Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 32: Memories (The reason for the update is in my own words)

Morse realized that there were two things he could not carve, one was due to his selfish wandering, and the other was limited by the upper edge of his skills.

The flaming sword has fallen into the palm of the statue, and the authentic runes on it have been replaced with another beautiful ancient language for safety reasons, lest the heat wave ignited by the fire shake the softness of Olympian reality and the highest heaven. Crystal curtain.

The ethereal fire is temporarily forged by the spiritual power of craftsmen. Mortals can only see the exquisite stone patterns that can be captured by the naked eye. Only those with extra spiritual powers can experience the soul from the harmonious connection of shadow and energy. The trembling was like a fire burning out of the filth, leaving only a golden piece of cold and clean mind.

However, apart from this painstakingly carved long sword, there are two remaining flaws that have caused a great lack of the overall sculpture. On the one hand, people want to urgently urge the author to complete it as soon as possible, and on the other hand, they doubt whether the author Really capable of making it up.

This statue has no left hand and no face. The left hand is the hand holding the sacred object, and the face is the face of the saint.

Morse gently pressed the sides of his eyes to relieve the psychological pressure brought about by the carving process.

He has spent countless hours on this carving, and his excessive investment is enough to make even an eternal man fall into worry and introspection.

After all, he never figured out how he decided to carve that man's image. He attributed it to some inspiration and a momentary inattention.

He sighed and looked out the window.

Night has come again, and the hustle and bustle on the streets returns to their homes with most of the industrial and commercial workers, leaving only the lights of the night shift and the occasional whisper-like sound of wind that breaks the silence, coming from very far away. , passes through human ears, and then falls to an extremely distant place.

Morse put down the work he had added to himself, and came to the edge of the window. Through the diamond-shaped window, he saw that the lights on the ground were gradually dimming. The Tis Plain fell into a pure deep sleep, and then the families in the city slowly fell into sleepiness.

He is now in this city of man and man, but he has not always been here.

Occasionally he thinks of his house in the woods, where every sound from man dies, and life, natural and eternal, plays the cradle's tune, composing sleepy melodies with tiny rustles.

His spirit can light up his own lights, where he reads all the stories, pictures, and statues he recorded, entrusting a part of his spirit in the older, stale night, and becoming the deepest side of the value represented by his existence itself a tangible manifestation.

Then he thought of the child who fell off the cliff.

He knew very well at that time that the child would be extraordinary, and he kept the child with a feeling that he could not verify himself, so he knew that the child's name was Perturabo, and he himself got a brand new name , and the cut off from the past is not absolutely cut off.

He knew that his new name symbolized the legendary god who had the power of death in Rome in the old night. This specialness coincided with his disgust for Rome itself. Perhaps this was a coincidence, and it was his past entanglement and response to the present.

From the brief moment when he embraced his new name, he accepted the reality that he was being re-approached to the human world and to a new life.

Morse closed the curtain that blocked out the light and heard a low voice knocking on his door.

He paused and said, "Come on."

The boy opened the door and walked in without any delay: "Dameix invited me to participate in the construction of the project."

"Military industry?"

"Yes." Perturabo said, he looked a little uneasy, irritability entangled his spirit.

Morse held out a hand for Perturabo to sit down, and he stood by the window, stroking the wooden frame with one hand.On the window frames are exercises in repeating patterns carved by Perturabo.

"I won't stop you," Morse said, "if you make your choice."

Perturabo looked at him with dazed surprise in his ice blue eyes, his lips pursed, and his two rows of teeth fit tightly into each other.

"I did agree." The boy clasped his hands together, "but I..."

Morse waited for his thoughts.Perturabo quickly completed the process.

"But I don't like to get involved in the struggle," he said forcefully. "I don't want to provide weapons for the exploits on their walls."

"I don't like watching the weapons I made kill another person. I don't want Olympia to mention that I can only think of a vendor who produces war. I don't want them to blame me for the bloodshed..."

Perturabo took a deep breath, venting all the disgust from his body through the circulation of gas, and the gloom left a mark between his brows. "Their struggle is not for unification and development, but for the advancement of power in exchange for the regression of civilization."

"Go on."

Perturabo stared at Morse uneasily, and every word that came out of his mouth was a reflection of his hesitation: "But unification requires war."

Morse nodded: "Continue."

Perturabo gritted his teeth hard, and the next words were no longer difficult, he relaxed the hands he held with relief, like a nightmare full of worries finally let him go.

"I hope that Lokos will win the final victory, Mors. Lokos is something we can control, but other city-states cannot." He announced his plan arrogantly, "Damecus's ambition happened to meet Olympia. is correct. There is a long history of resentment between city-states. Diplomacy is the first option, war is the second option, and surrender is not an option. And if they are to succeed, they really need us."

Morse was noncommittal. "Have you figured it out?" He just asked. "Talking about this with me made you feel better?"

"Yes," Perturabo said.He pursed his lips, "I want a city-state that belongs to me."

"You have changed a lot."

"Because the citizens chose me, that's what you told me." As he said this, the extremely astonishing long letter that Morse wrote to him appeared in his mind, so the corners of his mouth turned up and down. No, it was oddly frozen there.

Morse's fingers suddenly tightened, and together with his arms, a pungent heat coursed through his body.He heard his blood flowing, part of it rushing inside his body, and the other part spilling out of his once-broken skin like a phantom, intersecting with each other to form nameless shackles, almost comically following gravity in his consciousness. The command fell into the soil.

He lowered his eyes, and after half a second, the regular sarcastic smile returned to his face.

"Very good, you have learned to build the stage for yourself." He gently patted the palm of his left hand with the four fingers of his right hand, "I want to warn you in advance that I have no intention of directly joining any battle, don't Count on my help deep in the battlefield."

"I don't need that much help," Perturabo said.

He's confident he won't get that far, and he did the math before he came and found he couldn't afford to trade Morse in anyway.

“In what capacity are you going to join the struggle?”

"Considering my talent, I hope to be the commander in chief."

"Oh." Morse smiled and leaned against the window frame, "Our little young commander."

"Don't call me that - first I want to build a city, make swords and guns, and then when I grow taller, I will lead my army."

"Have you ever thought about the name and slogan of the army?"

"We don't need that false stuff."

"I suggest you think of one, Perturabo. When they take the oath before the battle and ask you to come on stage to give them a morale boost, you don't want to miss out on a high-spirited finish."

Perturabo imagined the scene in his mind, then nodded reluctantly. "I will think of a slogan, and the name is random, it is not my army anyway."

"You can call them Aventine."

"What? Is there any moral to that?"

"It sounds good." Morse shrugged. "It doesn't mean anything. Anyway, I'm going to continue studying my stone sculptures."

"I named it that way, can you come and help me fight the war?"

"Are you sleepwalking?"

Perturabo wanted to roll his eyes.

Through the hazy cloth, Morse peeked at the light of the outside world from the rhombic window. "I guess you don't have the patience to watch the sunrise with me again."

"I'm leaving now." The boy turned around and was about to leave, then added triumphantly: "This way Harkon will participate in the battle under my command."

Morse had to start thinking about where their relationship with Lokos would go after the death of the tyrant's eldest son.

　The author has seven hundred stones and thirty talismans, no five-star princess shipwreck, hope everyone knows

　　
　
(End of this chapter)