Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 15 The Trial of Metal

"I thought we were invited here to imprison a beast with the art of architecture. However, this labyrinth imprisoned not only the beast of heresy, but also ourselves who were betrayed. We walked through countless intersecting aisles, escaping from the bull head. Human beings; this dazzling secret realm is like the tortuous river network of Hulijiana, passing through the upstream and downstream, we go back to the source. Is this what we deserve? Is this what you deserve? Of?"

"My son, our labyrinths claim the lives of innocents every year, and our art achieves the power and power of a tyrant, not as I would have it, but as it is."

"Could it be that we will never be able to escape and accept all the training that the gods have given us?"

Damex held the newly written scroll in both hands, the ink on it was still wet, and the wet black ink could still reflect the light falling from the zenith.

When he was immersed in reading, the paper carrying the story was casually pulled away by a hand wrapped in black cloth.

Morse balled up the scroll like it was some worthless waste.Damex could not help but feel angry. After serving as one of the Twelve Tyrants of Olympia for many years, he rarely experienced such blatant disobedience.

However, when he looked up and saw that the mysterious black-clothed craftsman didn't even bother to give him a glance, he immediately dispelled his anger and let his respect gradually expand.

The equivalent of disobedience is Morse's ability to surprise and even fear.

Damex couldn't understand where this man named Morse received his supreme talent and where he obtained his extraordinary abilities.

Although he had to fulfill his duties as a ruler and deal with the priests and priests, he knew in his heart that whether it was the long-standing legend of "Black Judgment Day" in Olympia or the existence of the gods in the sky. It's just a set of words that are divorced from reality and concocted by ignorant people to seek peace of mind.

Damex really couldn't find a second explanation other than the blessing of the gods to rationalize the existence of Morse and Perturabo.

——On that day when the courtiers in the hall had a face-to-face meeting with Perturabo, did anyone pay the slightest attention to the craftsman Morse who was clearly not to be ignored?
Every time he recalled this incident, Damex felt afraid.

He cleared his throat covertly, wrung his hands together, leaned forward, and put his weight on the small wooden table in front of him.

"Morse," he asked respectfully, "this story has exquisite language and twists and turns. It is both fantasy and warning. I wonder why you want to destroy it? Isn't this still a story you are satisfied with?" Do you want to do it?"

Morse leaned against the carved wooden railing on the second floor of the main hall, still completely dark, like a shadow in the sun.

He stared intently at the wide platform below the stage. In his hand, the paper with the story was crackling and burning in the blue flames.

Hearing this, he replied: "Satisfied? It's just a story written casually. It's better to see how Perturabo performs next. I'm also curious to see what achievements he can make today."

Damex was still unwilling to give up. The story had reached its peak. If it had stopped abruptly, he would probably have thought about the story of the craftsman and his son over and over again in his mind thousands of times over the next week. .

"So, can you tell me the ending of the father and son in the story?" Damex said, lifting his slightly fat middle-aged body from the comfortable soft chair, and walked to the side of the wooden railing with his hands behind his back.

"Death, people will always die. At least that's the story." Morse simply said a few words and no longer paid attention to Damex.

Obviously, he was the one who concentrated on writing the story for a long time while waiting, but at this moment, it seemed that he couldn't occupy any more space in his heart.

Damex couldn't help but feel lost for a moment, and then he gave up on his delusion.

He thought the artist was writing stories for him, but now it turns out he thinks too much of himself.

He also looked towards the center of the first floor of the theater hall.

On the side of the round platform made of marble, a boy is calmly waiting for the trial he is about to face.Even though there are thousands of pairs of eyes staring at him unmovingly, his demeanor and composure are still extraordinary beyond his age.

Perturabo's strength and knowledge are not beyond the ranks of mortals. Compared with Morse, who is full of extraordinary characteristics, he is probably indeed a mortal child.

Damex had wondered several times why, being mortal, his offspring should not be as outstanding as this boy.

As magnificent music played in all directions of the round platform, a movable cast-iron platform was carried into the round platform by eight strong young soldiers.

Another new bald priest showed up to guide the soldiers in an orderly manner. People had to wonder whether the priest who lost his manners in front of the temple yesterday was safe and sound at this time.

Perturabo turned slightly, eyeing the tool he was about to take over.Damex couldn't see his expression clearly from the tall second floor, but Morse put his thumb on his chin and said briskly, "He is confident."

The king nodded. Below, the cylinder of the casting platform radiated a lot of light and heat, and the temperature in the furnace was even higher than yesterday, which was enough to make any ordinary person flinch.

When the bellows and anvils were deployed one after another, the charcoal was burning brightly, and the smoke was transpiring upwards, turning into gray clouds and lingering around Gao Xuan. Perturabo walked resolutely towards the center of the round platform where he was going to work.

He looked at the dark yellow wooden stake used to line the anvil, and the gunmetal-colored utensils shining with metallic luster, and he didn't know what kind of feeling came to him, and his movements were actually a little gentle.

Perturabo stretched out his hand towards the silver steel barrel filled with iron blocks, and without hesitation took out the material he liked, placed it on the anvil, and let the hammer and fire give it life.

Forging begins.

The boy interestingly tried to send the iron block that needed to be forged into the blazing fire with his bare hands. He quickly regained his senses and took the iron tongs and invisible thick gloves offered by the officer around him, no longer forcing himself to be mortal. The fragile palm of the fetus.

This small gesture caused Morse's eyes to flash with a smile.

Even after nearly being injured by the flames, Perturabo remained unafraid of flames. He used fire and steel skillfully, as if he was born to coexist with these craftsmen's companions.

The steel was burnt red in the high temperature, the center was as bright as the golden core of a star, while pieces of cooled scorched black debris fell from the edges.

He patiently turned over the iron block repeatedly, sweat and high temperature made his cloth robe damp, and the light of molten metal flashed in the eyes of both the boy and Morse on the second-floor platform.

Morse spoke again, perhaps to Damex, perhaps to a phantom, or to no one.

He continued the story he had cut off earlier, speaking in the voice of a son to the father in the story, and was not shy about letting more myths come to this distant planet that had not been inspired.

"Father, I will not let us never escape. Although our destination is uncertain, we should not linger on a lonely and distant island."

"Seabirds will give us their feathers, tyrants will leave us their wax, Apollo will guide our way, Hermes will bless our wings, and high in the sky we will find freedom."

Morse's voice was very soft, and each unvoiced consonant was as graceful as the cry of a warbler in early spring. It seemed that just being a little louder and more straightforward would be enough to disturb a clear and translucent pool of mist.

Damex was startled by how rough his breathing was, so he deliberately let it go.Then he remembered that Morse had said that the people in the story were all dead, and he was soon saddened by ghosts.

Morse turned his head and glanced at Damex, and the tyrant immediately woke up and resumed his normal breathing rhythm.He feigned composure in embarrassment.

(End of this chapter)