next to Dorn. Dorn felt the cold gauntlet hanging over his wound, and he suddenly retracted it before touching it.

"You still have this," said Perturabo. "You protect this golden skull."

"Yes." Dorn replied. Except for the cracked gem, which now seems to have been completely repaired, and Morse had just repaired it, as well as some unavoidable bumps, frictions and small-scale shattering in the later stages of the battle, the artificial skull was almost undamaged.

"You should not waste your energy protecting a gift," Perturabo whispered. "You should protect yourself."

"First of all, this skull can effectively help me resist the constant whispers in the unknown territory I was just in, allowing me to stay calm before falling into unnecessary emotions. For the sake of long-term combat status, I must prioritize protecting this skull. tools.”

Donne lay awkwardly on the ground, nonchalantly using his broken lungs and damaged vocal cords to continue talking.

"Secondly, after it was damaged, I thought it was an inadvertently created and effective tool to resist unknown forces, and it was worth promoting within the legion to prepare for future needs. Therefore, it is necessary to retain a prototype. Also, this item should have been eroded by a sufficient amount of some kind of energy, and it has become a precious sample that needs to be protected for research..."

"Stop talking, Dorne," Perturabo said, sounding a little disappointed and annoyed for some reason. "You'd better rest."

Dorn said "Oh" and just shut up, a familiar mechanical voice sounded between the two of them.

"What Rogal Dorn meant," the skull said, "is that ultimately, he wishes to protect this golden skull, as it is the only gift given to him by the brother he respects most."