Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

"Who are you!" Robert Guilliman raised the pretender's chin with the sword in his hand and shouted angrily.

His short sword should be considered a great sword for an Astartes' size. The pressure of the blade drew blood from the pretender's skin, and coupled with the wounds from the previous gunshot wound, the bloody smell spread quickly, amplifying its own presence in the Primarch's senses.

Guilliman could smell the special smell of the many genetic surgeries in the Pretender's blood, which not only confirmed his identity as a Space Marine, but also brought him a deeper rage.

He put away his dagger and supported his still exhausted body, "Why did you choose to betray? Who gave you the instructions!"

"I am Alpharius." The pretender repeated this sentence, as if this sentence had explained all the mysteries, or he did not know any more secrets besides this.

Guilliman quickly realized that the term here did not refer to a person's name, but to a concept or an organization. His eyes slid across Perturabo's face, and then settled on the craftsman Morse beside him.

There is no doubt that Morse's words and actions have proven that he knows something about "Alpharis".

"I only know Alpharius himself, Robert Guilliman." Mors noticed his gaze and said coldly, "A snake in the dark, a dagger in the shadows, an actor outside the theater. My recognition of him Not much is known, but perhaps his most famous achievement was sneaking into the palace of Terra, killing a Custodian, seizing his weapons, and fighting against the Custodian leader Constantine Valdor."

"Is he still alive?" Perturabo's eyebrows furrowed further. According to his understanding of the empire, there was almost no possibility of a person who killed the Imperial Guard and was not hunted to death by the group of watchmen.

"Yes, because the Emperor still needs Alpharius to work for him." Morse replied, "The Emperor and Malcador hope that he will become the invisible spear and hidden weapon of the Empire, and complete the most secret tasks in the Great Crusade. "

"But he invaded the palace of Terra and killed the Emperor's Praetorian Guards." Robert Guilliman said unimaginably. "The Emperor is so tolerant that he can accept such sinful loyalty?"

Morse walked around Robert's desk and clasped his fingers on the face of the kneeling and bound Space Marine. Runes emerged from under the black cloth: "He was forgiven not by anyone's forgiveness, Primarch. He was forgiven. Forgive because he is your brother."

Perturabo stared closely at the warrior who called himself Alpharius: "Our brother? We...have another brother?"

Morse let go, letting the unconscious Space Marine fall to the ground. "This warrior has only seen the real Alpharius once. I must criticize his current secret network of spies for being too covert in the balanced tree communication mechanism. As long as one upper-level node is usurped, the orders received by the entire branch cannot be falsified. Also Yes, you have a brother."

"Did you read his memory?" Robert asked, with a rather bad expression on his face, "So..."

"Iote Capa never existed," Morse said, "but the loyalty of the warriors who died for you need not be questioned."

"Who deceived these subordinates of Alpharius? If my brother had the discernment of a mortal, he would not order the assassination by a single soldier."

Perturabo said, quickly inferring part of the truth, while the other part of the reasoning holes caused by missing clues knocked on his nerves, forcing him to review all the details that he might have missed over and over again at high speed. He must order himself to stop every millisecond of useless digging into those secrets that don't exist.

"He almost succeeded." Robert Guilliman said softly. "Perhaps their assassination has already been successful... How long do we have before we can return to Macragge!"

——

Macragge waited in silence.

This means that the flames of war have burned out, and dust shaped by fire and smoke is falling from the sky, suffocating the ruins reduced to wreckage.

The streets were empty, and the post-war smoke and dust made the afternoon roads as dim as evening. The trees on the roadside fell down, and their roots were pulled out of the soil, hanging with hanging transmission cables. The steel bars of the houses were tied to the building materials, and they were peeled off from the walls. The shattered doors and windows left dark, square holes in the walls of the residents. Sparse artillery fire occasionally exploded in a remote corner of the city, and golden-white fireballs briefly lit up between the houses, bringing a dull explosion.

These lands were taken back by the Macragge government half a month ago, waiting for future redistribution. What is needed now is reconstruction.

The armor and corpses left behind by the troops loyal to Gloriosa, Libanus, and Paladinus and Conor's troops were spread on the side of the avenue. After Guilliman recognized the signs of the Guards, he felt that he was being torn away from reality by an extremely strong sense of unreality.

He allowed half of himself to pay attention to the armored vehicles driving down the street, even though there were no more panicked pedestrians blocking the road; the other half was immersed in multiple pains and complex thoughts.

In theory, in books, in debates, he had seen too many ugly rebellions over money, power, and status. But he didn't really understand why humans, as an intelligent race, would be bewitched by these barbaric, superficial and meaningless terms, so much so that they would rather give up those truly noble, wise and profound concepts.

Robert Guilliman had not felt the need to use them when his steward Sarasha had taught him some prayers of meditation. Now he began to recite those ancient words silently, trying to keep the worries that troubled him away from a mind in desperate need of reason.

But where is Conor Guilliman? Where is Tarasha Euton?

He closed his eyes.

Konnor was a diligent ruler who spent too much time in front of his ancient Meditator, buried in data and decrees. In the rest of his time, he spent too much time wandering in the corridors of the inner court, looking at each other with the war kings of the past generations and introspecting his heart.

"Go to the Councilor's Chamber," Guilliman said.

"Quickly," whispered Perturabo, "before death happens."

Although there was no difference in the Iron Lord's face, Robert felt a pressure that spanned time was falling on his brother. His ice-like light eyes seemed to be reflecting another dying building. city.

Approaching the Councilor's Hall and entering the long and narrow walkway, they left the vehicle. Guilliman named several Ultramarines to follow. Perturabo took no one with him except Mors.

The labyrinthine garden outside the Councilor's Chamber now collapsed into ruins, and the blood from the corpses filled the fountain. The extinguished ashes fell to the marble floor, and billowing black smoke covered the cross-section wounds that broke the mortal limbs. Dried blood is like rust, but it sticks to the surface of the stone tablet.

Guilliman paused beside the broken body, his eyes passing through the reflection in the pool, stopping at the wound of the deceased - for a moment he noticed that his reflection was not wearing a crown, and Perturabo's cable It is rarely entangled with hair and scattered together.

"I believe that the person you are looking for is still alive." Perturabo said, his voice as tough as iron. "Not every leader will die in the rebellion."

"No, look at the bodies," Guilliman said softly, "the way these soldiers of Garlan died."

Perturabo gritted his teeth, seeming to be shaking off some old shadows. "Sorry. Hatchet, chains... The World Eaters were here!"

"Here he is, and heading to the Counselor's Hall." Morse said, runes looming in the corner of his dark robe. This is the first time he speaks today. His voice became strange and contained a strange hoarseness, due to damage to his larynx. He gave no explanation for this.

"Let us go," Guilliman said.

They never encountered a living enemy, and the World Eaters killed all who stood in their way. The closer we get to the Counselor's Hall, the more corpses appear on the ground. Blood solidifies on the steps into a filthy red carpet. Broken bones are brutally crushed, along with torn leather armor and broken and twisted guns. The tubes were squished together into a puddle of debris, the damage caused by explosive bombs and power weapon fields easily identifiable.

The World Eaters' violence never went away, they just learned how to control themselves. As fury infuses their actions, the War Hound's full character returns with every swing.

Angron had been here before them. Guilliman was initially delighted that one of the Primarchs had returned to Macragge ahead of them. But another possibility quickly entered his mind: Maybe Angron still wasn't fast enough.

They walked up the steps. The foyer outside the counselor's hall was much cleaner than the outside. There were no dead people, there were few bloodstains, and some blackened marks remained on the white walls where long carpets and murals were once hung. Dim light and empty silence sealed the place.

The boots of the Astartes left footprints, making their movements clearer.

They arrived here a few hours ago without fighting, and then they left, as if there was no longer any value in staying here, everything that had to happen had already happened, and all the disasters had reached the end of death.

Guilliman shook his head, and the panic and anger that surged from his soul were quickly suppressed: "Father's room is upstairs."

Perturabo said nothing and took a few steps up the stairs with Guilliman.

The long and dark corridor shortened under their footsteps. The closer they got to Connuo's room, the more coke was burned around them. The carbonized dust at extremely high temperatures was raised in the airflow caused by their running, and the long corridor was covered with dust. Turned into a pipe filled with black ash. Behind the ashes, you can vaguely make out the ceiling-high bookshelves, ancient paintings and crumbling statues surrounded by plaster statues of angels. The remaining warmth of the ashes cooled in the darkness.

The footsteps of the World Eaters accompanies them as they move forward, leaving bloody guidance behind them.

The surroundings were eerily quiet, quiet enough that Robert Guilliman could hear the blood flowing in his temples.

The total amount of ashes on the ground is far more than the dust left by the destroyed books and collections. Man, a word jumped into his heart. Many people died in this long-extinguished flame, burned so thoroughly that except for the incombustible Apart from the impurities, not even the smell remains.

What kind of flame can burn everything to the point where nothing remains?

The door of Conor Guilliman's room was closed tightly at the end of the dark corridor. There was no sound of continuous fighting or the crackling sound of burning air, but the traces left by the fire were deeper than the dark light environment. , it spreads from the inside out along the closed door crack, announcing a silent ending.

He suddenly remembered that many years ago, when he was five years old, Connaught and he were far away from the city and politics, hunting under the beautiful Crown Mountain. That day, Connuo accidentally fell down, covering the accidental wound on his arm, telling all mortals that they will die one day, and then smiled at him. Macragge still stands, Conor said. As long as it lasts, you will never be alone.

He suddenly felt so small. Small, failed, unforgivable. Parts of him were breaking, damaged by swelling rage and bone-crushing pain.

Robert Guilliman put his hand on the doorknob, not knowing what else he could expect before pushing it open. The coldness of the iron penetrated deep into his skin. He touched it and knew that the mechanical structure inside the door lock had been damaged.

"Go." Perturabo said softly. Even in the dark, with the eyesight of the Primarch, he could still see his expressionless face, and his eyes were flashing with indiscernible emotions. "Nothing can be worse than what you predict."

Robert Guilliman turned the handle and felt a sting in his open eyes.

Then, he found that the front of his boots was lit by a ray of light that suddenly overflowed from the open door. It was bright, clean, warm and familiar. It was the electric lamp that Connuo would turn on when he was working. The color was slightly warmer yellow, which helped him find sobriety during the day while dealing with government affairs all night long.

His heartbeat immediately quickened.

The door was opened, and bright light poured out generously from inside the door, flowing like a waterfall, instantly immersing Robert Guilliman in the warm-toned light like sunlight. The splendid office of the Archon is as clean as new, and the shining furnishings of ivory and gold are placed safely in place. The large glass on the oak bookshelf reflects the white paper, scrolls, and a vintage large square meditator on the desk. All kinds of huge brown wooden furniture designed to adapt to the size of the original body are still there, illuminated by smooth transparent paint, adding scattered vitality to this miraculously bright room.

Conor Guilliman stood behind the table, neatly dressed, with few scratches on his fine armor, tired, but intact.

His stern expression relaxed the moment he saw Robert. The Archon lowered his hands and raised his carbine aimed at the door, stepped around some objects, and walked over to Robert.

"Garland has mutinied," he said, in a voice so kind, regardless of the unpleasant semantics, that Robert suspected he had fallen into another overly beautiful fantasy, a perfect fairy tale told to children.

Robert swayed, knelt down on one knee in front of his adoptive father, and looked directly into the eyes of a mortal who was no longer young but still clear. The rising anger hidden in his heart was instantly extinguished, but the sobs in his throat could not be dissipated for a long time.

He looked around helplessly and finally found some remaining clues from the battle.

A statue in the interior was moved from the east side to the west side, covering a small area of ​​carpet that had been burned. The arms of the wood-carved statue were once broken and were temporarily re-fixed with glue. There were too few documents on the table, and the small trash bin was filled with burnt paper and broken glass.

This couldn't be the result of Connaught managing it alone, someone helped him.

"Robert," Connor hugged his adopted son and held his hand, "you're here."

"But..." Robert asked blankly, and suddenly felt something touching his leg. He turned around and saw something beyond his imagination.

A small chess piece, carved into a white tower, should have been the same as any ordinary chess piece on the table, but now two slender white hands appeared out of thin air, holding a small, freshly washed rag. , trying to move Guilliman's leg away from its path.

He immediately stood up from the ground and made way for the small chess piece. The tower bowed to him vividly, diligently wiping away the remaining dust and blood on the ground.

A small black chess piece jumped onto the armrest of Connuo's chair with great effort. Using the elasticity of the fabric on the armrest, it jumped onto the table and moved slowly into the open chess box.

Perhaps it had finally completed its duty. It put down its miniature gun, lay down consciously, and stopped moving. The extremely shallow golden light on its body quietly dissipated.

It's like a silent trumpet blowing, or a calling bell that ends magic. On bookshelves, carpets, behind flower pots, on chandeliers... Thirty black and white chess pieces suddenly appeared from various inconspicuous corners of Connuo's office, jumping around to find a suitable path, and ran back to the boxes where they should stay, standing straight. The flexible and delicate little body transforms back into what a normal handicraft should look like.

The white tower, which was delayed by Guilliman, quickly completed the final cleaning work and walked around carrying a small rag. Guilliman let it run into his palm and helped it return to the box.

"They are..." Guilliman swallowed.

"Soldier, Tower, Priest, Rider, Steward, King," Conor said, looking at Morse.

Morse covered his mouth and coughed twice, pinched his throat, and his voice returned to its original state. "Is this cheating?" he asked.

"I don't think so, sir." Connor bowed his head in thanks.

Robert Guilliman immediately understood the origin of those flames. He had seen that kind of fire once. Morse had used that nameless golden-blue fire to burn the orc hulk blocking their progress in the subspace channel to ashes.

He simply couldn't find the words to express his gratitude, so he could only send Morse his most sincere look with deep gratitude. Then something important suddenly hit him.

"Where is Ms. Euton?" Robert asked, his mind rising again.

"She was not with me when the rebellion broke out." Connaugh's expression darkened.

"Your brother Angron has been here, and he should go look for her now. But you have to be careful, Robert." His eyes scanned the remaining ashes in the wastebasket. "The ones who attacked me...should not all be human."