Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 424: The Emperor's Heir·General Preface

You have to know that there are often only two types of legends that can be circulated in this human world for a long time, especially those stories about great demigods that can attract readers.

You can either talk about their sacrifices and contributions, discuss how many soldiers were sacrificed in a battle, how they were all one in a million, how they fought to death without a word of begging for mercy, and in the revolving lantern, recalling the past. The tears streaming down his face and the silent vows he made when he saw the emperor for the first time returned to the throne in the golden light.

In this way, the children drank milk before going to bed - it was probably a half-tube of cement-like nutritious paste left by the family's frugality, while patting their chests proudly for being a member of such a great empire. This is the first type.

However, this is still a bit...well, too lofty. Although no one dares to say that they don't like it - at least not in front of the imperial bureaucrats, like you, Malcador, I know you will review my manuscript.

But what other things are enough to be talked about freely by the people of the Empire who live in small boxes in complex housing complexes and work while scolding them every morning until the handover of the night shift?

"The Emperor is so powerful," these words wafted in the mist of Macragge's bathhouse, "that he can give birth to eighteen Primarchs!"

"Then how many wives must he have? Are all these children really his biological children? Or were eighteen babies floating on a raft along the waters of Terra to the foot of the palace and being picked up by the emperor? Which of his children Which demigod is most like him? Are Konrad Curze and Corvus Corax twins? Who is the most powerful among the Primarchs? Beat? How much antox can Leman Russ eat in one meal? With the bones or without the bones?"

Yes, you have to admit that another thing that the Imperial people like to do on the surface is to discuss the private side of these graceful, magnificent and wonderful creatures that is closer to life itself.

There seemed to be some kind of duality in people, who didn't really feel that the Primarchs lived among humans, but especially liked to assume that the Primarchs also wore the artificial leather boots of the Underhive.

As for what else the Imperial people secretly like...well, I think it's best not to share with you here the various conspiracy theories that the majority of the Imperial people believe in. You know some people think Fulgrim is pretentious, Perturabo is sullen and harsh, Horus is hypocritical and cold, Ferrus might be an iron man... all interesting, aren't they?

So, in this collection, we talk about the Primarchs.

"Children of the Emperor" is an eye-catching title, and it may be able to promote the paper book economy of the empire. If the financial report is prosperous enough, I will go to the Chamber of Memories to publish more series of works, such as Bloodline of the Emperor. , the emperor's heir, the emperor's descendant...

To sum up, this is the purpose of this book. The Great Crusade brought light to the world - and while it was the Terran Star Torch that physically accomplished this, that wasn't the only thing humanity needed, was it?

Of course, I know you can't stand this, Macado, so go ahead and use my 223-word preface, serious old fellow.

——

"You are very self-aware, Morse." The Imperial Chancellor said, slowly putting down Morse's parchment. "Being able to write this general introduction, it seems that your mood is not that bad."

"The relationship between a person's mood and the things he writes may not be so intuitive, Malcador," Morse said, taking care of the artificial feathers of the antique quill pen in his hand, his face calm, "I will adhere to my understanding of satire. a hobby until the day I no longer need to write anything.”

"And I will ensure that the Ministry of Internal Affairs will not publish any of your unreviewed works without authorization," Makado said, removing a document from the desk and using some internal logic to find another one he needed. instruments and illuminated with candlesticks.

Recently, the Royal Palace of Terra decided to simulate a long-lost snow scene. The idea was proposed by Mortarion, who planned to test the frost tolerance of garden plants.

Now, within the psychic barrier of the palace, artificial white snow fell from the dark snowy night sky, blowing the cold wind throughout every interconnected corridor. Malcador's approval of this proposal is enough to show that sometimes people just tend to do things that don't make sense.

"It doesn't matter," Morse shrugged, looking out the window.

The golden dome is covered with white snow, and the vast pure tones re-cover the man-made palace, restoring it to the ancient majestic snow-capped mountains. It was not until today that he realized once again that the Terra Palace was indeed built on the Himalayas.

Malcador's hand while flipping through the documents paused, and his eyes moved to the craftsman's black robe.

"What did you talk about, Morse?" the Imperial Chancellor asked in a low voice.

"Some... family matters," the craftsman replied absently, staring into space.

After a while, he snapped his fingers, and a bit of golden light flashed in the air, following the junction of candlelight and darkness, and poured into an ancient gramophone. The gold-copper gramophone made a dry scratching sound, and then, without the record being placed, it emitted a hoarse singing voice.

"The Puppet Song," Morse said, leaning on one side and laughing. "It's a pity it's a fake gramophone, but the music is good."

"You like it?"

"It's not easy, and I like unusual tracks," Morse said. "I heard you have a strong-brained cat as a pet?"

"Listen to the Emperor?"

"When we were chatting one time, he finally decided to end the Q\u0026A he had initiated with some light-hearted topics."

Morse spoke, and the singing of the gramophone was woven into an invisible golden barrier by him, surrounding the inside of Malcador's room. The isolation runes were like living thin snakes, curling up and appearing on the wall.

"We talked about a lot of topics, and the location was at the top of your corona spire, where you built a meditation room."

"Oh," Makado shook his head slightly, "that place is abandoned. It is too close to the outside world, and the heightened awareness of the body will correspondingly weaken the perception of the soul. I have rebuilt the meditation room underground."

"But there is obviously no difference between him and me. There is wind at the top of the spire, and the circulation of natural wind is a gift from the galaxy. In any case, he asked me if I knew the situation on the 11th."

Malcador looked a little in disbelief. "He asked?"

"Am I a liar? Yes, he asked, and of course I replied I don't know."

The craftsman propped up his body slightly, and seemed to hear the wind slipping through his palms again, and the real snowfall at this moment, blowing through the rustling curtains and the open section of glass on the mullioned window, sometimes blowing His arms brought a hint of coolness.

"I think he regretted it once he spoke."

"He knows you don't like this topic." Makado judged.

"I'll never like it," Morse said, turning his hand wrapped in black cloth as if to grab a bow and arrow. The snowflakes rolled into the room, forming a vaguely shaped light-transmitting long bow, and then dispersed in the next second.

"I think he still wants to say something to me, but he can't say it. There are things - things I don't know, which are blocking him and making him hesitant."

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. The basalt inside the corona spire and the fine gold runes embedded in the wall seemed to reappear before the eyes in the wind.

The Emperor stood beside the stone seat he had given to Malcador, looking up toward the small window high up in the tower where the sun shined, as if there was something important there that only he could see, a ray of cold light, or a ray of light. A group of gray and black embers.

Then, the Emperor turned his head and glanced at him.

"I did not kill him," the Emperor said.

"Okay, so where is he? You know I am compiling a series of Primarchs, my Emperor."

Morse stood leaning against the stone wall with his arms folded over his chest. Time flies by, and he has replenished himself with too many senses. A chill enveloped his back vaguely.

"He does not trust the Empire," the Emperor said. "The Legion is what he resists, and Leman Russ cannot bring him back."

"So, where did he go?"

"Do you know about the Holy Grail?"

"What kind of concept?"

"Occult."

"Of course," said Morse, snorting softly, "a holy object, a cup for the essence of eternity, like an egg cup, I suppose, only for the blood of the Messiah. "

When he mentioned that proper noun, his eyes stayed on the emperor, "Or his bloodline. The Holy Grail can also be a person, a person with the blood of the Messiah flowing in his body."

"Or an expansion zone," the Emperor said.

"What's the meaning?"

"You want to find him."

"Yes."

"And you won't find him."

"Fuck you, Emperor. You sent Konrad Curze to the Grail Expansion, or your power found him through Sanguinius, is that it? Damn your plan, my lord!"

"You agreed to all this," the Emperor said firmly.

"Never!"

The emperor shook his head slightly, unmoved. He left the stone chair, his footsteps seeming to be one with the wind. His steps were so powerful, but his face still looked tired, as if he was walking on the sharp edge of the Himalayas, and he still had a long way to go.

"Many things exist differently than you think, Morse," he said. "The Primarch, the Webway, Waldo, you and me."

"You said those words, Neos. If you don't give me an answer, I'll blow up the palace right now."

The Emperor smiled, which meant that he raised the corners of his mouth in a gesture that showed no joy in his heart.

"And you will remember part of the answer. It is... 963.M30, and the time is approaching."

He paused: "All of us are tools, weapons, containers, and fruits. When the time is right, someone will tell you the complete story personally, and you will tell it to me again. This is what you must do. task.

"One day we will enter the final gamble. Regardless of success or failure, the price must be paid without anyone knowing."

Morse could not explain his uneasiness.

"I mean - enough." He said, "One hundred and sixty years, I can't stand any more new puzzles. You can put it more concisely, and I won't call me a tool because of you. And anger, I'm only annoyed by unknown plans."

"I can't tell you what I don't know, Morse," the Emperor said. "I can only tell you that part of our plan that I and a few others know and are responsible for."

"What is it?"

He stared at Morse, and his eyes were no longer associated with anything that could inspire reverence, longing, or pity.

It contains the emotions accumulated behind the glorious performances and dazzling blessings for countless years. It points directly to the old man himself who has walked alone for 30,000 years, and is no longer related to the conventional flashes of humanity. No, it is the darkness of human nature, anger, cruelty and even arrogance, and naked hatred.

"I don't want to be Emperor," he said, "even if someone had to do it, because that would mean a fraud on humanity, a game of self-deception. It would mean that I would be using false beliefs to promote justice and Peace uses artificial light to cover up the darkness that cannot disappear."

"This is... a stopgap measure, Neos."

"You like expedients?" the Emperor retorted.

He walked around the tower, light occasionally sweeping over his robes, and the rest of the time he was immersed in darkness.

"The truth of the Empire is nothing but a big lie. I know that the Warp exists, I understand what it means, I hate it, my friend, I hate it, I hope it will turn into ashes, be destroyed forever, and never return.

"I hope that the path of mankind will never be blocked, and that my creation will never need to be destroyed. We will not live in the mockery of darkness, hiding in the space of the real universe and the webway, and using lies to deceive ourselves. Tremble and tremble at the Milky Way.

"You asked me whether all the contradictions of mankind will be self-defeating after possessing the Webway. My answer is no. People who have this idea are self-narcotic in timid joy.

"So many races have long since sacrificed their bodies for monuments. The Ada relied on the Webway but was still destroyed. The orcs were intoxicated in senseless ecstasy. The millions-year-old empire is still vulnerable. No race affected by the sea of ​​souls can survive." The possibility of lasting forever.”

"Since there is subspace in this world, how can one manage the Galactic Empire and achieve the liberation of mankind?"

At this moment, he is not the master of mankind, but a confused man looking for a way, a wandering old man, relying on some incomprehensible stubbornness - even stubborn hatred, through all the years of glory and darkness. .

The past days no longer shine on him, and the light and ambition have become ferocious and even ugly under the erosion of the old night. What supports him to move forward is something closer to some kind of contradictory emotions that deserve to be cursed for ten thousand years, harsh and cold. , and intense enough.

"You can't do it alone," Mors replied, hearing his own voice grow distant.

"Then, I will be a god." The emperor returned to calmness, few things could make his emotions fluctuate so much. Today was an exception, even for Morse, who was familiar with him.

"you--"

"If all goes well, I will be under control." The Emperor continued, stepping back and looking away, his face pale against the black stone behind him. "A set of yokes, a rope. Humanity Understand me with brilliance, shape me with good deeds, this is the meaning of the identity of 'Emperor', even if this step still fails..."

He pondered, letting the next few words disappear before exiting.

"But," he continued, "this will all happen after the Great Crusade is over, to ensure that we do complete the establishment of the Imperium of Man. Then, one person will be chosen to take charge of my legacy. "

"Are you satisfied with the answer you got, Remus? I'm only sharing it with you."

Morse had no answer.

Is this why you indulged Aurelion? Is this why you allowed the Word Bearers to deliver your Word? Look, I thought you didn’t know what a hypocritical god you are, and I didn’t know what you wanted to do to radiate light here every day...

But until the end, he didn't ask a single question.

"Humanity is never satisfied," the Emperor said. "It is not good or evil that defines the foundation of our race. We simply never stop."

Morse stood and watched the Emperor leave the spire. Artificial snowfall has begun in the Terra Palace at night. Electric light flashes on the surface of the roaring rain cloud machines, while icy snowflakes fall from high altitudes, getting closer and closer until they cover the fine gold on the top of the spire.

The cold wind passed through the window panes in the tower, brutally broke into the room, and whizzed around in the small space. Amidst the howling of wind and snow, the outline of the palace became blurred and dissipated under the silent devouring of the artificial snowy night, stripped of color and texture.

He closed his eyes and remained silent amidst the sound of the wind, feeling the snowflakes streak across the side of his face like cold arrows grazing his cheeks.

Then he opened his eyes and heard ancient coloratura music on the gramophone. The paper is being turned, and the warm candlelight in Malcador's room creates a warm glow. Snow and wind hit the outside of the colorful window, which had been closed by the imperial prime minister.

"Afterwards, he mentioned that he might want to find someone to act as his agent. I think he was planning to find one of his own heirs to complete the work." Morse smiled, "Maybe Horus Luperkar?"

"Or Leon?" Malcador said thoughtfully, seriously considering which primarch would become the successor, which would be more conducive to achieving a peaceful connection with the imperial civil service system. "Ferrus?"

"It shouldn't be Leon El'Jonson, he can't coordinate everyone. I think it's Horus." Morse said objectively.

A real smile appeared on Malcador's old face. Perhaps he would never change his opinion of the Emperor, and the Emperor carefully maintained this - the Lord of Mankind was not a fool without emotional judgment. .

"Who knows what our old friend is thinking?" Makado joked, "It's not you anyway."

"Holy Golden Throne," Morse said, "F**K you, Malcador."