Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 424: The Emperor's Offspring - General Preface and Miscellaneous Talks
You have to know that there are usually only two types of legends that can be circulated in this human world for a long time, especially those stories about great demigods, that can attract readers.

You can either talk about their sacrifices and contributions, discuss how many soldiers died in a battle, how they were all one in a billion, and how they fought to their death without ever begging for mercy, or in the revolving lantern of their final moments, recall the tears and silent oaths they made when they first met the Emperor, and how their souls returned to the throne in golden light.

In this way, before going to bed, the children drink milk - or the half-tube of cement-like nutritional paste left by the family's frugality, while patting their chests with pride for being a part of such a great empire. This is the first type.

But it was still a little... well, too far-fetched. Although no one dared to say they didn't like it - at least not in front of Imperial bureaucrats like you, Malcador, who I know will be reviewing my manuscript.

But what else is there that is worthy of being talked about and known by the Imperial people who live in small boxes in integrated residential complexes, work every day while cursing from early morning until the night shift handover?

"The Emperor is truly powerful," these words floated in the mist of Macragge's bathhouse, "to have given birth to eighteen Primarchs!"

"How many wives did he have? Are all these children really his own? Or were they eighteen babies rafted down the waters of Terra and picked up by the Emperor? Which of his children is most like him? Do demigods eat spicy or sweet apples? Are Konrad Curze and Corvus Corax twins? Who is more powerful, the Dark Angels or the Luna Wolves? Who is the best fighter among the Primarchs? How many Ant Bulls can Leman Russ eat in one meal? With or without the bones?"

Yes, you have to admit that another thing that the Imperials like to do openly is to discuss the private, more life-like aspects of these handsome, great and extraordinary creatures.

People seemed to have some kind of two-sided nature. They didn't really think that the Primarchs lived among humans, but they particularly liked to assume that the Primarchs also wore the artificial leather boots of the Underhive.

As for what else the Imperials secretly like... well, I guess it's best if I don't share with you all the conspiracy theories that the majority of the Imperials believe in. You know how some people think Fulgrim is pretentious, Perturabo is dour and grim, Horus is fake and cold, and Ferrus might be a man of iron... all interesting, isn't it?
So, in this collection, we're going to talk about the Primarchs.

"Children of the Emperor", an eye-catching title, may boost the Empire's paper book economy. If the financial report is prosperous enough, I will go to the Memory Court to publish more series of works, such as Bloodline of the Emperor, Heir of the Emperor, and Descendants of the Emperor...

That, in conclusion, is the reason for this book. The Great Crusade brought light to the world - and while it was the Astronomican that physically accomplished that, that is not the only thing humanity needs, is it?

Of course, I know you can’t stand this, Malcador, so use my 223-word general preface, you serious old fellow.

-

"You are very self-aware, Morse." The Imperial Chancellor said, slowly putting down Morse's parchment. "You can write this general preface, it seems that your mood is not as bad as it seems."

"The relationship between a person's mood and what he writes is not always so direct, Malcador," Morse said, adjusting the artificial feathers of his antique quill pen, his face calm. "I will continue to pursue my love of satire until the day comes when I am no longer required to write anything."

“And I will see to it that the Ministry of Internal Affairs does not publish any of your uncensored work,” Malcador said, moving a file aside and, by some internal logic, finding another document he needed on the desk and lighting it with the candlestick.

Recently, the Terra Palace decided to simulate a long-lost snow scene. The idea was proposed by Mortarion who intended to test the frost resistance of garden plants.

Now, within the palace's psychic barrier, fluttering artificial white snow fell from the dark snowy night sky, bringing cold winds to every interconnected corridor. Malcador's approval of this proposal is enough to show that sometimes people tend to execute unreasonable things.

"Whatever," Morse shrugged, looking out the window.

The white snow covered the golden dome, and the vast pure color covered the man-made palace again, restoring it to the ancient huge snow mountain. It was not until today that he once again realized that the Terra Palace was indeed built on the Himalayas.

Malcador paused as he flipped through the documents, his eyes moving to the craftsman's black robes.

"What did you talk about, Morse?" the Imperial Chancellor asked in a low voice.

"Some...family matters," the craftsman answered absentmindedly, staring into space.

After a while, he snapped his fingers, and a golden light flashed in the air, along the junction of candlelight and darkness, and was injected into an old phonograph. The golden copper phonograph made a dry scratching sound, and then, without a record placed on it, it emitted a hoarse singing voice.

"Puppet Songs," Morse said, smiling from side to side. "It's a pity it's a fake phonograph, but the music is good."

"You like it?"

"It's quite difficult, and I like unusual music," Morse said. "I heard you have a Strong Brain cat as a pet?"

"Hear the Emperor?"

"During one of our conversations, he finally decided to end the Q&A session he had initiated with some light-hearted topics."

Morse spoke, weaving the sound of the phonograph into an invisible golden barrier that surrounded the inside of Malcador's room. The isolating runes were like living, thin snakes, curling up on the wall, appearing and disappearing.

"We talked about a lot of topics, and the location was the top of your Corona spire, where you built the meditation room."

"Oh," Malcador shook his head slightly. "It is now abandoned. It is too close to the outside world. The body's consciousness is enhanced, which will correspondingly weaken the soul's perception. I have moved the meditation room underground."

"But it obviously made no difference to him or to me. There's wind at the top of the spire, and the natural wind cycle is a gift from the galaxy. In any case, he asked me if I knew what was going on with Eleven."

Malcador looked incredulous. "He asked?"

"Am I a liar? Yes, he asked, and of course I answered that I didn't know."

The craftsman propped himself up slightly, as if he could hear the wind passing through his palms again, and the real snowfall blowing through the rustling curtains and the open glass on the vertical frame window, occasionally brushing his arms, bringing a hint of coolness.

"I think he regretted it the minute he said it."

"He knows you don't like this topic," Malcador judged.

"I will never like it." Morse said, turning his palm wrapped in black cloth and making a gesture of grabbing a bow and arrow. Snowflakes rolled into the room, forming a faintly shaped translucent longbow, and then dissipated in the next second.

"I think he wants to say something to me, but he can't. Something - something I don't know - is holding him back and making him hesitate."

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. The basalt on the inside of the Corona Spire and the adamantine runes embedded in the walls seemed to reappear before his eyes in the wind.

The Emperor stood beside the stone pedestal he had gifted Malcador, his face turned toward the small sunlit window high up in the tower, as if there was something important there that only he could see, a cold light or a grey ember.

Then the Emperor turned his head and glanced at him.

"I did not kill him," said the Emperor.

"Well, where was he then? You know I am compiling a series of lists of the Primarchs, my Emperor."

Morse stood against the stone wall, his arms folded across his chest. Time passed quickly, and he had supplemented himself with too many senses. A coolness wrapped vaguely around his back.

"He does not trust the Imperium," the Emperor began. "The Legion is what he resists. Leman Russ cannot bring him back."

"So, where did he go?"

"Do you know the Holy Grail?"

"In what sense?"

"Occult."

"Of course," Morse said, humming a little. "A holy object, a chalice of the essence of eternity, like an egg-cup, I suppose, only for the blood of the Messiah."

His eyes lingered on the Emperor as he mentioned the proper noun. "Or his bloodline. The Holy Grail could also be a person, one with the blood of the Messiah flowing through his veins."

"Or an Expanse," said the Emperor. "What do you mean?"

"You want to go find him."

"Yes."

"And you won't find him."

"Damn you, Emperor. You were the one who sent Konrad Curze to the Grail Expanse, or your power found him through Sanguinius, is that right? Damn your plan, my Lord!"

"You agreed to all of this," the Emperor said firmly.

"Never!"

The emperor shook his head slightly, unmoved, and walked away from the stone chair, his footsteps seeming to merge with the wind. His steps were so powerful, but his face still looked tired, as if he was walking on the sharp edge of the Himalayas, and he still had a long way to go.

"Many things exist in a different way than you think, Mors," he said. "The Primarchs, the Webway, Valdor, and you and me."

"You said those words, Neos. If you don't give me an answer, I will blow up the palace right now."

The Emperor smiled, which meant that he raised the corners of his mouth and made a gesture, but there was no joy in his heart.

"And you will remember part of the answer. It is now... 963.M30, and the time is approaching."

He paused. "We are all tools, weapons, containers, fruits. When the time is right, someone will tell you the whole story in person, and you will tell it to me again. This is the task you must do.

"One day we will enter the final gamble, and whether we succeed or fail, the price must be paid without anyone knowing."

Morse couldn't explain his uneasiness.

"I mean - enough," he said. "In one hundred and sixty years, I can't stand any more puzzles. You can be more concise. I won't be angry when you call me a tool. I will only be annoyed by the unknown plan."

"I cannot tell you what I do not know, Mors," said the Emperor. "I can only tell you that part of our plan which I and a few others knew of and were responsible for."

"What is it?"

He stared at Morse, and his eyes were no longer associated with anything that could arouse admiration, yearning or pity.

It contained the emotions accumulated behind the brilliant performances and dazzling blessings for countless years, and it pointed directly at the old man who had walked alone for 30,000 years, and was no longer related to the conventional flashes of human nature. No, it was the darkness of human nature, anger, cruelty, even arrogance, and naked hatred.

"I do not want to be the Emperor," he said, "even if someone must be the Emperor, because it would be a fraud on humanity, a game of self-deception. It would mean that I am promoting justice and peace with false beliefs, and using artificial light to cover up the darkness that cannot disappear."

"This is... a stopgap measure, Neos."

"You prefer expediency?" the Emperor retorted.

He paced the tower, sometimes the light glimpsed across his robes, and the rest of the time he was immersed in darkness.

"The Imperial Truth is nothing but a lie. I know the Warp exists, I know what it means, and I hate it, my friend, I hate it, and I wish it to be reduced to ash, forever destroyed, never to return.

"I hope that the path of mankind will never be blocked, that my creations will never need to be destroyed, that we will not live in the mockery of darkness, hiding in the space of the real universe and the webway, lingering on, deceiving ourselves with lies, and trembling in the face of the galaxy.

"You asked me if all human contradictions would be resolved after the Webway was established. My answer is no. Those who hold this thought are self-anesthetized in a cowardly joy.

"How many races have already used their bodies as monuments. The Eldar relied on the Webway but still perished. The orcs were intoxicated in mindless ecstasy. The empire that existed for millions of years was still vulnerable. Any race affected by the Sea of ​​Souls will not be able to survive forever."

"Since the subspace exists in this world, how can one person manage the Galactic Empire and achieve the liberation of mankind?"

At this moment, he was not the Lord of mankind, but a confused man looking for a way, a wandering old man, relying on some incomprehensible stubbornness - even stubborn hatred, to go through all the glorious and dark years.

The days of the past no longer shine brightly on him. The light and ambition have become hideous and even ugly under the erosion of the old night. What supports him to move forward is a contradictory emotion that is closer to something that deserves a ten thousand year curse, which is severe, cold, and intense enough.

"One man can't do that," Morse replied, hearing his own voice grow distant.

"Then I will be a god." The Emperor calmed down. There were few things that could make him so emotional. Today was an exception, even for Morse, who was familiar with him, it was still an exception.

"you--"

"If all goes well, I will be under control," the Emperor continued, taking a step back and looking away. His face was pale enough against the black bricks behind him. "A set of yoke ropes, an iron chain. Humanity understands me with glory and shapes me with kindness. This is the meaning of the existence of the 'Emperor'. Even if this step still fails..."

He pondered, letting the next few words disappear before he came out of his mouth.

"But," he went on, "all this will take place after the Great Crusade, to ensure that we have indeed completed the Imperium of Man. Afterwards, a man will be chosen to carry on my legacy."

"Satisfied with the answer you got, Remus? I'm just sharing it with you."

Morse could not answer.

Is this why you let Aurelion go? Is this why you let the Word Bearers deliver your Word? Look, I thought you didn't know what a false idol you are, what you're asking for by shining here all day...

But until the end, he didn't ask a single question.

"Humanity is never satisfied," said the Emperor. "It is not good or evil that defines the foundation of our species. We simply never stop."

Morse stood there, watching the Emperor leave the spire. The nighttime artificial snowfall at the Terran Palace had begun, lightning flashing on the surface of the roaring rain cloud machines, while cold snowflakes fell from the sky, getting closer and closer until they covered the adamantium on the top of the spire.

The cold wind blew through the window panes in the tower and brutally broke into the room, whistling and swirling in the small space. In the howling of wind and snow, the outline of the palace became blurred and dissipated under the silent swallowing of the artificial snow night, stripped of color and texture.

He closed his eyes and remained silent in the sound of the wind, feeling the snowflakes streaking across his face, like cold arrows brushing against his cheek.

Then he opened his eyes and heard the ancient florid music on the phonograph. Papers were being turned, and the warm candlelight in Malcador's room created a warm halo of light. Snow and wind hit the outside of the stained glass window, which had been closed by the Imperial Chancellor.

"Afterwards, he mentioned that he might need to find someone to act as his agent. I think he was planning to find one of his own descendants to complete the task." Morse smiled, "Perhaps Horus Lupercal?"

"Or Lion?" Malcador said thoughtfully, seriously considering which Primarch would be more conducive to achieving a peaceful connection with the Imperial civil service system as the successor. "Ferrus?"

"It shouldn't be Lion El'Jonson. He can't coordinate everyone. I think it's Horus." Morse said objectively.

A genuine smile crossed Malcador's old face. Perhaps he would never change his opinion of the Emperor, and the Emperor was careful to protect this fact - the Master of Mankind was not a fool without emotional judgment.

“Who knows what our old friend is thinking?” Malcador quipped. “It’s not you.”

"Holy Golden Throne," said Morse. "F**k you, Malcador."

(End of this chapter)