Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Perturabo returns to his workshop on the lower level of the Ironblood after a long absence.

It was his first attempt to take his hometown of Olympia into space some fifty years ago.

When he was still young, he always felt that this workshop was a little cramped, although he arranged his small private playroom exactly as it was in Lokos.

But in the later Space Fortress Cheorwon, he imitated Lokos's style - even though today's Lokos style has long been under the name of "Perturabo style", and more buildings were built in the core ring. Instead, he began to feel that the workshop of the Iron Blood was more suitable for him.

Although his beloved vintage workshop also experienced an unfortunate and stormy mass destruction.

That was forty-one years ago. It was in this unfortunate place that Robert Guilliman grabbed Alpharius and started an unprecedented fight between the original bodies. In the end, Rogal Dorn's two punches were the final decision. Ends with two rags for the Primarch.

He shook his head and put those messy memories away from his brain for a while. He used the data cable to verify the permission to pass through the iron door. After seeing the scene inside, he raised his eyebrows.

"I haven't seen you here for a long time, Morse," said Perturabo.

Morse raised his hand from the table and rubbed the fingertips wrapped in black cloth: "You haven't been to your workshop for a long time, great general. Look here, it's all ashes."

"Will you clean it up?"

Morse shrugged, found his own clean chair from the air, picked an open space and put it down. "Don't even think about it."

"Okay," Perturabo looked around the workshop.

He is the only one with access to the place; no mortals or servitors responsible for cleaning are allowed inside.

Even though he had tried his best to keep this place isolated from outside pollution during the time he had previously focused on fighting, the dust was still pervasive enough to cast an almost transparent gray veil over all his completed or half-finished creations.

He first put the suitcase on the table, then went to the sink and turned on the faucet, letting the water in the pipe flow first, completing a new cycle inside the water storage device.

Thanks to the quality of work done on the site, the taps are still functioning. After a while, he wet the cloth used to wipe the table and returned to his seat.

"It looks like you have something to do here," Morse said.

"indeed."

"And you were not in a good mood. You didn't even ask me why I showed up."

Perturabo sighed softly, "Isn't it obvious enough? I'm assuming you have something to say to me."

Morse shrugged. "I think you know why I told you not to rush to the Emperor, Perturabo."

Perturabo wiped down his desk and chair, clearing a small area where he could begin his work. He could have done it all in his office, but he needed some ritual, private enough, and completely quiet space to work alone on a job he was afraid he would never be able to do publicly.

Now, he found that he may have been forced to lose the environmental element of "quietness".

"Horus, Leon, Lorgar," said Perturabo, "when they returned from the Emperor, they no longer had any memory of the truth about the Angel Randan. If I were to meet the Emperor, I would experience Same thing?"

"Good question, and unfortunately, my answer is yes," Morse replied, putting his hands on his knees.

"I vouched for you to the Emperor and left the secret of the curse to you. But the Emperor was in a very unhappy mood at the time. If you bumped into him face to face, I can't guarantee that he would have the mind to deal with it and you would turn on him. Ask the question instead of taking the easier route of eliminating the problem.”

Perturabo shook his head, his eyes scanning the gadgets on the table.

A jar of paraffin, a file, tweezers, pliers, polishing wheels, and carving knives of different sizes...

He didn't need paraffin, which was equivalent to filling a natural thing with foreign matter, and the objects he was about to deal with had already experienced enough of this.

The necessity of filing is not high and he does not need to do much shaping. The same goes for grinding wheels.

He picked out the smallest carving knife and tested its sharpness. After feeling that it still had the potential to damage the skin of his fingers, Perturabo began to disinfect the carving knife.

"I can understand the Emperor's decision," Perturabo said, "but - I thought that at least we could be trusted. Even, narrowing it down again, at least Horus could be trusted."

"Perhaps the controversy involved is too central, the Emperor's child. You know how much he doesn't like to have others call him a god. Maybe he finally remembered that he should retain some...human dignity for himself." Morse answer.

"Why does he care so much about this matter?" Perturabo's carving knife slipped from his fingers and made a thin bloody cut on the side of his index finger. He pressed his thumb against the wound and waited for it to heal.

"I don't know," Morse said. "Now I'm beginning to think it's more than just his personal likes and dislikes. But it seems that I haven't had the luck to get him to confess to this little secret."

"By the way, your emperor will also erase the evolution of the Second Legion from the records. Remember not to mention the relevant content to the Iron Warriors or anyone else in the future - anyway, the subsequent clean-up work There is no need to continue to know the angels of the second legion."

"I know," said Perturabo, "I suppose you might as well finish your work?"

"What's my job?"

"From the economy, armaments to political bureaucracy, there must be thousands of documents containing words related to the Second Corps. Doesn't it need to be screened and cleaned?"

Morse snapped his fingers. "Poor Malcador—he won the bet."

"What?"

"I bet you wouldn't be so cruel as to ask me to go and work on documents with the Imperial Prime Minister, but Malcador said you would. Well, I can predict the order of magnitude of the documents I have to deal with when I return to Terra now."

The Artisan stood up, walked over to the Primarch, and patted the Primarch's broad shoulder. "Do what you will, Perturabo."

Mors left quietly, and Perturabo finally confirmed that he really just came to talk to him. In a sense, this kind of implicit comfort was a quite novel move for Mors.

Or maybe Morse was taking the opportunity to comfort himself? Perturabo didn't know why he suddenly felt this way.

He shook his head, pushed away his thoughts, stared at the suitcase, and opened it.

Inside is a black iron box, which still exudes a fragrant smell that has been exposed to incense all year round.

For many years, the black iron reliquary was placed in the center of the altar of the Wandering Temple. Every time the Word Bearers brought the names of the resting ones and prayed for the dead under the gaze of the Emperor's icon, they would see it. Under the four fire candles, there is a box for holding the finger bones of the original body.

Now it seems that that is the only trace, the only remnant of the Second Primarch, and even the entire Second Legion, that can be left in the real world.

"You have made a wrong decision, my brother," said Perturabo.

The black iron box had been sealed. Perturabo opened the cutting pen, confirmed its operation, and then began to reopen the box.

Iron splattered under the high temperature of the pen tip, and the Primarch blinked. His retinas help him with the task of looking directly at this light.

"You actually chose to step into an alien prison for the sake of your heir." He continued to speak softly.

"In the Square of Heroes, I questioned for a moment why the Emperor wanted to take away your name and your honor."

"Listen to what Malcador said, 'The empire will remember his achievements'... I regarded it as a sentence that is inevitable in the establishment of any empire in human history. The purpose of bright lies is to decorate one's own country. The brilliance it possesses.”

"Yeah, I understand the need for it all, even if I don't feel like it - I'm doing something similar myself. Our webway."

One side of the casket was cut open, and Perturabo turned the reliquary carefully, making sure that his cuts would not inadvertently damage its contents.

"But now, I have changed my view and put aside my last doubt." He paused, "Because you did take the initiative to give up your own glory and harmed the interests of the emperor and the glory of the empire."

"From the perspective of the Human Empire, my father's judgment is understandable. Even...he is tolerant."

While cutting the front of the black iron box, he was quiet for a while, focusing on his work.

The dust floated silently around him along with the airflow caused by his movements, drifting past those exquisite statues and designs that relied on strange engineering mechanics to maintain stability.

These were all things he cherished, but they would always have to give way to the imperial expedition, so that they had to sleep in the dark hall filled with ashes until the iron door of the workshop opened again, artificial sunlight and false scenery Reappeared before the Lord of Iron.

Not long ago, his warsmith told him that Lorgar Aurelion had come to visit him during his time away from the core of Randan.

He thought that Aurelion came to him to discuss the coming of the Emperor, but when he later visited him on the Law of Faith, Perturabo discovered that this was not the case.

After walking through the corridor of the flagship church, he arrived at the Wanderer's Church again.

There are many wooden boxes stored on both sides of the surrounding area, perhaps waiting for consecration. Four incense burners were lit, and light yellow frankincense was sprinkled in the burners, maintaining the light sacred smell.

A slightly faded red carpet rolled out straight from the door of the church, twisting and turning at the steps, and extended under the black iron altar, like a quiet river flowing between life and death.

The man who holds the truth is sitting in the middle of the steps below the altar, dressed in black robes, sitting quietly with his head bowed. From a distance, the reliquary in his hand almost blends in with his clothing.

He stepped onto the red carpet, and Aurelion stood up, nodding and smiling at him.

"Perturabo," he said, taking the initiative to walk down the steps and approaching Perturabo with the box.

"Aurelion," Perturabo answered. "Do you have any questions?"

"No, I just want to give it to you." Lorgar held the black iron box in both hands and handed it to Perturabo. The light from the Aquila candlestick flickered behind him.

Perturabo knew what it was, but that didn't stop him from being surprised.

Lorgar read his heart. "You still remember who it came from, right?"

His voice is gentle, a noble voice that is often deceptive, enough to cover up his fanaticism and subsequent ruthless actions in a pleasant tranquility. No matter what, it is quiet and beautiful.

"Yes," said Perturabo. "Forgive me for not being able to answer."

"No need, my brother," Lorgar smiled, stretched out his right hand, and intimately pulled Perturabo's hand to the top cover of the holy ossuary, "This is His will. If you are the only one among us who is trusted, I will not have any unnecessary doubts."

"This morning, I returned to His temple and saw this box at first sight. I don't know what it is or who it belongs to. But for some reason, it makes me feel so peaceful. Just one look at it, and a bright light will surge into my heart, making me feel like I am in the city in the sky, light and joyful."

"But I can't remember it, Perturabo, I am not qualified to know the secret. So I know that it doesn't belong to me."

Perturabo frowned slightly. He was not sure whether his future self would want to continue to see this box and recall everything related to the second Primarch.

"Also," Lorgar said, "this is the box that the Iron Warriors used to store their collections. Perhaps I should have returned it to its original owner long ago."

On the way back to the Iron Wyrm, Perturabo kept thinking about where to store this box and what to use it for so that it could achieve the purpose of commemoration in a moderate and not excessive way. Soon after, he had the answer and turned to the Iron Blood.

The black iron box was opened by the cutting pen, and Perturabo removed the top cover and took out the unprotected phalanx from the inside.

It was still the same as when the 23rd team - oh, the team with only one survivor, Perturabo suddenly remembered this - was brought back from the Randan biological ship, pale and dull, with blood threads wrapped around it.

Perturabo briefly immersed it in acid to remove the blood threads and lipids on the surface, and then rinsed it with clean water, carefully ensuring that the soft brush would not damage the phalanx itself.

Afterwards, on this section of phalanx, he calmed down, with the carving knife hanging above, ready to carve.

He didn't have much to carve. In fact, he wanted to minimize the damage to the only piece of the Primarch's remains in the world.

Perturabo picked and chose among several words, choosing a title suitable for the second Primarch.

He would not let Duncan's name be left, which was too contrary to the Emperor's will.

Moreover, even if the name is the simplest and most direct, it is not necessarily the best, nor is it necessarily what a person can or is willing to choose.

The Empire will remember your achievements, he said to himself, not wanting his own mumbling to interfere with the stability of the carving knife in his hand. There must be no mistakes.

The Empire will also remember your mistakes.

But what about you? What identity do you want to be remembered for?

Finally, Perturabo began to carve.

He used High Gothic and did not use any hollow borders, folds or connecting additional decorations to add artistic quality to the text.

On the contrary, he weakened the foot of the font and strengthened the skeleton of the letters, making this ancient language particularly solemn and dignified.

The letters gradually took shape, with the front and back spacing aligned and the top and bottom flat, making it impossible to tell what the carver was thinking at the time.

This was not a work of art, and Perturabo did not need to show off too much of himself in it. He only wanted to remember it, not additional comments and judgments.

Finally, Perturabo put down the carving knife, washed away the debris on the surface of the finger bone with clean water again, and stared at the bone carving with the words.

"The Resurrected." He wrote a footnote for history.