Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 19 Sleep Well
The sun rises as usual, as every day on Olympia, upwards from the end of the rocks and jungles, combining its rays with every wind in the empty morning streets, passing through the grandeur of sand and stone The city wall and the bronze gate passed over the heads of the workers who were off the night shift, and finally entered into an ordinary grilled window in Locus, quietly combining with the electric lights in the room that were on all night.

Morse holds the scraper, holds a piece of clay in front of his eyes, and concentrates on shaping the smooth surface of the clay.

The brown clay presents the shape of a miniature sword blade between his palms wrapped in black cloth, and the blade is engraved with ancient and natural runes.

A blazing flame burned at one end of the blade, and several painful skeletons were rolled out of the flames. The skulls that were not proportional to human beings deformed together with the heat wave, as if they were about to be expelled and dispersed by the smoke from the flames.

It had been a long time since he had devoted himself so wholeheartedly to the carving process.

Morse put down the spatula and replaced it with a crossblade, removing a little clay from the hollows and enhancing the shadows where the flames dimmed.

He traced those hazy echoes in his memory, thinking about that year - he still remembered that year, when he didn't know that he would live forever - the man holding the sword wore a crown of green leaves on his head, and the fur of wild beasts covered his shoulders. , the dazzling gesture of the long sword rising into flames, recalling his endlessly radiant face and the sharp dividing line between light and darkness around his body, and then reappearing the mottled memory video in reality like broken gold.

The prototype of the flaming long sword was a gift forged by Morse himself.Even if dozens of millennia flew by, he could still remember his nervousness in front of the forge, sweating all over his body, his heart pounding on his chest, desperately calculating the strength and impact of each hammer.

Morse blew away some dirt debris and closed his mouth again, only to find that the corners of his mouth were being raised upwards.

He moved his cervical vertebrae, temporarily letting the clay sculpture float in the air, and turned to observe the stone statue beside him.

The clay sculpture is a draft of the steel blade, one of the two components of the stone figure.

He had to get the finished blade right into the stone statue's uncarved hand, holding it securely.

Then someone knocked on his door, the knock was heavy and short, and the rhythm was faster than usual, revealing the hidden anxiety of the people outside the door.Morse glanced out the window before he knew it was dawn.

He continued to make the clay sculpture float in the air, free from unnecessary external force, and maintain a suitable humidity, and said to the door: "Good morning, Perturabo."

"Morse." The door was pushed open immediately, and the lubricated door shaft was so smooth that it had no covering effect on the boy's eager footsteps.

Perturabo tried to walk in a straight line to hide his top-heavyness.

In addition, although the material of his robe has been forcefully straightened many times, it has only been stretched to the point where some of the cotton threads have become deformed and loose, unable to cover the wrinkles of the clothing itself.

Not to mention that this is the same as the one I wore yesterday.

"When will you teach me how to do stone carving?" he said, staring at Morse, forcefully, but uneasily.

Morse put the tool aside lightly and looked at Perturabo: "I just saw the sun today ten seconds ago. I thought you would at least give me time for breakfast."

Perturabo immediately took out a tightly wrapped piece of bread from the cloth bag he was carrying, stretched out his arms, and wanted to hand it to Morse's eyes.

Morse sneered, took the paper bag and opened it, Perturabo continued his efforts, continued to reach out his hand to look through his small cloth bag, and lowered his head to ask, "Do you want fruit?"

Morse took one last look at his stone sculpture as a light cloth floated over it, covering it gently.

Then he pulled a wicker chair and lay down comfortably, eating the bread that was completely undamaged due to the perfect packaging. He used a wagging finger to signal Perturabo to stop stuffing him with grease-proof paper bags.

Perturabo tossed aside the other chubby paper package, and took the tools one by one from the table in Morse's room. Finally, in the center of the table was a new, intact piece of stone.

He frowned and gritted his teeth while doing these things, so serious that he seemed to eat the whole table raw.

But his hands were shaking.

"You have to teach me how to fix stone sculptures, Morse. I'm going to compete with Andos in a week." Perturabo propped his hands on the table, trying to look taller.

"Oh, I thought you had learned your craft from the local masons of Lokos."

"I went!" He suddenly raised his voice and quickly regained his senses. The knuckles of his fingers turned white when pressed on the table. "But they are not better than Andos. Everyone knows that Andos is A genius craftsman, everyone said privately that he should not be a prince, because a stone sculpture can always outlive a family."

"Am I better than Andos?"

"Is not it!"

"Have you seen my completed stone sculptures as evidence?"

Perturabo opened his mouth, glanced at the unnamed semi-finished statue covered by a soft cloth, and then glanced at the miniature clay model floating in midair, apparently overwhelmed by this question.

He took a breath and said, "When I first met you, you once had a finished stone statue."

After Mors finished the bread, he clapped his hands and shook off the crumbs on the black cloth. Before Perturabo was knocked unconscious by panic, he said sarcastically: "Now it has turned back into raw material. Guess why?”

"Because you want to carve new stone statues. You keep improving."

"It's completely wrong. It's because the quality of the previous stone statue is by no means superior, and it is no better than the top-notch works made by the best craftsmen in Lokos."

"No, Morse, you are better than them!" said Perturabo. "This is absolute, no one can deny it!"

Morse covered his mouth and yawned.

He didn't really want to know when Perturabo began to regard his image as so mysterious and tall; nor was he very curious about what non-existent oblivion Perturabo had made of the empirical philosophy he read yesterday. The space is gone.

"Okay, Perturabo." Morse tapped his heels, causing the wicker chair to rock back and forth. "It seems that you have no confidence to defeat Andos with your own learning."

"I am your apprentice, Morse. My study is to follow you."

Perturabo raised one hand and clenched it into a fist, unconsciously grasping it as if he was crushing an uncrackable egg.

Morse stared at Perturabo until the boy looked unnaturally annoyed.

Perturabo would not accept defeat.

Especially the failure when competing with mortals.

But he didn't think he could win.

Morse spoke, adding a husky softness to his commanding tone.

"Get a chair and sit down, Perturabo."

Perturabo complied.

"Now, close your eyes and imagine your body becoming heavy, your feet on the ground, feel the weight of the earth? Well, your body is relaxing, more relaxed. The chair supports your back, Your legs, your body. You start to breathe, take a deep breath, inhale, exhale, inhale fresh air, and the gloom drifts away with the exhalation..."

Perturabo opened his eyes suddenly and jumped up from the chair: "Morse! Are you hypnotizing me?"

He actually sounded a little aggrieved.

"Exactly. I think that instead of chasing after me nervously asking questions, and wanting to get a set of standard general solutions for carving from me, you might as well sleep on the ground to nourish your energy."

Morse said, mercilessly tapping Perturabo's nerves with his psychic powers.

The boy fell to the ground and soon snored.

The kid didn't have a habit of snoring, unless he couldn't close his eyes for more than ten seconds for two days in a row.

Morse helped him adjust his sleeping position, flattening his awkward legs, feet and arms, placing a three-layered carpet under him, and throwing a white cloth over him to keep warm.

After he got it done, he calmed down and continued to think about his clay sword.

(End of this chapter)