Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 17 The Trial of Steel (5k)

No one understood what Perturabo was thinking, Damex thought.

After Perturabo made a confusing move, Damex's habit as a king made him observe his courtiers immediately: he could not help but worry about whether his authority would be undermined by Perturabo's displeasure. got damage.

He saw the priest raised his head high and looked up at Perturabo in a kneeling posture, almost breaking his neck, with a terrified expression, murmured, and trembling lips and tongue.

He saw that under the upper half of the soldier's face covered by the armor, his lips parted up and down, and the breath of surprise was sucked into the body protected by the iron helmet.

He saw the courtiers tugging at the sleeves of their robes, or their bodies tensing up like fish caught in the sea. Some lowered their heads to avoid trouble, while others raised their heads to look at him.

He finally looked towards the center of the crowd. In the center of the ring, envoys from other countries maintained their hypocritical etiquette and stood upright, with elegant and steady expressions.

No one questioned Perturabo for his offense and abruptness, so Damekus forgave himself for a momentary panic.

Then, he discovered that the pauses Perturabo gave in his speech were intentional moments for others to make eye contact with each other in surprise.

Damex sighed in his heart: This may be the talent of the Almighty Son.

If his own son, the ambitious Halcon, the son-to-be, had such gifted power; Lucky?

How can other countries with tyrants defeat the solid city walls that Lokos has not changed for 600 years?
Although he himself does not mind war, he also knows that peace is what the people want.

As for Calliphon, his only daughter.For all her rare leader's common sense, the Olympians don't make a woman a tyrant, at least not in Locus.

"I forged a blade," said Perturabo.

When the truth comes out of the boy's mouth, it adds a decisive dimension of divinity.He simply stood there with the forging fire burning behind him and became part of the ancient myth of Olympia.

"I gave shape to steel, and made metal obey me. I listened to the singing of gold and iron, and let creations find their place under my hand, and let sharp tools come into this world. This is taught to me by a craftsman, and today I will It worked; and, I succeeded."

Morse listened quietly, his messy black hair covering half of his pale face.When Perturabo mentioned him, his eyelids closed and then rose again, blinking.

Perturabo's voice gradually became low: "I came here today to prove that I am who you think I am. And from the eyes of each of you, I see that you have given me a proof."

"Although you don't speak, I hear everyone saying that I am a descendant of a god, a boy who came from the top of your mountains, and a person who is not ordinary."

Teleforth, Damex thought, talking about Teleforth, which is covered with snow and ice all year round, and whose peak is unreachable.

For so many years, the Olympians have persistently conquered each other, to invade other people's lands, to seize, to conquer, but no one has ever conquered Mount Telephos.

That is no longer the realm of mortals.

"But!" Perturabo suddenly raised his voice, and his voice struck Damex's heart hard.

"What did I use to prove this rumor? With a hammer, a furnace, a bellows? With a sharp blade that any craftsman can make as long as he strives for perfection? Is this the evidence I have presented? This is what you want All of them?”

He looked around, and his serious face was filled with the unbridled sarcasm that anyone who had talked to Morse would find that the sarcasm was exactly the same as Morse's usual expression.

"My body, my strength, my knowledge, and my memories are all beyond the reach of mortals." Perturabo said coldly. "I am a mortal now, just like anyone else here, with two arms, two eyes, one... one heart."

"And now you tell me that I use things that mortals can do to prove that I am not a mortal. Think about it again, everyone, is this what you are thinking?"

He let his words float lightly through the hall.

The priest's head was held higher, and Perturabo noticed him, so the boy looked at the priest with a cold determination that any soul could feel in deep mockery and powerful disappointment.

"Is this how you prove that the gods are gods? Tell me, priest, is this how you stole the achievements of mortals as proof of the existence of gods?"

Then he looked up again.

"You proved your beliefs, and I proved mine," Perturabo said. "That is to say, your gods do come from imaginary fantasies."

Damex grasped the wooden railing with both hands eagerly, forgetting that he even had a golden scepter in his hand.

Perturabo's performance had the boy stepping on the heads of all the Lokos on a stage he had built, which made Damex eager to defend his subjects.

The tyrant must defend his subjects, otherwise he will lose face from today on.

Then, the golden rod that fell from Damex's palm and was about to fall to the ground suddenly suspended strangely, a layer of frost climbed up the grapes placed on the low table near the tyrant's seat, and coated the surface of the fruit with a delicate and beautiful frost veil.

Morse let the scepter fly back to his palm, playing with it boredly, rubbing the golden bird carved on the top of the scepter with his fingertips.

He whispered, "Look, my father! How warm the sun is, and how clear the sea is. Icarus sings, hovering at a height never reached in this life, enjoying a freedom never seen before. He will Seeing everything on the earth, I sometimes think that Helios' sun-wheel frame is at hand."

Damex had no time to analyze Morse's work, even though his wisdom told him that what Morse said was the condensed and artistic expression of what was being performed.

He had to focus on Perturabo, who was meeting his eyes.

"Perturabo," said Damex, trying to maintain his magnanimity and covenant.

He said affectionately: "Faith will only contact you when you are inspired in your heart. The gods do not force the respect and love of their subjects."

"If you think so."

Damex felt the weight of the iron crown on his head and drew strength from it: "Everyone present has witnessed your talent, and a gifted talent deserves some proud privileges. Any wise monarch should do this, no ?"

"No matter what, Locus will always open the door to you and the artisan Morse. Although you were so determined when you threw the blade into the furnace, I still want to get your answer, why did you destroy your work, Petu Rabo?"

He quietly changed the subject.

Perturabo glanced back at the stove, then looked around the hall, from the electric lamps decorated like candles on the ceiling, to the steaming automatic gears around them, to the shields held by the soldiers under the tall stone pillars, and the the armor, and the clothes and ornaments of the courtiers.

Then he spoke: "You are a rational person and a tyrant, so I want to communicate with you."

Damex wondered if he should be happy about that.

The boy said: "There are many things I don't know. I want to know where the power for the electric light comes from, and whether there is a better design for the steel machinery. I need to learn. Of course, I am not a rude person."

"Morse told me that one gain is for one effort, and the price should be given by both parties." The boy's expression was a little subtle when he said these words, "I will learn everything I can in Lokos, but I also My labor will be paid for.”

"Will you forge more weapons?"

"No, it's not my talent, that's why I burn my blade. I don't want to make weapons for anyone, I'm a craftsman, waterwheels, wooden plows, roads, stone mills, sculptures, paintings, Sacrificial vessels, bronze statues...this is what I will leave behind in Locus."

At this point, the boy paused. "If I had known how to forge sickles and plows, I would have reforged the blades into tools in the hands of the people. But I do not."

"And what about war?" Damex asked cautiously. "Son, war is necessary. The peace of Lokos will not purify the soil of other countries that yearn for violence like the rain of snowy mountains."

The boy's indifference was even worse, "Fortresses, city walls, machinery, weapons. I don't like this, but it's not necessarily that I'm not good at it."

Damex was about to speak again to comfort Perturabo with good words, when he heard the priest in the audience tremblingly move his limp tongue: "Lord Perturabo, if you were a mortal, then your Where did you learn the knowledge of forging? Did the Lord Morse you said taught you? Who is he?"

"Maybe Lord Morse is the apostle of God. God sent him to be your mentor. He just didn't tell you."

Damex felt a burst of anger for a moment, suffering from the fact that the golden scepter was being played by Morse, and couldn't hit the ground for a while, so he had to slap the wooden railing with his palm heavily: "Priest Phaedra, stop your provocation! In Locus Don't you find your conduct extremely absurd?"

He shouldn't have listened to the words of the divine religion today, and was blinded by Phaedra's obedience. He invited these religious liars who were in the way to maintain some traditions!
Perturabo immediately glanced at Morse, who tapped his lower lip with his fingers and looked down calmly, not only indifferent, but also unwilling to pretend to be an encouragement.

That was all he gave that wasn't an answer, and Damex began to guess what was going on between the two—he couldn't.Or is this the way craftsmen get along with craftsmen?
Perturabo looked away and stepped forward, and for a moment Damex thought the boy was about to lift his leg and kick the priest.

Thinking of the consequences of doing this, Damex was worried at first, and then found that he was actually looking forward to it.

In this way, he had a reason to have a small friction with the priests of the cult who always spread panic prophecies, and in turn became closer to the Nine Wise Men of Pelecontia.

Perturabo didn't do that.

"If you are always clinging pitifully to the little tragic mythic sacrifice in your head, trying to affix a divine cause to everything that happens in the world, reason will not save you—you cannot be let go by a Save what doesn't exist in your heart."

Perturabo said, stepping past the priest, too lazy to waste any more words.

He focused more on Morse.

Morse's silence has a more real weight in this moment.His eyes and waiting have become an entity that cannot be ignored, and his attitude no longer needs words to describe.

Language itself is a scale constructed by humans to quantify the world, a converted modulus.

Perturabo gritted his teeth and gave up any more hesitation.

"Morse is an excellent craftsman. I have never seen the complete works he left in reality, but his skills undoubtedly surpass the sum of Olympia's achievements. What I have seen so far is enough for me to comment like this .”

"He taught me forging, taught me life, and he changed me. However, there is really no unnecessary relationship between the two of us. We just often appear together, and he will leave at any time, not because of the guidance of gods, but because His own will.”

He paused and continued: "I will never veto his help to me, nor will I recognize him as a mentor against his will. I am qualified to respect him in this way, but who are you to speculate on him and belittle him? As a messenger of God?”

Damex hurriedly let his voice drown out what others might say.

"Perturabo," the tyrant said, "you have proven yourself, both in talent and ability. The city-state and fortress of Lokos will await your design, and craftsmen and scholars will gather before you. No matter Be it knowledge, bricks, or earthly honors and flowers, whatever you want, as long as you can bring glory to Lokos."

"What about Morse?" asked Perturabo.

"How exactly should we treat your relationship with Artisan Morse, Perturabo?"

In Perturabo's eyes Damex saw some reverberating hollows, some small quiverings, some low, bleak colors, and some vague pains; these emotions were not separate, but like Congealed clumps of molten iron coalesced uniformly into shades of grey.He felt emotions, not by reason, but by common heart--this reminded Damex of his own father, whom he quickly forgot again.

"He has nothing to do with me, Tyrant. Though I have expectations of him," another pause, "and dependence."

In the next second, Morse suddenly appeared in the center of the round platform.

No one saw how he changed shape abruptly in the eyes of everyone, he just flashed there, as if he had been standing there for a long time.

"Perturabo is one of my apprentices," Morse announced haughtily, putting an arm around the boy's shoulders, "and I am a craftsman."

His behavior was severe and rude, and he lacked inquiring about other people's opinions, but Perturabo happily accepted Morse and allowed the black craftsman to trap him in his arms, as if he had been waiting for a long time.

Morse lowered his head slightly: "Do you want to stay here, Perturabo?"

"Yes." said the boy.

Morse smiled, "Tyrant, you heard me."

Damex braced himself, suppressed the panic faced by the unexpected, and immediately dealt with various affairs in an orderly manner.

He ordered his soldiers Patroclus to prepare to take away the annoying priests, announced new decisions to the courtiers one by one, used hearty laughter and occasional gloominess to consolidate his authority, and bravely withstood Morse. With half-smiling eyes, he was thinking about how to deal with the multinational alliance of wise men in Olympia in the future...

These things consume a lot of his thoughts. Although he is still considered to be in his prime, he cannot be called young by any means. His mood has been ups and downs today, which is really tiring.

It wasn't until the crowd dispersed and the lights dimmed that Morse and Perturabo left together—Perturabo kicked the priest very amusingly when he left, and Damex lay down on him in a relaxed manner. Feeling soft and relaxed, he breathed the sweet air in the empty palace with ease, and sighed for the mental fatigue of the past two days.

Then he saw a soft note pressed under the engraved fruit plate containing grapes still dripping with crystal ice water on the low table with soft sides.

It needs to be noted that he only temporarily finds the term that best matches its characteristics from the knowledge base to interpret according to the function of this "note".

On this seamless, extremely smooth and light, thin and pure white creation beyond the imagination of the world, the ending of the story told by Morse is written.

While reading, Damex tasted the fruit of ample and rich emotions from the bottom of his heart. After he finished reading the story, the juice of this full fruit slowly sent a hint of wonderful sweetness.

He conceived of the most common tragic endings in all dramas on planet Olympia. He savored the artistic beauty of disaster from his own shortcomings. A complete story can be seen from Morse's pen.

"I shall touch the sun, and thus my wings are on fire, yet I shall touch the sun, and my wishes shall be no more. Will you forsake me? Say goodbye then, my father, and it is not you For the first time left me. Father, I am going to fall into the sea!"

"Don't panic, my son. There is an island in front of you. My wings still allow us to land here. Rest on that island. I will name it after Ikaria, and your name will be Gongzao." Symbol of earth.”

"Since then, artisans have enjoyed paradise. Although they are far away from the world, they have lived on isolated islands for a long time, hunting, building, and planting on islands; but their works have surpassed the scale of mortals, making stone statues made by humans like myths. into eternity."

"When the world describes the works of the artisans Daedalus and Icarus, it is often said that they are the origin of the artist who endowed the creation with soul."

"When the former masters carved stone statues, the stone statues could only close their eyes, with their hands hanging down, and their bodies fell asleep softly; it was not until the two of them touched the stone chisel for the first time that the statues opened their gilt-like eyes and looked at Stretch out your arms and legs far in front of you, as if eagerly wanting to embrace the world."

Finally, at the end of the note, there was a line of small words written in thin strokes.

"I didn't create the story. I just let it come back into the world."

　Thanks to the guy who cut the wallpaper with a knife orz
　　
　
(End of this chapter)