Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Light entered the room through the grid, and Morse woke up from another peaceful and beautiful sleep.

Feeling some discomfort in his throat, he touched it, and the dry and hard blood clots broke into pieces and fell on the black clothes.

Sure enough, he was attacked by Perturabo last night.

He cleared his throat and strolled leisurely outside. The temperature is hot at noon, and the sun shines from directly above the open space; the airflow under the cliff is steady, and the woods with little wind are quiet. Thanks to Morse's spiritual power, even herbivores are extremely rare around his residence.

The boy was facing away from him, and the stone broke under his hands, making a crisp sound.

Mors silenced the sound of his footsteps and walked quietly behind Perturabo.

The first thing he saw was the wound on the boy's hand.

From his fingers to his wrists, improperly used stone carving tools left many damages on the surface of his skin. Whenever he raised the stone hammer and hit the chisel hard, blood drops would seep out from his cracked scars, like a string of bright red beads.

Perturabo vented his refusal to erase the bloodstains, leaving these records of mortal injuries on his skin that should have been smoother than a carved stone statue.

His works were also unsatisfactory, with vague shapes, misaligned proportions, and too many stupid mistakes typical of novices.

Morse could only see that he wanted to carve two human figures facing each other, and that the stone was taken from an unfinished work he had left behind.

After a few milliseconds of comparison, he confirmed that the stone was the head of his gryphon statue.

Mors sat down on the floor beside Perturabo. The latter's facial masseter muscles contracted, he gritted his teeth and swung the stone hammer. His left hand holding the chisel lost control and the chisel flew out, leaving an ugly beveled gap in the stone.

Without pausing, Perturabo leaned forward to retrieve the tool.

Morse lived alone, and his tools were undoubtedly made in adult sizes. This is a bit too big for Perturabo.

The sharp-nosed chisel slipped away from the boy's tired fingers again, clattering down like a cunning flying fish taking away the bait, giving the boy a bit of imaginary sweetness.

Perturabo said nothing, even his sometimes uncontrollable anger had been cooled and extinguished, and cold and vain beads of sweat rolled across his pale, peeling lips.

He stared closely at the materials in front of him, including a chisel, a hammer, a carving knife, a ruler, a file... and a shapeless piece of failed work. These objects were caught in the reflection of his eyes, making him reluctant to see anything else.

The wind and light seemed to be flowing around him, and Perturabo spent an Olympian night constructing illusory fortresses and trenches in his mind.

Morse reflected on his behavior for a moment, and then he confirmed that he had already told Perturabo about the principles of communication.

Since Perturabo made no demands, he wanted nothing.

He patted his black clothes that were stained with dust and walked into the surrounding green woods.

His daily life wasn't much fun, Morse admits. He simply breaks some wood, peels off the buds and bast, and dries it for firewood or raw material for carving.

If there was a dead bird, he would lean over and hold his chin to observe the bird's feathers. If the color, length, and toughness were all just right, he would wash and dry the feathers and paste them on the corner of a painting or a chess piece.

On rare occasions, Morse would go to Lokos, the nearest city-state, and walk silently through the market, observing the postures and expressions of the residents.

The last time he entered Lokos was during the sports truce period in Olympia. All city-states agreed to rest and stop fighting at this time and participate in grand events on the sports field.

Relying on the sale of a comedy script for performances, he and the tyrants of the city-state at that time sat under a gorgeous and exquisite awning, which was made by countless hardworking weavers and designers day and night, and watched the fresh flowers raised in the sand under the high platform. The crowned boxing champion shows off his massive muscles covered in bright oil.

Morse raised his hand to push aside a spindle-shaped green leaf in front of him, and stepped forward. The dead leaves that had not been decomposed by organisms rustled.

When he let go of the slender branch that rebounded up and down, there was a newly broken light brown twig more than three inches long between his two fingers.

The line of sight passes through the rectangular slit between trees and moss, and the clouds roaming in the sky cause the light and shadow in the forest to change. Between the trunks of two adjacent trees, a small, bright, and agile brown-yellow shadow flashed past.

"Why do craftsmen learn to hunt?"

Morse muttered softly and answered his own question: "You want to get the best leather, feathers, sinews, leg bones..."

"Then can I use my own abilities to kill them?"

He imitated the tone of a child, with the corners of his mouth quirking up strangely. He was almost amused at himself.

"Of course, as long as you are really more skilled than a bow and arrow."

The light brown twigs came out of the hand, and the next second, the soft and dexterous shadow silently fell into the dead branches and grass. Some mammals that may be their relatives panicked and knocked away the leaves and fled.

"It's really hard. Every time I shoot my prey I can't find where it died. I have to recover my arrow and get my trophy."

"Maybe it didn't die, it just fell, bled, and disappeared."

Morse bent down and met the creature's beautiful, pleading moist eyes. The gurgling blood is leaving the prey's arteries, and the land is nourished.

He touched the prey's forehead, and his psychic energy instantly destroyed the prey's nervous and brain systems.

The creature was of good age, rich in oil, and had smooth and pliable skin. Satisfied, Morse picked up a stone, chipped it into pieces, pulled its legs, and dismantled the raw materials.

When the temperature began to drop, Morse returned to his residence carrying a leg of his prey and a bag of raw materials wrapped in animal skins.

Perturabo was still there.

The tools in his hands were changed, from the chisel and hammer used to cut out the rough shape of the stone, to a thin and hard file.

When the blade cuts the surface of the stone, a small amount of dust is produced in a shallow scratch. These stubborn stone fragments are no paler than the boy's face.

Naturally, he no longer had the strength to carve the stone effectively. Perturabo just grabbed the tool, like a machine that had lost its energy, and had the spirit to repeatedly do one thing until the moment of death that ended the universe.

Morse passed by him and put down the ingredients he was carrying.

Some dry firewood and torn hay flew from the roof, while two pieces of flint came from the second-floor diagonal cross-pane.

He lit a fire in the yard, and the smoke rose up the cliff, drifting together with the clouds and mist below into the clear darkness above.

The residents of Olympia are distributed among various city-states. Due to natural conditions, the total population is not large. Even so, if Morse's cluster of fire is added together with all the golden and red lights lighting up half of the planet at this time, the total number should be greater than the number of stars visible to the naked eye. So the stars are just hanging, lurking.

There was a place to draw water behind the house, and Morse began to clean today's harvest and drain the excess blood from the prey meat.

Well, he had to say that he didn't know the scientific name of this elk-like but more toothsome prey, which he usually mentally called "Lokos deer."

Soon after, meat cut into small, irregular pieces was skewered on metal racks. The grease fell into the fire, and the hissing sound made Morse miss the beautiful snake lins and the scale-encrusted robes.

He flipped the iron lot and took a moment to look at Perturabo's condition.

Perturabo turned his head sharply, pretending that he had never peeked into the fire.

Morse shrugged, and the salt shaker flew into his palm, and was caught neatly with his five fingers.

Morse waited patiently as the salt melted and disappeared as it was sprinkled into the texture of the barbecue.

The flames are conquering the blood and flesh of the Lokos deer. The black edges gradually condense and the charred area expands. The food is irreversibly transformed into roasted char.

Morse ignored this.

The iron sign continues to spin.

Then, he heard a heavy muffled sound.

Perturabo stood up and fell.

Hunger brought coldness, thirst brought weakness, and long periods of sitting robbed him of his strength. A former demigod was now lying awkwardly among the sand and rocks, unable to support his body.

Morse sprinkles a small amount of cinnamon and fennel over the top of the roast.

The second muffled sound came quickly, and the clenched teeth locked the cry of pain, and the sound was like the vibration of a bass string.

Then Perturabo grabbed his black sleeve.

"I..." He exhaled heavily, overcoming the burning and dry pain in his throat, and his voice was harsher than the friction of a blade across the glass: "I want to eat."

Morse replied coolly: "Oh."

"I want to eat," Perturabo repeated. The second request was much easier and more confident than the first.

Morse calmly removed the half-charred kebab and tossed it gently. Food fell into the fire.

He pulled his sleeve away from Perturabo: "I know."

Perturabo's body stiffened. There was a struggle in his silence, and then he relaxed.

"A request comes with a price..." The boy's voice was quite low, containing the erratic feeling of something breaking: "I want to eat, what do you want?"

Morse smiled.

"Let's first calculate what we each did." He said briskly, his tone as relaxed as if there was always harmony between the two.

"I took you and took pictures, and you come back with me regardless of the reason. It's even."

"I helped you deceive the Star Vortex, and I took away your power and knowledge. It's even."

"I woke up this morning to find you slit my throat, destroyed one of my stone statues, borrowed my tools, and now you're asking me for food."

Having said this, Morse put his hand on the top of Perturabo's head, down the back of his head, and finally patted his back with interest, raising his tone.

"But I'm glad you finally learned to ask. One more apology and I'll treat you like a good boy and we'll be even."

Perturabo's expression was breaking.

"I shouldn't have... tried to kill you."

"anything else?"

"I apologize."

He looked deeply at Morse and said.

Morse glanced at him and smiled.

The second skewer of barbecue was placed on the metal rack by itself.

Mors poured Perturabo a glass of warm water. The boy took the wooden cup, lowered his head, and sat on the straw mat next to him at Mors's signal.