Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 40

What nonsense is that fool talking about!God damned, damned, damned, the crazy prince of nonsense, he deserves to be dragged into the lake of drowning by the high and fallen sky, stuffed into the boat without sails, Throw him across the sea and fall forever, don't speak a single word, don't utter a prophetic syllable, cut off his hand, tear his paper, so that he can no longer make a pattern worthy of death!
Morse took a breath, calmed his breathing, and put the pen that had been hanging for a long time back on the pen holder. The pen holder collapsed due to stress.

He knocked on the table, and the ink, the broken pen holder, and the broken quill automatically recovered one after another.

Andos didn't know what to do with him, and he even regretted taking Morse to meet his crazy brother.

Although he didn't know what crazy words Cruz and Morse said, the craftsman couldn't control his emotions. Not to mention he hadn't seen it, I'm afraid his apprentice Perturabo had never seen it either.

"Mr. Morse," he struggled to say, controlling his volume carefully. Perhaps he didn't have such concentration when carving the most delicate objects on weekdays. "My brother is a madman...no matter what he says What, please... don't take it to heart."

"Do you know what he said?" Morse leaned back, the rattan chair suddenly fell backwards, and after a few shakes, it stopped worryingly.

His eyes were staring straight at Andros, making the prince's heart tremble.

"Did he say something offensive?" the prince asked worriedly. "Cruz is always like this. He has a set of prophecies that he claims to have? He will say a few words that are impossible to happen, such as the wolf will eat the wolf. These words of the heart of God... please don't pay too much attention to them, Morse."

Morse quietly rested his index finger on the center of his brow, put his thumb on the side of his temple, and put the other three fingers down along the bridge of his nose, with his little finger resting on the tip of his nose.

After a long time, he opened his eyes, and he seemed to have regained his previous calmness and even coldness.

"He said offensive things, Prince," said Morse dryly, "something that deserves to be cursed a thousand times. His prophecy negates everything I've done."

His hands dropped from his face, hanging down naturally, along the edge of the desk and drawers to his knees.Stored in one of the drawers are the fleeting records he has written over the years.

"I do not think there is any possibility of what he prophesied, Prince; any presumption of the future in any of these is a definite affront to my craft."

If that was the future, did he die in the process?
Is he doing nothing by allowing his apprentice to be taken away, defeated, and corrupted?
Or in that cross-section of history, he was never resurrected after his first death—that would be good!

"Since it's just nonsense from his hysteria, there's no need to worry about it." Prince Andros persuaded him kindly.

Morse exhaled again, maintaining his superficial rationality.

Yes, he doesn't have to be consumed by rage.

This was not his first encounter with a prophet; how to extract potentially valid information from the prophecies and ignore those irrelevant branches of events should have been something he had already become proficient in.

"You're right, Andos." He tasted a trace of unresolved anger deep in his words. "Nothing is going to happen."

Andos still couldn't make up his mind.His ability to empathize tells him that Morse still has a lot of burning anger in his heart, but his noble sense of morality does not allow him to leave just now.

Even though he knew full well that it was Morse who had first questioned the ceremony they were hosting, and it was Morse who asked to see his mad brother.

"Let's talk about something else, Mr. Morse."

Andos persuaded softly, his eyes roaming around a small area in the room that did not involve privacy, and finally picked a topic that he thought would never cause any further complications.

He looked at the bottles of paint on Morse's desk: "What craft work have you been working on recently, Mr. Morse? There are so many things about this meeting that I rarely guess it correctly."

"Some miniature models." Morse picked up a small sculpture about one finger high from the table.

The color on the sculpture was only half painted, and was left aside by the creator according to his impatient practice, so that the model is only distinguished by the main color of each area, neither the light and shadow nor the material effect has been processed.

"Do you want to take it to see?"

Andos took the model with both hands and observed it carefully.

Even if the creator was particularly good at quitting things halfway, Andros was still fascinated by Morse's own basic skills that would make anyone amazed and ashamed.

The prince laughed and asked sincerely, "May I try to finish the coloring?"

"Did you finish the draft I gave you last time?"

"Not yet, I always feel that I can't handle the interface between the waves and the rocks in that painting..."

"Forget about your natural color, Prince. Think about ambient color. As a hint, the left half of the rock is shaded purple, and the right half is shaded green."

Andos's eyes lit up, and he felt very happy about the new artistic inspiration: "I will try it when I get back, thank you."

Holding the slender model in his hand, he was anxious to go back and finish his long-suffering homework. However, seeing Morse's mood didn't improve much, and he really couldn't leave.

If Perturabo was here, Mr. Morse should be able to recover quickly: when they are in the same place, they can often achieve a natural harmony through two-way sarcasm and dislike-but the Perturabo people are in Outside the city wall, he was about to fight for Locus, and Andos knew that he couldn't pull the savior.

With the mentality of trying one last time, Andos set his sights on a new work he hadn't seen before.

It looked like a semi-finished coat of arms, with zigzag walls made of iron forming a circular shape with gaps, and in the middle were inlaid gold gears, steel hammers and emerald mountains.

The most worth mentioning is that there seems to be some kind of mysterious characteristic in the work, he can't tell what it is, he only thinks that the coat of arms seems to be covered with fascinating sacred power, although it is cold, it is clean.

Morse did not check his observations, which gave Andos the courage to ask his questions.

He tried to be polite without being overly pretentious: "Is this your latest idea, Mr. Morse?"

Morse's intriguing look gave him a chill.

"You are indeed obsessed with art, Prince." He said, picked up the coat of arms with his fingertips wrapped in black cloth, and handed it to Andos himself.

"Touch him, Prince."

Andros complied without knowing why.

The moment his hand came into contact with the coat of arms, a cold but pure force penetrated his whole body. After bathing in it, he felt that his body and mind were purified, and all kinds of distracting thoughts that were not many were burned. clear.

When he came back to his senses, the drop of water dripping from the water clock told him that not even a second had passed.

He returned the coat of arms and asked curiously, "The feeling just now...was it a gift?"

Morse nodded, and his gaze finally made people feel the usual warmth: "Just take it as such, Prince."

Morse chatted with the prince for a few more words and then sent him away.

Things finally puzzled him completely.

If Andos, who is addicted to art, has not been contaminated, and Cruz, the crazy psyker, is safe and sound, then who will suffer the catastrophe?
He picked up the coat of arms and played with it in his hand, Cruz's prophecy was still piled up in his heart like a heavy stone.

The prophecy itself was not taken to be true. Regardless of whether the content was reasonable or whether it was going to happen, he only did what he was supposed to do.

Morse propped up his chin and placed the coat of arms on the table.

The real problem that needed to be taken seriously was that he had smelled too many annoying evils everywhere.

The essence of prophecy is the erosion of the vast ocean into reality, and this is the most important piece of information of all.

The curtain of evil thoughts has been lifted quietly, and he must find the damned gap.

(End of this chapter)