Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 480 Thief

"Honestly, I never knew what great things you were arranging, Eulanius. I am just a latecomer, and I don't have the inexplicable grasp of the entire foggy history like you do, just like you. It seems that the human world will no longer function without you... I forgot that the Emperor is one of you, I retract my preamble."

John Grammaticus shook the leather map of limited size in his hand, not thinking about where the raw material of this rough material came from.

The road under his feet was nothing like what No. 11 had described. It was no longer a long and narrow passage filled with milky white oil mist, but the entire section was glowing with an ominous and blazing red light. Webway, huh? A very ordinary name, but the psychic master reminded him of the importance of this place ten thousand times.

And then there's the importance of where they're going next.

"Molo?" Orr stopped when he heard the term. He stared at John's back hesitantly, "Why do you want to go there?"

"Are you asking me?" John pointed to himself, "Am I the one who accompanied the Emperor to Moro thousands of years ago instead of you? I don't know, except that a Primarch told me that Moro is a ghost. Apart from the key to the entire universe, all I got was this fragment of the map, and the reward I got was my life that was saved last time.”

A Primarch, Orr thought, like Alpharius? He didn't give him a good memory, he told too many lies and too little truth.

The children of Nyos are pretentious, but do they really have a will as proud as their talent? Maybe not every one.

"Who is that?" he said dullly, slowing down and following John. This deep passage sometimes made him think that he was entering the border of purgatory.

"I don't know, it probably doesn't matter anymore. I bet he's dead. I'm just the executor of a task, ready to compensate a Primarch for saving his life, and maybe the bad things I caused to mankind by serving the Illuminati. Influence.

"The mission is to find someone who roughly knows the truth and take him to Moro - 001.M31 at the end of this year. Do you know why this time is valued by you immortals?"

John said, standing still where he was, facing the blocked passage in front of him, with a bitter look on his face. A colorless dark abyss lay in front of him, filled with dregs of darkness.

"It's okay now, all roads are blocked." He fanned himself with the map fragment in his hand, turned and raised his eyebrows at Orr, "You can start to regret following me out of the Alpha Legion's flagship. Orr Er...or?"

Orpeson didn't answer his question, momentarily immersed in the fragments of his own past, until John tapped him on the shoulder with the rolled-up map and pulled him back to the present.

"Were you possessed by a demon just now?" John asked.

"No."

"That's good, otherwise I may not be able to beat you." John shrugged, "So what -"

"It's the thirty-first millennium now?"

"Yes, according to the current imperial calendar, this is the case. I don't know whether it is true or not. Don't you never look at the calendar? There is no clock in the tavern in Ultramar? Forget it," John sighed, " What new discoveries have you made, soldier?"

Orr's eyes slowly moved across his face, with a dazed expression of deep contemplation.

"That's the year, then," he said thoughtfully.

"Considering that we have no way to go and have plenty of time, I won't ask you why you don't finish talking at once."

Orr was silent for a moment, his answers became smoother, his tone regained control, and his expression became more complicated.

"Not in the past, not in the age when mythology prevailed, not in the twilight moment of night...it was in the thirty-first millennium," he said, "it is now that the fire thief has obtained fire."

"Forgive me, Orr, but I'm not as knowledgeable about mythology as you are. I'm just a newcomer, and even though I see that there are only a few immortals left in the entire galaxy who are still working conscientiously - I mean, please put this sentence Translate the words into something I can understand. You can’t be talking about the famous Prometheus..."

"Prometheus. The Fire Stealer."

"By the way, thank you. That's the word. It's a metaphor, right? How could human history use thirty thousand years to record something that hasn't happened yet?" John laughed dryly.

Orr shook his head slightly, the cross shaking on his chest. The light in the tunnel began to flicker, flickering like the fire of a candle against the walls of the Webway. An unstable tremor was rolling along this dangerous passage.

"Part metaphor," he said, "part, perhaps, truth. I really should go to Moro, and if what Nios described was true... now is the time to reveal the answer to that riddle. He was See..."

Orr looked at John Grammaticus suspiciously and stopped talking.

"Okay, Eulanius Persson, I won't pray for your trust anymore. It seems harder than traveling half way across the galaxy."

"Because you mentioned that you knew Erda," Orr said.

"I shouldn't have mentioned to you that I worked for her once. I was wrong." John openly showed his regret for this matter. "It makes me ten thousand times more suspicious, but I swear I didn't." I plan to trick you into somewhere and kill you quietly, or whatever else you're worried about. The only question now is, how do we find our way to Moro, because we look like we're nowhere..."

Suddenly - such an astonishing and unexpected arrival - a beam of light trembled through the darkness, and time seemed to stand still... everything became slow, the light advanced slowly, winding around John Gramatti With his raised hands, Cus crossed the silver cross on Eulanius Pesson's chest...and then went away, far away, until the end of the dark roar...

That ray of light was twisting and turning in the long and winding network corridor, and the darkness stagnated under the penetration of this filament, slowed down, and dullly rubbed against the filament of light, until an unbearable moment: the darkness The world shattered with a crash, making way for an invisible narrow passage of light.

John opened his eyes wide, and this ray of light reflected swirling lines in his eyes, like the dancing light reflected on the wall by a torch in a cave. Stolen fire? A lit fire? Sourceless fire? There is no answer.

"What happened?" he asked.

Orpeson took a step towards the light and stretched out his hand into the darkness in front of him. The path of brilliance became wider along with his movements. The surrounding darkness violently collided and scratched the path, but it was only illuminated by the light. It screamed and shattered unwillingly.

"It's him," Orr said, both convinced and confused. "That's his strength."

"How did I hear that the Emperor was dead..." John received Orr's gaze, he raised his hands in salute and surrendered. "Okay, then we have another way to go."

——

"All the deaths," said Vsistaka, "are meaningless."

Ahriman struggled to stand up from the ground, and Phusita gave him a hand and looked into the chief think tank's blue, trembling eyes. The witchfire faded away from around them, and there was no longer the cruel sound of the whip whipping the air. Magnus's red warm power returned to them again, glittering and broken on the ground.

Not far away, the Tuchucha Engine gave up its attempt to break through the isolation layer of the network channel. Magnus's runes were indestructible, and Vhistaka was still shaken when he came to this conclusion.

"Did the Luna Wolves really go to destroy Prospero? Did they really do this?" Hathormat murmured, spiritual energy lingering between his fingers, blooming with bright red fire.

He stretched out his five fingers and stared at his palm prints, as if he were a beginner palmist. The next moment, he suddenly clenched his fingers, and flames danced wildly from between his fingers.

"Batusa Narek is not a liar," Ahriman stood up, his serenity gradually peeling into crumbs and falling invisibly downwards. "But if we rush back quickly enough, there is hope for us, my brothers. We can still save our home from senseless destruction. All is not lost."

"Do you believe what you say?" Hathormat asked bluntly. He lowered his head slightly, raised his eyes upward, and stared bitterly at Ahriman's pale cheek.

"I believe it. This is not the ending we deserve. Prospero did not deserve to be destroyed - and even the Luna Wolves should not be responsible for the murder of innocent people. These deaths serve no purpose, and killing each other should not exist. Between the Legions of Astartes, we are all warriors loyal to the Emperor...how can we die against each other?"

He said this, but his eyes were already stagnant in the distance, so dim.

“Now,” he continued, “there is a force, a being, who has stolen the fruits of mankind’s victory and seeks to destroy our future. A thief so hateful.

"We reach the top, which is what we have. We fall into the valley, which we should not have. Although, we do have to assume the possibility of the latter. Then..."

"how?"

"Then we have to climb back up from the bottom," Ahriman said, the light in his eyes becoming dim.

Fusistaka was about to say something when suddenly a subtle ripple rippled through his body and touched his two hearts. He shuddered, feeling a lingering ash rolling, boiling, circling and swooping, rushing towards them along the long passage, but the target was at another place further away.

He looked around blankly, and the scattered dust turned into a tangible wave of light spots, calling each other and rushing forward. Those trivial murmurs became larger and more vast.

"It's not fair..." A voice came, in the flow of the halo, "No, damn laser... Ah, my boots, legs - what? What is this?... Pain, It hurts so much... The wolf is biting us, mom, it's a wolf..."

There are thousands of names, names that are dead, meaningless, and undeserved, carrying the life and power that each name is born with, carrying... hatred, deep and thick roaring hatred and hatred. , surging, slapping and squeezing the limited minds of several Templar Lecturers in the Webway.

Inigo...Sorensen...Meren...Pedros...Elijah...Beluku...

A thousand names, ten thousand names, all pouring out. Ahriman recognized some of them, familiar names he had heard from time to time around the Great Library of Tizca.

Schmidt... Rupp... Celedonio... Adel... Savas... Kovan...

Prospero's soul burned between these dead names, and Ahriman clenched his teeth, squeezing out a painful, hollow groan from between his teeth. The scalding water flowed down his face, causing a burning pain on the tip of his tongue like the acid secreted by Astartes.

The words he had just uttered were suddenly and fiercely shattered by reality, and the stench of charred flesh, the noise of broken bones, the noise of shrapnel bursting, and the loud, complex roars and roars, just hit his soul.

At the same time, these resentful and fierce souls were tearing at the only living person they could find. Fusistaka roared and fell to the ground. The pain of his soul being plundered had never hurt him so fiercely since he mastered the power of the warp.

Some of the souls whose hatred was out of control also recognized them and aimed at them, "Where are you," a child's voice shouted, "Dad said the red warriors would protect us..."

In addition, there was the warrior's voice, and the death of the wolf and the dust, the last bombs of those warriors before they breathed their last, resounding in the torrent of the dead, all merging into one - as if they were actually killed for the same thing, sacrificed for the same reason.

No sense...

+Come here! +Ahriman immediately sent a call, or an order.

For a long time - or maybe it wasn't too long, but Ahriman felt every second as long as an anniversary, he was as weak as these souls themselves. The souls of the temple lecturers were connected to each other, as a solid whole, resisting the raging river of the dead.

Where are they going? Ahriman forced himself to stay sane and keep the psionic chains running. Where will the Prosperos go after they die? Will they not even get to rest? Is this the end of the Thousand Dust Sun? Is it all worth it? Is this what they got?

Such precious souls, two hundred years, no, thirty thousand years of hard work... Those unforgotten brilliances, undefiled treasures, were wasted in vain, turned into ugly black embers of destruction and hatred, never the same as they were in life, never again...

The remaining mark of Magnus flickered in the torrent, as soft as a feather, touching the palm of Azak Ahriman. He no longer had the strength to react, just accepting. And the torrent continued to spread, filling the inside of the webway, and being transported to an unknown end.

So, at the end of that long passage, a point of cold starlight was lit by the soul of the dead.

The one who stole the fire in the past was drinking the fire of the soul of the dead. This malicious, unintentional offering that burned the City of Light was accidentally offered.

So, it was light.