Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

The sun rises as usual, just like every day in Olympia, upward from the end of the mountains, rocks and jungles, combining its light with every ray of wind on the empty morning streets, passing through the majestic combination of sand and stone. The city wall and the bronze gate passed over the heads of the workers who had finished the night shift, and finally entered the ordinary grilled window of a room in Locos, quietly combining with the electric light that was on all night in the room.

Morse holds the scraper, holds a piece of clay in front of his eyes, and concentrates on shaping the smooth surface of the clay.

The brown clay took on the shape of a miniature sword blade in the palm of his hand wrapped in black cloth, and the blade was engraved with ancient and natural runes.

A blazing flame burned at one end of the blade, and several painful skeletons were rolled out of the flames. The skulls that were not proportional to human beings deformed together with the heat wave, as if they were about to be expelled and dispersed by the smoke from the flames.

It had been a long time since he was so devoted to the carving process.

Morse put down the scraper and replaced it with a razor blade, removing a bit of the clay from the hollows and enhancing the shadows where the flame dimmed.

He traced those hazy echoes in his memory, thinking about that year - he still remembered that year, when he didn't know that he would live forever - the man holding the sword wore a crown of green leaves on his head, and the fur of wild beasts covered his shoulders. , the dazzling gesture of the long sword rising into flames, recalling his endlessly radiant face and the sharp dividing line between light and darkness around his body, and then reappearing the mottled memory video in reality like broken gold.

The prototype of the flaming sword was a gift forged by Morse himself. Even if dozens of millennia flew by, he could still remember the nervousness he felt in front of the forge, sweating all over his body, his heart pounding against his chest, desperately calculating the strength and landing point of each hammer.

Morse blew away some debris from the soil and closed his mouth again, only to find that the corners of his mouth were being raised upwards.

He moved his cervical spine, temporarily letting the clay sculpture float in the air, and turned to observe the stone statue beside him.

The clay sculpture is a rough draft of the steel blade, one of the two components of the stone statue.

He had to let the finished product of the sharp blade fall correctly into the uncarved hand of the stone statue and hold it well.

Then someone knocked on his door, the knocking sound was heavy and short, and the rhythm was faster than usual, which revealed the hidden anxiety of the person outside. Morse glanced out the window and realized that it was dawn.

He continued to make the clay sculpture float in the air, free from unnecessary external forces and maintain the appropriate humidity, and said to the door: "Good morning, Perturabo."

"Morse." The door was pushed open immediately, and the lubricated door shaft was so smooth that it had no covering effect on the boy's eager footsteps.

Perturabo tried to walk in a straight line to hide his top-heavyness.

In addition, although the material of his robe has been forcefully straightened many times, it has only been stretched to the point where some of the cotton threads have become deformed and loose, unable to cover the wrinkles of the clothes themselves.

Not to mention that this is the same one I wore yesterday.

"When can you teach me how to make stone sculptures?" he said forcefully but uneasily, staring at Morse.

Morse put the tool aside lightly and looked at Perturabo: "I saw the sun today only ten seconds ago, and I thought you would at least give me time for breakfast.

Perturabo immediately took out a tightly wrapped piece of bread from the cloth bag he was carrying, stretched out his arms, and wanted to hand it to Morse's eyes.

Mors sneered, took the paper bag and opened it. Perturabo continued to reach out and look through his small bag, and lowered his head and asked: "Do you want fruit?"

Morse took one last look at his stone sculpture. A thin piece of cloth floated over and gently covered it.

Then he pulled a wicker chair and lay down comfortably, eating the bread that was completely undamaged due to the perfect packaging, and used a wagging finger to signal Perturabo to stop stuffing him with grease-proof paper bags.

Perturabo threw another round paper bag aside, and then took the tools one by one from the table in Morse's room. What finally appeared in the center of the table was a new, intact stone.

When he did these things, he frowned, gritted his teeth, and looked as serious as if he wanted to eat the whole table alive.

But his hands were shaking.

"You have to teach me how to trim stone sculptures, Morse. I will compete with Andros in one week." Perturabo put his hands on the table and tried to make himself taller.

"Oh, I thought you had learned your craft from the local masons of Lokos."

"I went!" He suddenly raised his voice and quickly regained his senses. The knuckles of his fingers turned white when pressed on the table. "But they are not better than Andos. Everyone knows that Andos is A talented craftsman, everyone secretly said that he should not be a prince, because a stone sculpture can always outlive a family. "

"Am I better than Andos?"

"Is not it!"

"Have you seen my completed stone sculptures as evidence?"

Perturabo opened his mouth and glanced at the unknown half-finished statue covered by a soft cloth next to him, and then glanced at the miniature clay model floating in the air. He was obviously stunned by this question.

He took a breath and said, "When I first met you, you once had a finished stone statue."

After Mors finished the bread, he clapped his hands and shook off the crumbs on the black cloth. Before Perturabo was knocked unconscious by panic, he said sarcastically: "Now it has turned back into raw material. Guess why?"

"Because you want to carve new stone statues. You strive for excellence."

"It's completely wrong. It's because the quality of the previous stone statue is by no means superior, and it is no better than the top-notch works made by the best craftsmen in Lokos."

"No, Morse, you are better than them!" Perturabo said. "This is absolute, no one can deny it!"

Morse covered his mouth and yawned.

He didn't really want to know when Perturabo began to regard his image as so mysterious and tall; nor was he very curious about what non-existent oblivion Perturabo had made of the empirical philosophy he read yesterday. The space is gone.

"Okay, Perturabo." Mors tapped his heel, causing the wicker chair to rock back and forth. "It seems like you don't have the confidence to defeat Andos with your own learning."

"I am your apprentice, Morse. I learn from you."

Perturabo raised one hand and clenched it into a fist, unconsciously grasping it like he was crushing an egg that couldn't be broken at all.

Mors stared at Perturabo until the boy looked unnaturally annoyed.

Perturabo would not accept defeat.

Especially the failure when competing with mortals.

But he didn't think he could win.

Morse spoke, adding a husky softness to his commanding tone.

"Find a chair and sit down, Perturabo."

Perturabo did as he was told.

"Now, close your eyes and imagine your body getting heavy. Your feet are on the ground. Do you feel the weight of the earth? Good, your body is relaxing, more relaxed. The chair is supporting your back. Your legs, your body. You start to breathe, take a deep breath, inhale, exhale, inhale the fresh air, and the depression floats away with the exhale..."

Perturabo opened his eyes suddenly and jumped up from his chair: "Morse! Are you hypnotizing me?"

He actually sounded a little aggrieved.

"Exactly. I think that instead of chasing me nervously asking questions to get a set of carved standard explanations from me, you might as well lie down on the ground and take a nap to replenish your energy."

Morse said, mercilessly tapping Perturabo's nerves with his psychic energy.

The boy fell to the ground and soon began to snore.

The kid didn't have a habit of snoring, unless he couldn't close his eyes for more than ten seconds for two days in a row.

Morse helped him adjust his sleeping position, flattening his awkward legs, feet and arms, placing a three-layered carpet under him, and throwing a white cloth over him to keep warm.

After finishing it, he calmed down and continued to think about his clay sword.