Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 478: The Head of Heresy
Batusa Narek clung to the snake-like handrails that protruded from the wall as the ship shook violently, frowning as he watched the servitors and crew members fall to the ground in the bombardment.

Some people stood up, covered their bleeding noses, and rushed to the control console to check the navigation system and subspace engine that were on the verge of going out of control. The parameters of Geller's position dragged out a terrifying arc of fluctuations. Some cables in the room came loose and whipped the walls of the room dangerously in the flash of electric sparks.

"Turn on the plasma engine," a temporarily promoted supervisor yelled with narrowed eyes, using his eyelids to block the dripping sweat, "We must temporarily leave the warp!"

"But--" another crew member responded anxiously, the light marking the attack dancing in the reflection of his pupils.

"Just do what he says." Narek let go of the handle and stepped forward, his two hearts beating hard in exhaustion. They had to make a choice: either fall apart in the warp or run into the pursuit of the legion they once belonged to in the real universe.

The navigator, who had been sitting on the floor, climbed out from the pile of boxes and flying manuals, looking pale and hesitant, and glanced at the Space Marine. Narek noticed him keenly, or rather, his attention was always half on him.

"What do you have to say, Navigator?"

"I'm not sure, sir. I don't think we need to get involved..."

"Either you tell me what you found now, or let your discovery be buried with all of us. You know we are heading for the end." Narek reminded in a lightly accusing tone, "There is no supply, no destination. All we have is our own life, and there is nothing else worth losing."

The ships began to rise from the subspace, the colorful stars shattered in the roar of the real universe's engines, they fell out of the back of the world, the violent turbulence made the ship's armored shell creak, everyone's thoughts were tense, but the next assault artillery fire was delayed.

Except for the robot servants who were concentrating on operating the system panel, many people were obviously relieved.

The navigator pulled a broken stool to his feet, as if he had just climbed out of a mental storm. "There are more than one ship around here, sir. There are also some people, and some signals are floating over, but I am not a professional astropath."

"We're going to hide?"

"No, my lord, that is not a signal we are familiar with. That is not the Word Bearers," he said quickly. "If we have no hatred towards them, we can seek help. My lord, we cannot continue to fall into this state!"

"Not the Word Bearers?" Narek muttered. "What kind of ship?"

"I'm not sure...but-"

"There's a signal, sir!" said another crew member, almost shouting with joy, "That's... they took the initiative to contact us, the flagship of the Fifteenth Legion, Wanzhang..."

"Tell them we are being hunted by the Word Bearers, now," Narek interrupted, a bad possibility entering his mind.

If they were all being hunted by the Word Bearers, what about the Fifteenth Legion, who were on Perturabo's side? There were a hundred reasons why this ship shouldn't be here, and if it was already here -

The enemy of the Word Bearer is already my friend.

A message was sent almost instantly, just as Narek finished speaking. The urgency and solemnity of the former Word Bearer made the crew realize the seriousness of the matter, and the signal of identity declaration crossed thousands of miles in the blink of an eye, chasing the footsteps of the previous reply letter that arrived at the Radiance.

Time seemed to stand still in an instant. The red lightning that suddenly fell from the endless space came to a halt in the broken storm. The infinitely spreading power was forcibly gathered, leaving only the remaining grief and anger, still lingering in the aftermath of the power of Thousand Dusts Sun, and had yet to completely dissipate.

+Enemy? +One voice said this, or a thousand voices, a thousand lonely questions from the depths of the universe.

Narek took the dataslate. "Battusa Narek, I am no longer a Word Bearer."

+…Why? +
+The Word Bearers took Ahriman away...+
+...dead? No, no...+
These spiritual words kept swirling and turning, like light red water drops sliding down the glass surface of the universe. Finally, a voice gradually stood out.

+No longer a Word Bearer? +
Narek took a deep breath. He hoped that the words he sent would not sound so empty, at least not as empty as his two hearts.

"The Word Bearers are lost, brothers of the Fifteenth Legion... or perhaps I am lost. Batusar Narek is a heretic of my Legion. If you are willing to accept a rebellious heretic leader, please allow me to board your flagship - I wish to tell you all I know, because someone must do so."

-

The gray storm swept across the desolate surface of the planet, like a wrinkled, rough corpse, shaking from time to time. When the Iron Blood got close enough to see the outline of Moro's planet, Morse slowly exhaled, intending to extract a few possible memories from the vague past.

No, there was nothing there, as if everything that had ever happened on this planet had not yet arrived for him.

"There is a ship," he said, his mind sweeping across the cold planet. "Black plating, no markings. The technology is ancient but advanced. What can you see, Perturabo?"

The image of the Lord of Iron appeared on the side of the porthole in front of Morse. The image woven by the data stream changed in light and dark, highlighting a slightly gloomy iron face.

"I can see that the warp storm has ceased here. I can see that the planet registered as a forge world was completely destroyed at some point and turned into an exiled ruin." Perturabo did not speak. A passing fully mechanical servant spoke for him.

"Yes... yes. The Veil here is not unique, but it is protected - the remnant is still well protected after the planet was destroyed long ago."

This is why the Iron Blood has still not been able to enter Moro's orbit. A thin non-material network that hides dangers has blocked Moro from the invasion of the vast soul sea. No one can directly reach Moro's atmosphere from the subspace channel; and in the real universe, the invisible electric light leaping on the same layer of protection network also hinders the spacecraft from safely entering the interior of the planet.

Behind them, the vast and manic ocean roared and stirred endlessly, and the heavy toxic colors condensed into giant pus-oozing blocks of color, which slammed onto the surface of the network, but only shattered themselves on countless sharp checkered network cables, leaving only turbid stains of various colors.

Morse stared at the still-functioning dense network with mixed emotions. Perturabo noticed this, no matter which camera was installed in the Iron Blood. He did not ask any more questions.

"How did that ship get in?" Perturabo said, and then he got his own answer: "The Emperor's handiwork."

"You guessed right. I guess that was arranged before the Lord of Humanity ascended the Golden Throne." Morse replied in a low voice, hesitated for a moment, and then suddenly retreated into a state of bodyless void. His will stretched forward and approached the rotating mesh surface. One of the golden threads was pulled out in an instant, and in an instant, it shrank from a thin line stretching tens of thousands of miles back to a tiny invisible morpheme...

It returned to the top of Morse's missing arm, like a tiny button hanging from the edge of the original shape, filling in a tiny piece of the missing part - even though it was so small that it was almost imperceptible, there was no doubt about its whereabouts.

"...Morse?"

Perturabo's questioning became distant aboard the Iron Blood as Morse gently slid back into the material shell he had once made and held it up again.

"I shudder to imagine what Neos once did here, but now, I think we can get into Moro," Morse said.

As the landing craft thrusters approached the ground, the lights illuminated the floating embers on the planet's surface: a thick fog of volcanic ash that still floated in the thick atmosphere after fifteen thousand years of stagnation. They landed on a flat ground, where the psychic energy became so dense that if a soulless person came here, he would probably be drowned by the psychic energy instead.

Morse's hand wrapped in black cloth picked up a handful of dust, trying to discern whether there were still memories of the old days... No, it was too long ago, and there was almost nothing left. There were still remnants of destruction, rusty dust left over from war machinery, some remnants of colored plating, and the loud noise of an instantaneous explosion.

This planet was once destroyed by humans, but why?
Then he turned his head and looked at a point in the sky - a small dot that coincided with the light of the stars.

That was the next lost spell element. "I believe it is over there," he said, "and I am beginning to believe that there is indeed a long-buried secret here. In fact, I think there must be guards here, sent by your father, waiting for the call of duty."

Morse dusted his hands. "I have heard his breathing... Yes. If he must be somewhere, then he must be under the Emperor's personal orders. He lives for the Emperor."

"Captain of the Guards." Perturabo frowned. The absence of the head of the golden guards might not be noticed by everyone, but as the Warmaster, he could not help but notice the abnormality. Malcador had told him not to worry, and he accepted the advice of the Imperial Chancellor.

...How is Malcador now? If something happens to the Golden Throne, what will happen to that loyal but unlovable old man?
Perturabo paused. Enough, he thought. Enough. He probably knew the answer, and the answer still seemed to tear a bloody scar in his numb soul.

Morse said simply, "You are very perceptive. Yes, Constantine Waldo is in the shallow underground, 1,300 kilometers away, and his consciousness is still alive. The distance is not too far. I will take you there now."

They walked against the wind, and the vastness of the earth shrank under their feet, becoming a small gray afterimage. The edge of the canyon rushed towards them, and they fell down the steep cliff, sticking to the mountain, and then landed on the ground, stirring up a circle of rising embers. A few pieces of discarded iron fell off the cliff and fell among the ashes, and the dust was turbulent in the air flow.

The wind and sand returned to their original flow, and the clanging sound of metal boots rang out in the whistling silence. Slowly, a golden outline emerged at the dark edge of the cave not far away, stopped there, and watched quietly.

Then he took off his helmet and locked eyes with Morse and Perturabo. There was still traces of dried blood on his face.

"My Lord said someone would come," Constantine Valdor said, his voice cracked by the wind and sand. "Someone who needs to wait."

Perturabo took a step forward, examining the Adeptus Custodes, identifying the scars hidden beneath his armor. The details added up to a clear conclusion: a long close combat had just ended, and Constantine had won, but he had also been seriously wounded. Regardless, he stood there, like an immortal monument.

"And now we are here," Perturabo said in a low voice. "What is the Emperor's plan?"

Morse muttered softly in the dust: "I didn't even know when he turned back into a prophet."

Waldo looked at them, thinking left traces in his eyes, and after a moment, he spoke.

"The one I am waiting for my lord is not you," he said. "He is waiting for a human being."

-

Orlanius Persoon did not know what had happened on Terra, but it must have been beyond the expectations of the legion that had taken him away.

But what about the Primarch of the Legion? That was a mystery. At least, the worries that could be detected in the mortal servants of the Legion and the few Space Marines who were not good at disguise had never appeared in the Primarch who sat in front of him and looked down at him, the demigod named Jor, or Alpharius.

Is this really Alpharius? No, Orr no longer wants to think about it. He got tired of the Alpha Legion's tricks so quickly. In the face of real disaster, no matter how exquisite the magic is, it is not enough to make people laugh.

"The Master of Mankind is no longer the man we knew him," said Alpharius. "He has changed."

Ole nodded dully, unsure of the future.

In the galaxy, no one remains unchanged. Moreover, he had been gone for too long, and his past with the Lord of Humanity was as vague as a cloud of smoke. They parted ways, but they did not draw a chasm with hatred, but just let time take them in different directions. But if there is a chance... to meet him again?

He couldn't think of what he wanted to say. Maybe he would ask if the omen he believed in at the time, the omen that caused him to break up with Erda, had brought him the ending he wanted. Or maybe he would back off before meeting the Lord of Mankind.

Alpharius did not expect a reply.

"I had a premonition of his change, and I knew that a part of me had paid the price," the Primarch continued, a cryptic soliloquy in which he spoke of things that only he knew. "Our hands had brought disaster upon us, and I believe it cannot be undone."

"What's that?" Ole asked.

Alpharius glanced at him. "Only I know."

Orr shook his head. "You have no idea, Primarch."

"Really?" Alpharius said noncommittally. He paused for a moment, and Orr took a sip of water in the frozen silence. "So what are you doing now?"

"Choice."

"I can't help you. I'm just an ordinary human." Or murmured, feeling the hanging cross cold against his chest.

Alpharius leaned forward, his shadow falling across the table. The shadow of a terrifying giant.

"Are you loyal to the Lord of Mankind?" he asked.

"Of course," O'Neill sighed, "of course."

"Do you think it is always right to be loyal to the Lord of Mankind?"

Orr raised his eyebrows in confusion. Did he need to deny this? In front of a general under the command of the Lord of Mankind?

"That's correct," he said.

Alpharius leaned his upper body back, then he stood up and took a step back toward the door.

"Then the Alpha Legion will return to Terra," the Primarch said. "You have given me good advice, Orr."

A sudden feeling of uneasiness came over Orr. He watched the Primarch leave and leaned back in his seat.

Each day passed as normal, and Alpharius never came to Orr Payshon's room again. Hydra's servants made sure Orr was well-fed, even if Orr didn't think he needed extra care. As he figured out the rules of the bathroom faucets and saw the shadows behind the curtains, he accepted the surveillance in silence.

Day after day, he listened to the broadcasts on the radio - he was sure that this was a toy made specifically for him, which made him feel mixed emotions.

From the outer side of the Solar System to the inner side, they passed by planets that revived Orr's memories. Jupiter... Mars... Storms that disrupted the subspace route again and again. They were almost there. The Earth's satellite, the moon? He chewed on the word. The moon?

"We are expected to enter the planetary orbit of the throne world Terra tomorrow. Please prepare yourselves..." Today's announcer was replaced by a young man, whose tone was more casual than others. "Hold the handrails firmly and fasten the safety magnetic buckle. In Terra, you can see the Imperial Palace on the left and the ruins of the warlords' melee on the right. Maybe it's snowing in the Achaemenids this season..." Or began to feel that something was wrong. "And so on. Damn it, I don't know. If you plan to leave this damn place, please call John Grammaticus. He will take you thousands of miles away. Make sure to take all your belongings with you, Orlanius Persson. I'm outside the door. Someone asked me to talk to you."

(End of this chapter)