Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Whether it's something to be proud of, absurdity or irony, the Gomo people are indeed experienced in dealing with emergencies such as curses.

After discovering that all the vaccines injected over the years to deal with known virus weapons in the Eternal City were ineffective in Nefertari's body, the Dark Eldar immediately dug out several practical props from the storage room.

After a simple selection, a cabal warrior squad leader who was on the same level as Nefertari found three tools from unknown hands: a randomly transmitted force field box, a glass sarcophagus to store consciousness, and a frozen black crystal. In the browser, the last item is selected.

When Konrad Curze returned to the camp of the Sons of the Muse, he saw the young natural disaster messenger, Nefertari, who had been transformed by his own hands. She was completely sealed by the black crystal and fixed vertically on the ground with chains. Her life was moving. Lower it to the lowest level and place it in the center of an empty room that has been incinerated and sterilized, waiting for further processing - treatment, or execution.

Through the low-transparency black crystal, you can see that Nefertari's skin has various degrees of corruption and ulceration. The long black and blue feathers on her wings have fallen off, revealing scarlet flesh. The freezing of the crystal inhibited the deterioration of the situation, and also hindered the thorough examination of the female warrior's organs and other parts below the skin.

Conrad Coates put on a pair of gloves, bent down, put his palms on a chain, thought for a moment, stood up straight again, and left the sculptural black crystal.

The brief and mild hallucination of illness quickly dissipated, which made him certain that the discomfort he felt on Fulgrim's ship was not due to his prophecy ability, but due to his sensitivity to the energy of the four dark gods.

Furthermore, that dim twilight scene should not even be a prophecy, but the energy flow of the etheric ocean is showing its true nature in a concrete way.

The force that corrodes reality is not extreme pleasure but the decay of despair. When Konrad Coates discovered the gap between this illusion and reality, he couldn't even be called surprised.

It's nothing more than destiny once again being woven into a transformed finished product by unknown hands.

However, if he had noticed the hint of the invasion of the Supreme Heaven in his psychic vision at that time, maybe things would have turned out better.

He does not have the means to eliminate corruption at this time. Nefertari had not committed any crime and was loyal to him, so destroying her directly was not an option.

If the Emperor or the craftsmen in black are willing to help, the problem will be solved; otherwise, if there is not some kind of pure enough life force... his choice is self-evident.

"grown ups."

A Cabal warrior knocked on the door of the empty room. Coates did not allow him inside.

The Eldar's soul is already entrenched in the thirsty Lady, and it would be best not to introduce yet another new force of destruction as a threat to his personal army.

"Speak." He ordered through a door.

"The Haemonculus Hexakeris and the World Singer Shanadol are waiting in the hall." The warrior's voice was filtered by the dark helmet, which enhanced the conciseness and coldness in his tone.

"Xana'dor?" Konrad Coze repeated, immediately realizing that this was probably because the World Singer, who was born in the Savage Eldar Tribe, had just revealed the reason for the summons to Hexakeris without clarifying the reason for it. After completing the arranging task she took over, she took a ride on the old Xue Lingren team and came to report on her work.

"Let them wait..." Before he finished speaking, a possibility that no one had ever tested came to Cozz's mind. He weighed it again and again and smiled.

To this day, the wild Eldar still maintain their devout faith in Isha, the Eldar goddess of life. Even after the galaxy-shattering cataclysm, the goddess Isha was nowhere to be found, but her followers apparently still maintained a considerable degree of connection with her.

The world singers who interact with the soul of the world and sing the praises of the purity and rebirth of the earth are undoubtedly the best among them.

This will be an experiment, success is the best, failure is okay.

"Call Shanador, the daughter of Isa, to come," he ordered the nightmare, "wait for instructions outside this door."

——

Rotting vines, swamps filled with flies, plagued bushes that were withered and twisted and covered with corpses like leaves... After surviving the initial tense moments, Akulduna's perception of this rotten world inevitably gradually increased. , followed by nausea and disgust that deepened continuously.

Maybe the Emperor's Children do care more about their beauty and flawless appearance than some legions - well, maybe most legions, but in essence, the Third Legion is still a qualified warrior, Akul Duna should not Complaints about the filth of the battlefield.

But every time he heard the roaring, gathering and bursting sounds of rotten and filthy bubbles in the lakes and swamps, he stepped on the meadows stained with disgusting yellow-green sap like rust, and looked at the patches of grass from one piece to another. The poisonous spores spewed out from the wriggling pink and yellow giant mouth. Akulduna couldn't help but want to use the bad words he accidentally collected from various planetary cultures during the long war to express his depression and worries. .

I'm afraid that the ghouls of the Ninth Legion will not eat the bloody corpses hanging here, Akulduna thought optimistically, using the tip of his sword to move away the rotten carrion that dangled in front of him, holding on to a seemingly The tree, which was barely dangerous and covered in filthy sludge, panted slowly.

Then, through some stretching of his limbs, Akulduna opened the healing wound on his body again, causing fresh blood to gush out from his body and wash away the connective tissue and light yellow pus covering his wound that were healing incorrectly. liquid.

He would rather bleed to death than allow his injuries to recover superficially under such abnormal conditions with endless consequences.

Throne, he's not afraid of scars, he thought.

Akulduna's two swords were already covered in fishy mucus, severely wrapped in acid, rusted, and prone to breakage.

He continued to use them to deal with the difficulties at hand, such as a group of small devils trying to climb onto the armor that he could no longer identify the color, and some kind of monster that twisted like a slug. These little things howled when they died, and then sprayed all kinds of juices on him.

It's so scary, they spit everywhere.

The two swords had been with Akul Duna for decades, ever since he had participated in the training of Astartes recruits on Terra. If they were destroyed now, it would be considered fulfilling their duties, wouldn't it?

He held on to the trees and moved forward slowly. The swamp was reluctant to leave, and brown and yellow bone claws stretched out one after another from the black mud, trying to save his feet. Although they move slowly and their attacks seem ordinary, these disgusting things cannot be completely eliminated no matter what. This caused more wounds below his calf.

He was still inside the ship, and Akulduna recognized some of the features he remembered through the familiar patterns of the dense forest, the tapeworm-like cables hanging from the sky, and the remaining traces of carved art.

There is a force outside the surface of the world, covering it with an extra layer of chaos and filth, twisting the gold and silver tents of the Emperor's Children into gauze overgrown with mold, turning them from the most skilled craftsmen among mortals, and The exquisite colonnades they designed in their spare time were usurped into rotten wood, and even the light and elegant room aromatherapy ointments turned into a suffocating and vicious miasma.

All kinds of indescribable evil creatures appear and disappear in the gaps in the dense forest that were once the corridor, and they are busy building crumbling lairs.

Beyond this, Akulduna cannot see any additional exits. This forest of death seems to have no end, falling from the territory of the living to the depths of despair and death.

No matter how far he goes forward and how much energy he spends calculating a way out that may exist but has been falsified, he seems to be repeating something meaningless.

At the same time, his feeling of weakness was slowly deepening with the miasma mist inhaling his mouth and nose. With every step he took, it became more difficult for him to control his body.

His muscles and joints were extremely sore, swelling, atrophy and varying degrees of nodules appeared on the surface of his skin, and his nerves continued to become numb, as if he was undergoing a kind of replacement and replacement from the inside out. With every drop of blood flowing out of the body, only a weak empty shell filled with disease was left, falling under the dim sky without hope, and then never got up again.

Fabius, is this a sign of blight? Was this the disease and death that the Third Army faced at that time?

The world in front of Akulduna's eyes has become blurry. An unknown disease has caused his vision to decline rapidly, and he can only see the outline of color blocks clearly. Then, he confirmed that his brain must have been affected by the disease, because the forest in his eyes began to shake with rotten spots of different shapes, and they were moving back and forth rapidly, causing more false perceptions.

An unexpected idea appeared in his mind. He can sit under this tree and rest for a while. This is a safe place, a warm and moist sanctuary. This was exactly the Turkish palace courtyard in his hazy childhood memories, where his family, his first family, was waiting for him.

His grandfather cared about his pain and couldn't bear it. Although Akulduna was not within his grandfather's expectations, if he was willing to push open his grandfather's small wooden door, his grandfather would kindly bring him a bowl of hot soup, pat his shoulders with concern, and invite him to join this harsh... Staying lazily in this terrible world...

You will be satisfied, child. No need to work so hard anymore. Take a break, stop your hurried pace, accept the cycle of life and death, and accept everything in this world.

"Ha..." Akulduna exhaled a breath of corrupt air, and he could hardly smell the smell. "No need, trouble maker." He grinned inside the helmet, even though the skin on his face had begun to melt and stick together, "I am a phoenix, not a maggot."

He remembered Fulgrim's teachings. Perfect. The pursuit of excellence and continuous advancement are all included in the definition of perfection.

Now is not the time to give up in despair, in fact, not ever.

"I always see a little more than what I have now." He laughed, crushing the dead man's head that was pierced by tree roots at his feet.

The swordsman wanted to shrug, which was becoming less easy, but he managed. Akulduna was happy about this, of course, not the inexplicable, halting, disgusting happiness of the decaying jungle here. He was just happy for his small victory.

If this is the blight that has been delayed for decades, if this is the despair that the Third Legion once faced, then it seems that he will try to become the first Emperor's Son to truly overcome the genetic disease.

Although his attempts were somewhat difficult, Akulduna was still hopeful that he would find his genetic father, and he wanted to do something more, whether it was to help Fulgrim or to warn him.

He blinked and groped his way through the chaos.

He didn't know how much time had passed, maybe only a few minutes, maybe he had been groping forward for hundreds of years - no, this was definitely impossible, if hundreds of years had passed, he would have died of hunger and dehydration. He can't talk nonsense.

At this moment, something seemed to appear in front of him that was emitting light from the inside out. In this moist and dark chaotic darkness, it seemed that suddenly, a small, slightly golden bright spot began to burn coldly on the retina of his soul.

Within Akulduna's perspective, the light spots were bright and dim, swaying left and right, but the penetrating sting never changed.

Feeling the pain of the living again proved that he had not been completely eroded by this dying realm of disease and decay.

Go ahead, he thought, and pursue it. Regardless of the outcome, he will always move forward. Because he can.

——

Fulgrim soon discovered that something unusual had happened to the ship he was currently on.

This strange beginning is hidden in the most inconspicuous shadows and details, in the bases of those stone carvings where light rarely reaches, in the interior of the flowing courtyard drains, and in the tops of hanging gold tassels arranged high in the sky. , a hidden corruption is quietly wrapped around him.

Fungi are on the rise, tiny organisms are appearing in sterilized areas that were never meant for their existence, and the flowers that are changed daily change from bright light purple to reddish-brown droplets. Even if these changes occur slowly and gently, to the eyes of the Primarch they are obvious.

He first thought of some witchcraft planets he had conquered. Those spellcasters who were good at creating mental illusions or changing reality did have the ability to create such phenomena.

Nowadays, most of these psychics who are born with terrible flaws and are inherently unstable are guarded and erased. Those who were particularly valuable and obedient were given to Magnus for discipline.

Psykers can often cause some trouble when they first meet, but hurting the Primarch is a completely different level of difficulty.

In addition, a new confusion appeared in Fulgrim's mind.

This is Perturabo's Olympia, and with the Lord of Iron's paranoid protection and control over the things he values, accidents like this shouldn't happen.

Unless Perturabo himself can't stop it...

Fulgrim tightened his grip on whatever was in his hand - his left hand resting on the hilt of the flaming sword, feeling the incredible heat radiating from the weapon crafted by Ferrus Manus, his right hand tightening handkerchief.

He cheered up and continued his original plan to go to Fabius Bayer's laboratory, and at the same time he became more vigilant about his surroundings.

Soon, he saw a servitor covered in gray cloth. Although there was nothing unusual about its appearance, the Purple Phoenix's intuition told him that there was something wrong with this thing.

"Stop," he ordered. "where are you going?"

The servitor obeyed the order and stopped moving. His unconscious half-metal head seemed not to support him in making any more reactions. From the equipment it is equipped with, it can be seen that this is a medical servo machine.

There is an unpleasant smell emanating from this tool.

Fulgrim moved closer, and the smell became stronger. He frowned in displeasure, wondering why the person using the servitor didn't smell the smell.

In fact, he suspected that it was Fabius Bayer's work again. Every time he thought about Bayer, he simultaneously regretted his chief pharmacist's crazy behavior and his own negligence.

He saw the servitor carrying a suitcase.

"Show what you have in your hands," Fulgrim warned.

The servitor made no response.

Fulgrim held his breath, drew his flaming sword, and approached the servitor. When the distance was close enough, Fulgrim thrust out his sword, preparing to cut off the servitor's fingers holding the box.

The servitor moved. Its reaction speed was not in line with the speed of a medical machine, and even exceeded the strength of a servitor. But its reaction was still unable to withstand Fulgrim's sharp sword. The sharp blade quickly cut off the servitor's right hand, and the suitcase fell to the ground.

At the same time, a strong smell hit his face. The strong smell of corruption and decay not only hurt the original body's keen sense of smell, but also directly stung his soul. A pool of brownish-yellow liquid dripped from the severed limb. It was similar in color to Lycaon's blood, but the smell was several times more pungent.

The suitcase was shaken open when it fell, and Fulgrim saw some surgical instruments, a test tube containing some kind of extract, and several syringes, one of which had been used. The color of the potion in the syringe was somewhat familiar. After inference, he guessed that it was most likely the heartbreaking alchemy potion that Telemanon Lyras was injected with.

Fabius Bayer. Fulgrim chanted the pharmacist's name angrily, feeling weak in his heart.

It seemed that even to the last minute, he was still telling lies.

In his conversations with Konrad Curze, he showed himself to have regained his strength, but it was clear to Fulgrim that he had a problem that had never been solved.

Why would he cultivate such a heir under his trust?

Is the way he looks at other lives so arrogant that he doesn't really see others? In his younger years, this arrogance was deliberate. Has it changed from a mask to his own face?

Or maybe he walked too fast, too hurriedly, the ever-changing scenery confused his eyes, and the Milky Way hovering above his head made him lose his judgment?

Or did he miss the initial moments of the Third Legion and their pain and suffering, so much so that even kneeling could not bring them closer to their hearts?

Fulgrim did often think of that last point. He had missed so many battles of the Third Legion, and when he looked through the old battle reports written about death, he always thought about how much better things would have been if he had been there. In a sense, this is his responsibility.

The servitor staggered, then swung out a claw, trying to strike at the Primarch. It moved stiffly and erratically, like a zombie, relying on absurd instincts to recognize the Primarch as its enemy. Fulgrim was naturally unable to be hurt by it. The blazing sword easily cut the opponent's throat with a beautiful blow.

After discovering that this was not enough to kill the walking corpse, he quickly cut it further into pieces with sword moves. This time testing the weakness was effective, and he eliminated the obstacle in front of him.

However, his discomfort did not lessen, but quickly deepened. A sharp pain quickly turned into insensible numbness, wrapping around the palm of his hand that was not holding the sword, and a small amount of pain remained on his face.

Fulgrim spread his left hand. Where it comes into contact with the handkerchief stained with Lycaon's corrupt blood, the smooth white skin is falling into wrinkles and withering, until it turns into dry powder and residue, falling to the ground. The same goes for half of his face.

Fulgrim looked tense. The hard ship floor turned to soft earth beneath his feet.

At first, it was somewhat similar to the private glass greenhouse he cultivated with his own care. After witnessing the changes brought to Chemos by the resurgent culture, Fulgrim began to pay attention to spiritual arts. This was one of the reasons he brought the beauty of his art to the Emperor's Children.

But soon, it turned into something far more rotten and filthy than his greenhouse. Hundreds of plants, from trees and shrubs to flowers and short grass, all of them became stained with plague and disease. , crawling with countless worms, beetles, and more blasphemous creatures that have no part in Imperial biology.

In an instant, the whole world seemed to be on the verge of death.

Fulgrim gasped softly, changed the way he held the handkerchief, pinched the unblooded corner of the handkerchief with his fingers, stood there, and observed the surrounding scene. He wasn't sure which direction he should go. Ashes continued to fall from the surface of his skin.

He heard some voices behind him. Fulgrim turned around.

It was a phantom. A dead image. A withered flower. A soldier who died of illness.

The outbreak of genetic disease made his face blurry, but the lines and decorations on his armor proved his identity.

More ghosts appeared there, faceless and similar in appearance, surrounded by an aura of pain and despair. The flowers in the garden bloomed and withered quickly under their feet, and the fallen dust turned into the embodiment of the shadow in the soul when facing death.

impossible. Fulgrim thought in horror. Their souls have long since rested in Terra.

They must have rested long ago.

But he couldn't lift the sword.