Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

"Don't tell me you're not curious about what Angron and his brothers and sisters are talking about, Magnus."

Morse waved his hand, and golden runes floated out of his cloth-wrapped fingertips. A set of sentences was written, and with the help of the framework he built, the complete image response and mirror projection effect were obtained through directional parsing and annotation analysis.

On the white wall of the Terra Palace opposite them, the Nuceria King's Palace, with a bird's-eye view, and dozens of gladiators sitting in a circle on the ground in the palace, appeared. The people in the image just put their hands in the gene primarch's broad palm, which was a ritual mutual commitment.

Afterwards, Angron announced the start of a free discussion on the death of the high-ranking rider.

Magnus sat dully on a thick book, and even at his current size, it could be seen that there was not much spirit left in his gray and black eyes.

Ten minutes ago, he had just finished his first lesson to the greenskins. The powerful mental shock directly caused Magnus to be in a trance when he left Terra's underground. He even forgot to take the textbook. He floated silently all the way like an aimless and confused ghost, until a tall mortal servant who almost kicked him picked up Magnus and kindly sent him to Morse's room. Morse successfully expelled him with a sentence "I don't remember any bald servants visiting my room recently, Alpharius". Morse was bored and observed the scene in the image with Perturabo of Terra who was sitting on the other side of him. The latter may have begun to increase his efforts to distinguish his state in the webway from his usual state in order to resist the infection of the greenskins' joyful atmosphere. Specifically, the more gold, bigger and waaaagh he is in the webway, the more serious, low-key and calm he is on weekdays. "Public trial is not feasible." Perturabo said. "Nuceria has never made laws for slaves. In the existing legal system of Nuceria, slaves are the property and appendages of their masters. They cannot obtain their rights that do not exist in the law through public trials." He knew this because the laws of Olympia hundreds of years ago also only regarded adult local males as organisms with human rights. The only trials for slaves were usually related to factors such as the loss of property and theft of slave owners. Morse supported his head with one hand: "So the public trial will definitely become a pure emotional catharsis led by gladiators-it is obvious that the general citizens of Nuceria cannot empathize with the suffering of slave gladiators. It is not difficult to imagine that in the public trial, gladiators will receive a large-scale silence, which will cause the trial to become a prelude to lynching-unless someone is willing to rewrite the law and lay the foundation for the stone tablet of the law with the blood of high-ranking riders. This is not bad." In the image projected on the wall, Angron was patiently nodding to every gladiator who made suggestions to him. Unlike the status of a cared-for person shown in front of Perturabo and Rogal Dorn, the Primarch who grew up in the red sand is showing his tolerance and leadership among his brothers and sisters on his home planet. His every move touches the hearts of every mortal, and their emotions are intertwined.

"Public trial is not easy, because none of us understands the law." Angron said in a low voice, and his voice fell like a heavy hammer in the field, "But we don't need to understand the laws made by the high-ranking riders. They use their laws to protect their own interests, and we should use our rules to protect ours. Later, we can discuss the initial regulations together, such as killing people outside the law. "He won a round of nods, and the gladiators agreed with Angron's words.

"He's quite smart." Morse smiled, "To be honest, he's a little better than I thought."

"The other me and Angron talked a lot on the way to Desia." Perturabo said, "We each got some inspiration from each other's will."

"What did you learn from him?"

"He reminded me that most people I met so far were too friendly. I thanked him and told him that I had hanged at least three hundred rulers of planets all the way to Nuceria."

"Oh, he actually reminded you to be vigilant?" Morse sighed, "It seems that you left the first impression of him that 'this is a weak person who needs protection'. Speaking of this, what happened when you first met? I missed that wonderful show."

"We quickly got closer to each other and gained mutual recognition."

"I'm going to ask Dorn what you are doing."

"Oh, Dorn was beaten into the wall." Perturabo changed his words without stopping. "Because his lemon yellow makes him look like a high-ranking rider."

Morse looked doubtful: "Then what are you wearing? You weren't sent into the wall?"

"Maybe my cloth robe is very ordinary." Perturabo said seriously, as if he was really confident in his reasons.

Morse decided to ask Dorn when he had time later. His intuition told him that there must be some subtleties hidden here that were enough to make Perturabo too ashamed to speak directly.

He changed one hand to support his chin, and then changed to two hands at the same time to support his head. Some hair falling on the back of his hand proved to him the advantage of his non-material body, that is, he really didn't need to cut his hair or wash his hair, and the dust would leave him.

"As for the many specific methods of execution, I can see that the gladiators are returning all the punishments they have experienced or witnessed to the high-ranking riders."

Mors turned his attention back to Angron. Many gladiators had already stood up unsteadily from their sitting postures, and the will of revenge lit up all the vitality in their disease-ridden bodies.

"They couldn't possibly be more creative than rulers who devoted their lives to torturing others," Perturabo said.

"To correct a word, it's not a lifetime, it's generations." Morse said, "If they do this, I can't say whether I object to it or not. I have long lost my patience with bloody things. Even if someone wants to invite me to watch, The only thing I considered was whether it would be a waste of my time to watch an execution that would always seem familiar."

"Sometimes I do wonder whether your loud approval of behavior that violates human morality comes from genuine indifference, or whether it is a veil over indignation."

Morse twitched the corner of his mouth: "I have no answer, Lord of Iron. It is impossible for a person to completely understand his heart. He must project his emotions into the process of self-recognition. Observation itself is a There is only one moment of exception, the moment of death without regrets.”

Perturabo nodded in return and continued to take in the image reflected on the white wall with his eyes.

Angron was still sitting on the ground, and the gladiators around him stood up one after another, surrounding the giant who was sitting on the ground but was still extremely tall. A boy with a bandage on his hand was very close to Angron. He looked up at Angron like he was looking at his biological father who protected him from the wind and rain.

Before this, Morse had never imagined that someone could have such a mortal-like parent-child relationship with the Primarch.

This may be because the Astartes who often call the Primarch their father are essentially a group of mature warriors serving the war, and the basis of all their close actions is built on the basic relationship between generals and soldiers. No Astartes dared to cling to the body of the original body like a child who had not grown up. The most extreme intimacy only ended with the caressing, contact and encouragement of the original body.

But all this was easily accomplished by a mortal child.

Morse couldn't help but wonder how the Warhounds would react if they really went to Nuceria one day and saw the vast love and tolerance of their genetic father.

"I hear your inner voices, my brothers and sisters." Angron said, "We all long for a bloody revenge, so now, many of us support throwing away all high-level riders. Entering the arena, we even support giving them the butcher's nails of their own invention and letting them fight each other."

A gladiator covered his severed finger, and his heavy breathing contained deep sorrow: "Let them fight each other until there is only the last person left, Angron. Then allow the last person to walk out of the red sand pit and tell him." You are free', and beyond the pit we will all be waiting for him to tear him to pieces with our own hands."

"Let them...ahem...enter the belly of the giant beast and struggle to crawl out, Angron, let them, let them experience the feeling of their skin melting away in the acid...ahem..."

"Robbie, come here." Angron said gently, and the gladiator, whose entire face was dissolved in acid, came closer to him, and then gave him a strong hug. Robbie's twisted face was still terrifying, but it no longer contained the hideous pain.

The giant lets go of Robbie, and the power of Silence expands among the gladiators.

The gladiators' hidden anger at the painful memories of the past was relieved, and the Primarch lowered his eyebrows. The torture of his companions stirred up waves in his mind, and he silently calmed it down.

"We cannot continue to repeat senseless atrocities, brothers and sisters. We cannot become new high-ranking riders. If we do, what difference will we make from these once powerful men themselves?"

Angron said sadly.

"If so, we are just relying on another powerful background to annex these relatively weak insects. Think about it, if another person tells you that he brought his powerful army to A group of high-level riders are thrown into the arena, will we lament sadly, what difference will a new group of slave owners make? "

There was a low response from the crowd, and the gladiators quickly synchronized with Angron's thoughts. They resonated with the scenes described by Angron. This was not only the tragic heart of these suffering people, but also Angron's unintentional use of his ability to influence the emotions of others.

The little gladiator next to him patted Angron: "Then what should we do?"

Angron allowed the little gladiator to fiddle with the threads on his clothes and continued: "First, we must conquer Nuceria in the name of gladiators. We must use our own flags and ideas to personally liberate the world and the world on this planet. We who work together must tell the whole world that we are not another group of high-minded rulers. We break free from the humble red sand and stand between the sky and the ground, so that more people can. Stand up and fight.”

"Do we have a flag?" asked the female gladiator whose legs turned into spears.

"You have to ask our great painter Yochuka." Angron said, "Yochuka is the only great painter among all of us, right? I still remember the one you painted with stone last time - —”

"That's Sister Kleist! You said you wouldn't laugh at me!" Yochuka hid behind Angron.

The original body turned around and patted the shy boy gently, "I would like to hand over the task of drawing the flag to our Jochuka, is that okay?"

Angron's decision sparked a friendly chuckle among the gladiators, and the atmosphere rose from its low point of silence and solemnity. You must know that when Yochuka completed his work, everyone was praising the sharp-horned beast he painted.

"Okay, okay," said Angron, "little naughty Yochuka is going to be so shy that he disappears."

He nodded to everyone and said in a solemn tone: "Although I said that we cannot repeat the old path of high-level riders, I will not let go of hatred. It is impossible for me to live up to what we have all endured and shouldered for the sake of a glorious and grand truth. Blood and torture, I will not betray my brothers and sisters, so I would like to share my thoughts on how to repay the Tarke family."

Another smile was added to the faces of the gladiators, a more sincere and profound smile born out of blood and tears.

"Everyone should know that my two brothers who descended from heaven are master builders and decided to rebuild better houses and fields for Nuceria."

"And one of my brothers, Perturabo, mentioned that in his hometown of Olympia, there was an ancient ruler who wanted to build a high wall. He made criminals and prisoners of war work, and every time a guilty worker died, His blood, flesh, and bones will be ground into a paste to bind the bricks. When the paste seeps out from the joints of the bricks, it is like the wall shedding tears of blood. This wall is called the Wailing Wall. "

The gladiators listened quietly, excited by the implications they took from Angron's words.

"Today, few people know that there was such a wall in Olympia. Because subsequent rulers have tried to tear it down, but no matter what their efforts, when the sun rises the next day, the wall will be restored to its original shape, It brings the bloodiest and most direct eternal warning to the world.”

"Though the wall was still destroyed by the psychic storms of the old night, its records as erased by time as itself. But some things are not easily forgotten. All those with a sensitive heart can hear it. The cry of this wall, the traces of the bloody wall live on in the ravings of madmen and the nightmares of fearful people.”

"This is your decision..." The gray-haired one-eyed old gladiator murmured hoarsely.

"High-level riders must make amends for the damage they have done to this world." Angron said decisively and resolutely. "What we need is not a trial, but a proclamation. We want to tell the world in the most straightforward way what consequences the dirty behavior of the powerful will bring."

"The high-level riders who were once so superior had to carry mud, tie steel bars, build walls and bricks, and rebuild the city with their own hands. They had no rest and worked all their lives. They devoted themselves to all the labor and construction that they had missed in the first half of their lives, and repaid their debt to the entire Nukairi little by little. Asia’s Scarlet Debt.”

“When they die, whether due to illness or old age, extra crime or normal decline, their bones will be buried in Nuceria’s high wall of blood and tears, as direct proof of the fall of power, and as a permanent warning to future generations about oppression. The person deserves the end.”

"This is my decision, brothers and sisters. The Wall of Blood and Tears will stand in all places where oppression has occurred."

I have something to do tomorrow, please take a day off orz