Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

"Perhaps I really should have told you some useful thoughts or thoughts at that time, so that you wouldn't have to spend so long preparing for an Olympic Games that is really hard to see the use of... but instead create something Something else.

said Morse, taking an apple, or something that looked sufficiently like an apple, in his hand, and tossing it up and down.

He was not sure from which gene bank the Emperor or the Adeptus Mechanicus dug out the genetic spiral of the apple tree, but when he saw that the palace was decorated with gold wire fences and precious fine white stones, under a carefully cultivated and carefully maintained tree, Under the apple tree, when he marked it in High Gothic with gorgeous, serious and fine carvings as "Maleus Mill, from the old old land", the only thing Morse did was to use The psychic backhand pulled three ancient Terra apples that were too precious to be measured from the tree, one for himself and two for the two Perturabo.

In order to prevent food particles from falling out between the metal bones of the jaw and neck, the mechanical Perturabo gave its piece to the intact Perturabo. The latter looked around, looking for anything other than Morse's clothes that could be used to wipe away the dust and rain stains on the apple's surface.

"I am not idle, Morse," answered Perturabo. "Think of it as my sideshow after work. At least on the harmless subject of tracing the culture of Ancient Terra, Magnus can be called a lovable teammate."

"Yes, your serious achievements will be endless even in One Thousand and One Nights. I don't mind if you record your story in a picture album or an audio album, and I will listen to it every night to kill time."

"Do you really need it?"

"No, thank you. I prefer reading to listening."

"I'd love to print out my work diary for you...can you help me clean these fruits? I really don't know where to start."

A handful of clear water suddenly gathered from the air, rushing over the surface of the apple with high pressure, sweeping away the dust.

Perturabo thanked him and took a sip. He couldn't help but put down the fruit and began to reflect on why the Primarch had such rich and detailed senses.

"There is really little water here," Morse said smoothly. "Why would someone steal the water?"

"There are many strange stories about the Old Night. This may be why Magnus is more willing to immerse himself in the ancient times that are even further back than the Old Night." Perturabo replied, "For my story about the Games The idea also stems from his personal interest. Recently, he likes to search for ancient memories of an era called ancient Greece in various lost corners of the galaxy."

"Oh? How far have you reached in your research?"

"After confirming that that era seemed similar but different from his Macragge culture, Robert Guilliman also contributed a lot of information and documents for reference. We have been able to confirm that the founding of that ancient country called Rome , coincides with the end of Greece.”

"Hmm...any more? How was it established?"

"If the power of the Supreme Heaven had not first appeared more than 30,000 years ago, disguised as beasts that understand human language, and came to tamper with the direction of human civilization, then it would probably only be a deified narrative commonly seen in historical materials."

Perturabo hesitated. For this period of history, he and Magnus did not get a definite result.

"Robert firmly believes that historical data cannot be relied upon in everything. Therefore, there is no absolute credibility in the records of the founding of the city of Rome. There are also no unshakable rumors such as werewolves nurturing important monarchs who were at the key points in the development of human civilization. Credibility.”

Morse pondered for a moment, then tossed the apple up and down several times in his hand.

"You care about history," he said. "And your attitude is really rigorous."

"It's related to another one of our projects, Morse," Perturabo said, thinking back to that long-term project in recent years.

In the twenty years since Morse disappeared, Magnus had proposed more than one research topic closely related to human history, and one of them particularly attracted Perturabo's attention.

"Tell me about it?" Morse asked, cleaning the apple in his hand and taking a bite. Objectively speaking, it tastes terrible.

Perturabo looked at Morse. In his light eyes, what was reflected at the same time were scenes about the future and deep thoughts looking back on tens of thousands of years of human history. Of course, the person who directly drove him to have his current thoughts would not be the second stranger.

"Drama," said Perturabo, "you once said that you expected to demonstrate your abilities as a playwright at the Olympia Games."

"Oh, why do you still need to remember those things?" Morse's hand touched his forehead, covering half of his face. "I just stated casually, but you still remember it. It will only make me regret more. Perturabo."

"Will you finish it?" asked Perturabo.

"Who knows!" Morse threw the apple high into the air, and a precise function curve cut through the air. The apple fell accurately and accurately into the palm of the intact Perturabo. Now he has three apples to look after.

"To be honest," Morse continued, "if you have to ask, I don't think it's that weird to express your opinions in front of multiple people, and more people. But you two "," he snorted, "Perturabo and Magnus always give me a sense of foreboding that what is going to happen next will definitely fall beyond my expectations."

"No, it's not necessary." The corners of Perturabo's mouth raised slightly in his stern face. Although it was just a subtle emotional change, it was still enough to change the deep impression the Lord of Iron gave to anyone.

"One thing we realize is that deliberately created stories are always far from the splendid and twinkling stars that can be written in the real universe. The probability of all strange events happening in reality is far greater than that of people. It is often based on so-called logical reasoning.”

"So, before you can return, Magnus and I have actually completed the preliminary script for the performance of the opening ceremony of the Olympia Games." The mechanical Perturabo next to Perturabo cooperated with the complete him, actively Give feedback. "That's," he gestured, "a script."

"Elaborate," Mors replied, even though he already guessed what Perturabo wanted to mention.

"If we don't know where human civilization came from, then of course we won't have a firm belief in where human civilization is going," Perturabo said.

Even though he used the word "we", in the sentence, he still regarded himself as a different existence from human beings, neither taller nor shorter.

"So, during the time when you were away... we wrote some historical and civilized plays on our own after exploration and evaluation. If you are not willing to write an additional play - even if this is what you said thirty years ago Yes, we can still show many people the cultural transmission of the human race."

"I just..." Morse thought, shaking his head slowly. The skin of the apple drew beautiful arcs layer by layer in his hands, and the skin was cut off in circles, revealing the tender and light yellow flesh. "Forget it, I won't ask you about the cast and crew and script arrangement. Just show it to me later. If you want."

Perturabo spoke, having already finished the apple, which strengthened his resolve not to take another.

"It is difficult to limit the cast and crew, because this project started at least ten years ago, and many mortals have changed their appearance in the past twenty years, and even some Astartes warriors have compared with their selves twenty years ago. , looks beyond recognition.”

"In addition, as for the information and numbers left by history and civilization, it is even more difficult for us to verify and distinguish between correct and incorrect. Therefore, we still need some help that is far beyond ordinary people."

"In addition, during the arrangement of the script, I realized that neither Magnus nor I are good at words, which means..."

"Okay," Morse continued consciously. His thinking continued for a long time until the golden tower where the emperor was located was close to their sight range.

In that dazzling glorious world, Conrad Coze was sitting in the palace, talking with their guide.

"So," Morse asked, "you not only decided to hold a sports meeting, but also decided to involve more people or objects. For example, I, a person who can't help but add too much personal speculation and invalid words when writing a script. Bad creator."

"If you don't like it, I can cancel it." Perturabo said, waiting for the door of the golden palace to open before his eyes.

He didn't think that the current Konrad Coze and the human emperor would allow the two sides to discuss endless content for a long time. Therefore, Coze might appear from within the Golden Gate at any time.

“Another thing you learn,” Morse said, “is to retreat in order to advance.”

Perturabo did not answer, and was even somewhat satisfied with this evaluation. He bent down and patted Morse on the shoulder.

Morse glared at him and leaned against the doors on either side of the golden hall of the palace where they arrived: "I'm starting to think you're becoming too much to handle." He said, warming his tone with a smile. .

"But you are still here." Perturabo hinted cryptically, "Listen to me saying meaningless words to you, talking about things that have not yet been completed, whether it is on Terra, in Olympia, or in the Iron Blood, in Cheorwon - I'll show you that even though it was based on Rogal Dorn's Phalanx, I designed my own Olympian Space Fortress."

"Of course, of course." Morse said, "You are so proud of yourself... Well, I find that the question goes back to a rather early stage, that is, why didn't you ask to be contracted for the repair and maintenance of the Palace of Terra instead of Leave it to Roger Dorn to complete."

He traced his fingers to the surrounding buildings, and read the conspicuous mark of the Seventh Primarch's presence here from the top shapes of the buildings that were exactly the same as Inwit, and from the color scheme favored by Rogal Dorn.

"That is not my mission," Perturabo replied in the most concise manner, which made Morse's expression strangely relax.

"Are you finally starting to realize you're not omnipotent?"

"At least I can't write a document proving the sacrifice of my descendants for the empire, nor can I judge how many incredible achievements they have completed..."

"Okay," Morse shook his head, "I understand, you think the process of building the Terra Palace is too cumbersome."

"It's just the proper division of labor."

"It's up to you, Perturabo, you are the architect of the Emperor." Morse said. "As for writing the script for the opening ceremony of your Olympia Games, I think I am ready. If you don't dislike my nightmarish language, we can have a little discussion about the continuation of human civilization...and your specific arrangements for the Games."

"Do I dare to say that I dislike it?" Perturabo smiled. "It was for you, Morse. It was for the celebration of Olympia, for the continuation of culture, but ultimately, I designed it for your words. Although today, I think it is actually a tribute to civilization. A kind of commemoration and emphasis.”

"The Golden Throne..." Morse muttered, "When did you learn this trick from Fulgrim? That purple-robed phoenix does have some understanding of the use of language skills, I think."

"Fulgrim is still a man of emotions," Perturabo said. "He lives in the pursuit of perfection."

"Yes, you are the most rational one." Morse said, "Rational enough to resume a sports meeting for mortals that has been prepared for more than ten years. So, I guess, you will return to Olympia next?"

"This is the original plan." Perturabo said, "I will naturally not object to any of my brothers coming to criticize the sports events I obtained through research on ancient culture, such as discus throwing, I think. Is it?"

Morse nodded, his expression calm; in short, he had an expression worthy of being printed on the back of a playing card.

"Yeah," said Morse, "but I mean throwing iron..."

He leaned back.

As the stone door Morse was leaning on suddenly opened, a small servitor appeared in front of them, holding some huge dinner plates on the platform.

When the first and second sets of tableware arrived, it seemed obvious that this was the decision made by the father and his children in the hall to share a meal together. But when the next set of giant knives and forks arrived, things were a little different.

"How many pairs of knives and forks are there now?" Perturabo whispered, calculating.

"It seems that this food requires more than two people to consume," came a familiar voice. Conrad Coates walked out of the hall with a cold evil smile on his lips.

Apparently, his negotiations with the Emperor had yielded results that pleased him.

"I am not hungry," said Perturabo.

"Whether you have it or not, don't talk about the Olympia Games," Conrad said. "Just like I don't want to talk about 'justice' all the time. Let's think about how to deal with it next. food."

He opened the cover of a dinner plate that was also transported by the servitor. Under the lid, the food had strange shapes and bright colors. It was an unusual gesture that quickly dealt a serious blow to Perturabo's psychological defense.

"This is..." Perturabo frowned in surprise.

"Ask Angron," Conrad replied, "How could anyone think of teaching greenskins how to roast hops and brew mushroom beer? Seriously, I look forward to our father swallowing this delicious meal. His demeanor, really.”