Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 484 Shell
None of them would accept a gift from the Emperor - the true and former Emperor, or so Ctesias believed.

He was not one to talk big, that didn't really touch that part of his soul, but he didn't deny that he had some unique perspectives on things, like Azak Ahriman, or Amon.

These favorites of the Primarch Magnus all had an unusual obsession with many things, a passion that could replace the blood pumping in their hearts, just like when Ahriman collapsed among a thousand warriors, and the boy was floating within a meter in front of him, looking down at him, his face still proud and a little hard.

Unfortunately, this trait is not unique to the Fifteenth Legion.

"We will not accept your gift," said Ahriman, and the runes surrounding him gradually lifted him from the time-locked stream at the edge of the Crossroads.

They had not really reached the moment of final stagnation, which was a one-way street from which there was no return. They, the teachers of the temple, the Radiance, and Narek and his crew, were only on the edge of the cliff where time was interrupted, teetering as the torrent of past shadows fell from their feet into the endless abyss, shattering into fragments as numerous as stars.

And the boy's shadow floated in the empty air.

+Why? +The boy asked calmly, no need to speak. +An Astartes is more than enough to bear the cost of speaking for me. +
Why? Ctesias thought, as if he could hear Ahriman's voice ringing in his ears, carrying the remaining pride and anger in his stubborn but broken soul, as well as the thinking responsibility he must bear as the chief think tank.

Ahriman's mind was filled with the embers of Prospero, and as long as the smoke and dust did not settle, Ahriman would not look directly at the Golden Throne. But how would he explain this to the Lord of Mankind? There were moments when he would hate both the Lord of Mankind and himself at the same time, and that complex hatred would briefly overshadow his hatred for the Dark Lord, and would quickly subside into a controlled silence.

Ahriman stood in silence, and soon he spoke in a low voice.

"We are returning to Prospero to rebuild our city from the ashes and to recover all that we have lost. Your mission cannot provide us with all that we will ever seek... Forgive us for what we owe or have received from humanity, until we repay Tizca for raising us. Forgive us, we cannot focus on filling that void.

"Amon would be willing to lead his warriors to continue fighting for the true masters of the Empire, and perhaps many of us here would be the same - but not everyone."

Not far away, Batusa Narek's eyes widened as he looked at Ahriman's terrifying courage. Among the Word Bearers, refuting a superior was simply out of the question - even if it was Aurelion, who claimed to serve humanity equally with them.

Soon, he was called upon.

"But here is a man who will be willing to accept your orders, obey your wishes, appear where you need him, and do what you need him to do. Because he has no other purpose." Ahriman said, turning his head and casting a glance at Narek. "He will receive this honor if he does not refuse."

"How could I refuse?" Narek said, his expression an equal mixture of surprise and dismay, and he stepped forward, through hundreds of red-robed warriors, to Ahriman's side, and together they faced the boy.

"I will obey your orders, just as we have always done," Narek sighed, "just as we should have done. I swear before you... Compared to Aurelion, I am so lucky to hear the words directly from him that he cannot hear."

The boy looked at him.

+You swore to me to pay for Aurelion? +
"No, my Lord. Not at all. Lorgar Aurelion is not worthy of me doing anything for him. I make the choice for my own fate and sanity, and for the fate of mankind."

Batusa Narek knelt on one knee and pointed the power sword in his hand into the void. The words flowed out of his mouth skillfully, but with a different kind of true emotion - restrained and bitter, rarely seen in the Word Bearers.

The Word Bearers traitor trembled slightly and said word by word: "I hope that my Lord will be glorified at the end of time, and that those you love will find peace in the world. I praise you and thank you for your glory. May you listen to our prayers, forgive the sins of the world, and have mercy on all people. Because you are the highest good, the only source, and the people of the world should share the blessings you have bestowed. Please pour fire on me, I will walk in misery, because I believe that the good things you have prepared for us are beyond the most greedy imagination."

Ctesias suddenly realized what Batusa Narek was reading—the teachings of Muristan, the short scripture written by their first leader.

The boy walked down from the air barefoot, holding the skull in one hand and a shell picked up from the river in the other open hand.

+Open your mouth.+
Narek raised his head and followed the boy's command.

The boy placed the shell in his hand under the former Word Bearer's tongue, like a coin.

The phantom of the shell composed of light and time disappeared the moment it left his hand, and Narek was knocked down instantly. He knelt on the ground with his hands covering his mouth, and a painful gasp came from his throat, as if he had just been immersed in a thick swamp or a long river composed of mud and sand, and struggled on the verge of suffocation for a long time before being rescued. At this moment, he was gasping for breath on the bank of the river.

The boy smiled slightly. The shadow of the wheat field behind him gradually faded away, and he turned around and returned to his original dream.

It seemed as if a silver light was protecting him like wings, leading the boy into the eternal intersection between here and there, which did not exist in this world.

Those light and elegant colors gradually faded from the edges of the crossroads, leaving only the red-gold runes of the webway itself and the endless cold pure white.

"The Emperor has left?" Ctesias muttered, watching the boy's back for the last time.

He turned to Ahriman and asked him from a distance: +Are you satisfied, Azak? +
+Return to the ship, Ctesias. We shall set out again. Take Batusa with you...+ Ahriman said briefly, avoiding his question.

"No," Narek said, his face still dazed by the pain, he stretched out his hand, as if grasping something in the void, to prop himself up. Ctesias realized that this Word Bearer traitor had heard the voices of the Thousand Dust Suns. +So, where are you going? +Ahriman asked calmly, perhaps he would not have much expression until he died of complete shattering.

"Hear the stars," Narek whispered to the void. "I have a guide for goodness, Azak Ahriman. Leave the ships I brought with me, Fifteenth Legion. I will not go with you to Prospero."

+Just your ship? +Ahriman confirmed once, then nodded, +Go ahead, Batusa Narek. +
Narek seemed to come back to his senses. The erratic look on his face quickly faded away, and his own face returned.

"And my crew," he said half-complainingly, nodding back at Ahriman. "I cannot sail an entire ship by myself in the stormy season, even if the Emperor wills. And since you are returning to Prospero, you will take this Webway - never mind, I will draw you a diagram. Who has scratch paper, scholars?"

-

The coiled energy vortex suddenly contracted and then suddenly spread outward, spreading like ripples in the real universe, briefly revealing the blank road contained within.

The Radiance drew a sparkling trail through the tide of reality, heading for a fleet gathering ahead—perhaps hundreds of Imperial warships, large and small, some as tiny as flies, others as small as scattered pea shells, scattered in a mess over Prospero.

The silence of the vacuum was torn apart by the vast echoes of the noisy human voices and emotions that remained in the fleet. Ctesias could hear those terrible war cries, echoing and spreading from every point in time, overlapping with the moments after, until the roar and screaming left at the moment of "now" was so strong that it could not be surpassed.

If he got closer, Ctesias could foresee the clash of naval guns and defense rails, and the loud sparks of explosion.

His heart trembled a little, facing all this challenged the upper limit of what he could accept. Even if he claimed to be a person who was not easily provoked... maybe he was right, he had heard some of his companions whispering painful curses near them, staring straight in the direction of the Great Tizca until tears flowed from their eyes.

Fragments of names flashed through Ctesias' mind, and he could not help but capture the strokes and syllables of the real names that appeared within his perception range, trying to remember one by one the names of those who committed atrocities against Prospero, and remember all the punishments imposed on the Prosperos by the Shadow Moon Wolves, and those executioners who were at the opposite end of the hatred from them.

Perhaps they had returned too late - no, they had come as fast as they could. The Webway route they had obtained from the boy was shorter than any other route...

Ahriman had not missed a single choice that would have brought them back faster, or—if he had, if he had made another choice, then who could blame Azak Ahriman except the wronged souls of the City of Light?
There was no one higher in the Fifteenth Legion than Azak Ahriman. Only his own conscience could kill him, and that was an effective weapon indeed.

+Do not consider them our enemies,+ Ahriman whispered, like the tapping of a wind chime, striking Ctesias’ mind.

He was right, Ctesias thought, but it was not easy to do. In just a short time, more than three hundred names had landed on Ctesias's mind, hanging on him in the form of a hook.

Like a dreamcatcher, he thought, a hook with a list of names… He ran his hand over them… Some of them belonged to the Luna Wolves, some were locals from Prospero, many of whom he even knew… and some of them gave him a lot of surprises.

Iron Warriors? This surprised Ctesias, and the other Thousand Dust Sun scholars, each with their own expertise, came to the same conclusion and exchanged glances.

Azak Ahriman closed his pale blue eyes, and somehow this did not seem to surprise him.

His power extended through the warp, the Black Raven capturing every moment brought by the vast flow of the ocean, combining them into an image of reality, Prospero's reality.

As they had expected, much of the destruction had taken place, and the dilapidated pyramids were heartbreaking, but the scene on the ground was still beyond their expectations: the battle was still going on, and the attack had lasted far longer than Prospero could endure on his own.

There, on their ground, the distinctive colors of the Iron Warriors were filling every vacancy on the battlefield of the City of Light without hesitation, fighting relentlessly with the Luna Wolves against the terrifying backdrop of the Black Sun hanging in the sky to defend the land of Tizca.

There are about... still 20,000 of them. The temporary fortifications built after the city was breached have become extremely solid. Force field shields and physical fortresses are scattered across the devastated Great Tizca. Although they have destroyed the beauty that once existed here, they have formed another kind of landscape, a cruel landscape that the Thousand Dust Suns could not imagine could be better than this.

It meant that they still had something to protect, that there were still many remnants that had not been completely destroyed. It meant that Tizca civilization had not been destroyed, even if it had been on the verge of collapse. It meant... that they still had friends to rely on, that the Iron Warriors had kept their promises, even more than they had kept. What kind of gratitude could they express...

The complex emotions in the air were filled with thick shame, despair and regret, but there was also hope: there were still many people who had not been killed, right in their homes.

Ahriman gazed at Prospero's scene, seemingly lost in a deadly calm of thought, his expression hidden behind the blank helmet, his mind silently churning.

They held their breath, eagerly awaiting their chief's next decision.

Ctesias could hear the soft clinking of the swords of the jackal-headed sculpture.

+Prepare to drop anchor,+ Azak Ahriman said, stretching out a hand forward, a blazing red fire burning in his left hand, and circles of satin-like energy waves swirling around the staff in his right hand.

The souls that were closely connected to Thousand Dust Sun roared silently under his guidance. The roars spread into tremendous power, instantly igniting the pearl-white Moon Wolf warships.

(End of this chapter)