Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Morse cut off his peek at Gomo and frowned in a rare way. Even though it was a small movement, Perturabo still noticed his unusual behavior.

"Any questions?" Perturabo asked. His mechanical body fit surprisingly well with the scene on Cordolis' surface.

Behind the steel giant, endless pipelines are hidden under the surface of the broken black crystal, winding into the distance. In the mist composed of sulfur-smelling steam, you can often see huge broken gears, collapsed iron thorn forests, and gray fragments of poorly maintained spiritual bones.

Ignoring the dancing shadows of red, yellow and blue flowers in the steel fragments, Cordolis is just like a gray and black monochromatic image of a picture, depicting the last abominable aspect of the ruined empire left to the world.

"Your brother, Konrad Curze..." Morse considered his words, and at the same time used the extended gap in words to slightly arouse Perturabo's curiosity. "He's preparing a... surprisingly generous gift."

"A generous gift?" Perturabo repeated, as some nanomachines scurried silently across the horizon. "To whom, Gemo?"

Unfortunately, he could not help but imagine how Gormor had been destroyed by Konrad Curze in a thousand ways that a Primarch and a Haemonculus could.

"Whether it is Gemo or himself, his creation is an excellent gift. But I personally think that there is only one person he really wants to dedicate the gift to."

Morse put on an odd smile on his face and kept walking. The fires burning in the craters of Cordolis cast a red-gold color on his face.

"Emperor?" Perturabo thought for a moment and came up with the answer.

Morse shrugged: "Yes, and I decided to let you guess for yourself first, what Konrad Curze did. In theory, his fantasy royal court is indeed harmful to the empire... at least it is considered useless. Harmful?"

The big robot shook his head in confusion. After two seconds, knowing full well that he probably couldn't keep up with Curze's train of thought, Perturabo gave up on the futile widespread speculation.

Ahead, the Harlequin Troupe Leader's leather boots left small flowing pits in the broken crystals on the ground. He waved his short knife to cut through the iron bushes along the way - Cordolis's large number of micro-nanomachines, after the organic matter died, Bit by bit, the surface was replaced with an inorganic state, turning Cordoris into a ghostly dead planet, sleeping lifelessly in the depths of the Webway.

The troupe director pinched the bone-white nose on his mask in disgust: "Two respected guests, honorary actors, temporary one-horned actors and Val's incarnations, can't you smell the turbid air here? Oh, these unfortunate evil smiles , cackles of whispers and hints of vision, these haunting demonic scents and soul-sucking hungers? Pollution that penetrates deep into the core of the world, twisted omens clawing at the churning sky!"

"What do you feel, Star God fragment?" Morse patted Perturabo, "I am just an innocent piece of ancient secret words."

"Oh..." Pertura realized after the fact and inferred based on the words of the Pied Eldar: "Is there an echo left here by the hungry and thirsty girl when she was born?"

The troupe leader huddled in frustration, sat on the ground, and scratched the multi-colored flower spikes on his head.

"The pollution is very serious, too serious, the full stop falls on the paper..." He muttered, grabbing the rope of the Dreamstone amulet in his hand and swinging it in a circle, "Val's tomb, Val's moon. If you step back now... you guys We have obtained the map of Purgatory, and there are roads, thousands of intersecting roads... You have obtained it, it is in Cordolis..."

"How far, Avatar?" Morse shouted.

Avatar stood up, kicked away a clump of iron thorns, then took out a handkerchief from nowhere, squatted on the ground, and pretended to wipe half of the stone tablet exposed in the broken black crystal.

"Right here," the Eldar said sadly. When he looked up again, the mask of laughter was replaced by a mask of sorrow. "Right here, the temple of the Craftsman God, the dilapidated shrine, the proof of decline."

Perturabo estimated the landforms near half of the stone monument, and the moving numbers flowed at high speed in his mind.

He raised his right hand, and after a brief warm-up of the energy cannon, he accurately shot several nodes on the black crystal ground. The troupe leader immediately jumped away. The moment he landed, the first layer of crystal quickly collapsed, revealing a new layer of surface that resembled some kind of stone.

"Hmm..." The Eldar snorted softly.

Perturabo circled a third of the way around the hole to find a second suitable angle. He precisely adjusted the energy output, and a beam of green laser slowly cut through the stone surface, cutting off the unknown ancient material surface.

When the second layer of matter was peeled off, the troupe leader consciously tied the Dream Stone to his neck; a milky white halo covered the surface of his body, isolating the increasingly dense subspace energy fluctuations.

Perturabo was puzzled to find that there was a whispering rustling sound in his ears, like electricity running on the surface of nerves. He carefully identified it and was surprised to confirm that it was the mechanism inside his auditory simulation device, which had suffered undue wear and tear.

"What exactly is here, Master?" Morse asked quietly before Perturabo continued his work.

"The answer to the riddle has been told a thousand times," the Avatar whispered, with low interest. "The Pantheon appeared in the past."

Perturabo fired a third round of laser cannon. With a loud crash of gravel, the top floor of the underground tunnel collapsed, revealing a path leading into the dark and deep shadow depths. The Huayi Spirit Clan let out a shrill scream, covered his ears, and fell to the ground involuntarily.

Morse leaned down and looked into the deep passage.

Even though Cordolis has been destroyed for many years, the lights deep in this temple still emit dim light, but one side of the light is still bright, and the other side is extremely dark, completely contrary to the laws of physics. Shadows swam abnormally in the depths of the passage, and the sound of sighing wind echoed through the passage like a tomb.

He ascended into another layer of colorful vision, observing the flowing ether fluctuations. From the depths of the surging emotions of bitter sentient beings, he tasted an ironic dark malice, mixed with the obvious smell of the gods of chaos... The tampered illusion leaves an afterimage in the vast ocean, while the familiar breath of bliss wanders in the abyss.

"In your myth, was Val finally captured by some evil god?" Morse asked.

"Oh, my friends, the myth ended a million years ago," the troupe leader said, having re-adapted to the harsh psychic environment, and his mask returned to its original weird smile. In fact, he recovered a little too quickly. "Except for the prophecies of doomsday, everything is shrouded behind a veil..."

He said frivolously, jumped into the passage first, and waved cheerfully to them underground. His laughter was clear and sincere, echoing in the broken corridor, almost competing with the twisted darkness.

"Come, dear friends! The furnace of soot and scrap iron is waiting to be conquered!"

"Okay, okay." Morse said, "It can't be more terrifying than the Night Ghost King's Court."

"Wait a moment...Okay." Perturabo solved a bunch of useless codes that suddenly mixed into the command set, controlled his mechanical body, and followed Morse into the passage heavily. "Morse, you have renewed my curiosity about what Conrad Coates did."

"Art." Morse replied casually, "unparalleled art brought about by the biotechnology of the Haemonculi."

The black-clothed craftsman raised his head. High in the sky above Cordoris, the Harlequin Troupe's airship was still suspended in the atmosphere. Together with the huge subspace engine, it was waiting for the three explorers to return with a full load, or for the collapse of the Cordoris world. .

——

Konrad Curze leaned back in his seat, turning the quill in his hand, holding an open blank notebook with his other hand, and focused his eyes on a non-existent place in the void.

The hallucination didn't strangle him mercilessly, otherwise he wouldn't be so leisurely - he just repeated everything he thought he knew over and over again, and couldn't help but imagine all the flashes that had passed through his consciousness so far. The disaster is instantaneous.

Starting from Nostramo and ending in Tagusa, the soul hunter inherited the gift of prophecy, and the Prince of Crows disappeared into the depths of the galaxy...

But does he really know all this?

When Perturabo personally compared him to Rogal Dorn in front of him, saying that he couldn't even compare to that damn stone, Konrad Curze's last vestiges of nostalgia and hope for the prophecy finally came to an end. Completely cut off.

If even the mutual hatred of these eternal enemies has turned into a barren echo in the torrent of world affairs, then other midnight stories have also reached the point of being sealed in the depths of the mind.

In any case, this did not make the Blood Marquis feel too heavy in his heart: as Gemo stepped into the quagmire of blood step by step and embraced his current reputation and power, the prophecy to him was always just a mouthful that was better than nothing. Liquor.

Perhaps without the ability to continuously cause pain in his mind and body, he could have broken away from the control of the last Haemonculi earlier.

Lilia Ander knelt on one knee at the bottom of the steps, quietly waiting for any instructions from Konrad Coze.

The former female aristocrat now covers her entire skinless face with a dark iron mask, symbolizing that her old identity has been abandoned in the new royal court.

Her hands were replaced by a pair of transplanted bright red metal gloves, and a series of grafts were fastened to her spine, with hooks, daggers, and steel wires hanging from them, ready for the blood actors to use at any time.

It is worth mentioning that her face, which she had peeled off with her own hands, was now hanging on the belt holding her apron around her waist. Lilia Ander nearly fainted with joy when Konrad Curze allowed her to keep her "blood flag."

In addition, Lilia Ander's remaining skin is now as dark as the night, and her hair has become as pale as the shadow of the moon. This is a side effect of sharing the blood of the Lord of the Royal Court.

When Curze adjusted his blood-forming cells, he retained this little extra flaw, preparing to differentiate himself as a member of his court from other ordinary Dark Eldar in the future.

He spent several years secretly adjusting the composition of his own blood using the skills he had learned; Lilia Ander was not the first Eldar to try blood, but she was indeed the first to survive it.

Except for the limited reversal of the world in the eyes of those who take blood, let them live in the depths of a beautiful illusion full of pure glory, feel the supreme glorious mission granted by the king, and devote themselves to making blood flags out of sinful enemies. , the physical quality of these spirit races seems to also undergo undirected changes.

Sometimes they become more resilient, with increased recovery speed and strength, and sometimes their genetic spiral collapses and dissolves into a puddle of plasma with only the skin left.

In short, Conrad Coates will continue to study his own blood whenever he has free time.

"This is the first time I've seen you use a Relic," Victor said, taking off his helmet and setting it aside. "It seems that you don't have any special obsession with the Talos engine. What does its skin color mean?"

"Keeping in line with Mandela's colors," Coates replied, his tone making it sound less like a joke. The Blood Marquis put down the blank notebook and motioned for Lilia Ander to leave. "Are you back from Caronde?"

"More airships, twice the price tag." Victor nodded, "The gears in the shipyard are already starting to work."

There was a subtle change in his tone: "Calonde asked whether the logo of these airships should be drawn as the heart-piercing blade of the Black Heart Cabal, or the royal court logo of the Bloody Marquis."

"What do you think?" Cozz asked calmly, re-opening the notebook and starting to scribble on the paper.

"I told them that I will come back to urge you to design your own royal court logo as soon as possible." Victor smiled.

Curze responded with a short laugh, no hint of humor in his voice.

"So, these airships belong to me, right?" he asked.

"You deserve your fleet. The price you paid for our partnership is worth anything in return, Konrad."

Coze shook his head gently: "Opportunism, idealism, people misestimating their own importance; trickery, deceit, flames burning weak minions..." He grinned and looked at Victor At one glance, it was as if he could read his mind.

The Blood Marquis stuck the quill above his right ear, gently tore off a piece of pale paper from his notebook, and handed it to Victor.

"The logo you asked for," laughed Conrad Coates, "you make me happy, Victor."

Victor shrugged his shoulders, "I also sincerely hope that these external disturbances will not affect our intimate relationship. We still have a lot to do next."

"Clans." Coze said, "those real ancient families, not these," his eyes swept in the direction Lilia Ander left, "small families that accumulate funds in a short period of time."

The Church of the Sun is declining very quickly. When Konrad Coze pursues the followers of the Church, the person who is most willing to send a casual boost behind the Church is undoubtedly the person in the upper echelons of Comor who has accumulated a long history. All major families.

The church thinks that it can use the knowledge and technology they possess to scare the old nobles to their knees. No, the nobles don't care about their meager power at all. They only care about the challenges to their status.

"How about we release that star?" Cozz said softly, his voice indifferent, "Bang, smash the star above Ilmea to the upper level of Gemo..."

"Did you really join the Kane Shrine?" Victor sarcastically asked.

"Oh, I understand, this is too wasteful..." Cozz's nails tapped on his seat. Suddenly, he clenched his fists, and the long nails dug into his palms. The blood dripped, exuding a strange smell. aromatic. "We need a large, imminent threat, a force that can destroy Gemo, and equally, a force that can be killed by us..."

"You are pursuing legitimacy." Victor's expression became strange.

He thought he knew Curze well enough, but taking the opportunity to resolve a major crisis to justify his right to rule Gemo was not like the bright path that the Bloody Marquis would choose. In contrast, directly using stars to smash through Comor could even be called a choice that is more in line with Conrad's taste.

"Ah," Cozz licked the blood from his palms and closed his eyes, "To maintain rule, we only need to maintain a moderate division, but we can't stop there, we can't..."

After a few seconds, Victor said: "It seems that your relatives are of good character."

Konrad Coates leaned on the armrest of the seat and bowed and laughed: "Oh, forgive my damn desire to perform in front of them, Asdubar!"