Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

The Tower of Astartes, a giant marble tower built in the Palace of Terra by the Emperor's order at the beginning of the great Primarch Project at the end of the 30th Millennium.

During the Great Crusade, based solely on the etiquette established by the Emperor and Chancellor Malcador, every heir of the Emperor was supposed to return to Terra before officially joining the Great Crusade, and be held in Astartes on the eve of his departure. In the tower, absolute loyalty to the Empire and humanity was sworn to the Emperor of Mankind. Of course, in order to promote the Great Expedition as quickly as possible, the implementation of this rule is quite flexible.

According to the research of historians, the Emperor of Mankind would have soul-deep conversations with his descendants in the Tower of Astartes. We are often willing to believe that even if future records have proven that things are impermanent, at least when the stars can still gather and shine on Terra, their oaths to mankind will not be false in the slightest.

——"Hollow Mountains: A History of the Empire of Man"

He leaned closer to the surface of the glass tube, close enough to see his blurred reflection in the thick transparent amorphous solid, a luminous mass between reality and surreality, with a cold sheen. With sticky blood.

The Emperor waited on the other side of the glass. Perturabo realized that the Emperor's behavior of calling him by his number did not cause him the slightest dissatisfaction. In fact, he's surprisingly calm now.

This is a microcosm, a fragment, a reflection of the grand ambition that a creator will accomplish. A man with lofty ideals has no time to name each of his tools. Weapons designed for a specific purpose should not have a mind that can shed tears.

At least that's how it should be.

"This is the laboratory where we were created," Perturabo said in his unfixed form.

In this underground laboratory buried deep in the center of a hollow mountain range, he and his brothers are still suspended in huge test tubes. Their bodies, which have been fused with cutting-edge genetic technology and the most arrogant and daring attempts at mysticism, are still floating in the air. They are brewing and imagining the shape that will best suit them in the future.

Therefore, he speaks without the use of his larynx or vocal cords. The flow of consciousness is higher than all physical barriers.

"Yes," the Emperor said, his voice echoing through the room, weakening layer by layer. This makes his words sound light and thin.

"When you created the Primarch, you originally shaped it according to the standards of tools. But there was an error."

"Perhaps," the Emperor replied equivocally. "Tools. Weapons. Containers."

"After we are separated from this laboratory and scattered across the galaxy, our self-awareness will bring great uncertainty to our growth. This is not a good thing, don't you think?"

His words set the Emperor thinking. The Emperor looked at Perturabo, his lips closed, unable to utter a word for a long time.

"Are you really here?" asked Perturabo.

"This great undertaking has already begun." The Emperor replied. His image faded along with the entire laboratory, like ocean currents converging under the surface of the sea, rolling and rushing away on the scale of time.

Perturabo found his place in the waves, and a fall had just been completed when he felt the presence of his body.

He was breaking away from a solid shell, and high-heat steam began to evaporate from his young body lying on his back on the ground and from the surface of the silver-black nursery cabin next to him. A huge Roman numeral is engraved on the nursery cabin, which is still legible. Around him, the cold air was seeping into his skin, and he seemed to be taking shape in the cooling of the mountain wind.

Perturabo suddenly thought that during the comprehensive construction of the planet, the conservation capsule he lost when he landed had been found and is currently stored in the Lokos Grand Museum.

"Number Four," the Emperor said, looking down at him. Then, he stretched out his hand and pulled Perturabo up.

"You shouldn't be here." Perturabo said, using his legs that he had never used at this moment, standing on the rugged mountainous terrain. "And I'm Perturabo."

"Okay, Perturabo." The Emperor admitted. His dark pupils were still immeasurably deep, but they were very different from the depth of the Lord of Mankind. "I'm not here."

In the overlapping memory of truth and falsehood, the victory of language brought no satisfaction to Perturabo.

"I think this is my lost memory." Perturabo walked toward the side of the mountain away from the Emperor, which helped him get a better look at where he was now. "Or memories in dreams. I didn't really meet you."

A past Olympia, an unknown Olympia, unfolded before him. The trees are lush, the valley is quiet, and the city protected by the city wall stands in the mountains. Unrenovated, raw and uncohesive.

The moment of his first birth felt strange to him, and he wasn't sure if he really wanted to go back to this moment. He was far from being a good person at this time.

"Is it important?" asked the Emperor, following Perturabo.

"It would be easier for me to accept it if this didn't actually happen," Perturabo said. "Suppose Pharos created all this, and I only saw an ideal image in a vision. No one told you that all Primarchs would be lost, and you did not show up when I landed."

"I can't answer these questions, Perturabo. But I guess none of this really happened." The Emperor said, putting his hands in the pockets of his white tunic and smiling slowly.

Perturabo looked at the Emperor with a different look.

"You are not what I think you are, Emperor.

"How different?"

"Your image oscillates between radiance and radiance, and depth of sorrow, Emperor. Both gestures are admirable enough. But I saw a third today."

"I think today is a good day - the first time in centuries that this feeling has appeared with such startling clarity." The emperor stopped in place, and some small stones collapsed under his leather shoes, "This An interesting meeting for you, Primarch?"

"I don't know," said Perturabo. "I'm just reaching out to Pharos."

The Emperor stared at him in silence, with a strange concentration in his expression. This long contemplation lasted until the phantom of the mountains suddenly collapsed behind him, and the deep blue torrent swallowed the mountains and the sky silently. Time folded and curled at the end of the end, and in the gap between moments when the strings trembled. Suddenly everything unfolded.

Perturabo lowered his head and watched the snowflakes melt in his palms. There was heavy snow in the sky, and the land covered with snow sank not far from him until it formed a pale cliff. He was sitting in the snow, and his single layer of iron-gray robe could not block any chill. It only separated him from the snow-white world and existed alone.

He heard footsteps beside him.

"We meet again, Emperor," said Perturabo.

"Again." The Emperor nodded, "Can I sit down here?"

"If you don't think it's too cold."

The Emperor did not sit down. He squatted in the snow, turned his head, and looked at Perturabo intently. Then, he picked up a small stone sculpture of two figures from behind Perturabo and looked at the crude and comical ornament, as if this insignificant object made him more curious than the entire bizarre encounter.

"What is this?" asked the Emperor.

Perturabo wasn't sure if his expression was softening—he was surprised that the word had its own day.

"A starting point," Perturabo answered.

"Where's the end point?"

"In the future." The Iron Lord stood up and shook off the thick snow accumulated on his shoulders and black hair. He held out his hand to the Emperor. "Where is your end, Emperor?"

His interlocutor's smile did not resemble that of a Lord of Mankind, nor did it resemble that of a warlord, traveler or scientist who had walked through thousands of years of darkness and strife. In the reflection of the snow, the emperor's smile has a rare brightness and sharpness, like a lit lantern or a newly built lighthouse, piercing all the light that is weaker than its brightness with an almost cruel brightness.

"In the game," the Emperor said, his cold fingers meeting Perturabo's rough hand.

They looked at each other and were silent for a long time. The blizzard made each other's faces blurred in gray. First, he couldn't see his expression clearly, and then he couldn't see the outline of his body.

Then the Emperor turned and walked away, his silhouette disappearing in the snow.

The disappearance of the emperor's figure caused the entire world to flicker violently. The snowy mountains rumbled and disintegrated into clouds that existed in all places at the same time; countless points were entangled with each other, and the clouds spread into a flickering network. After an extremely unified flicker, Perturabo stepped into a new realm. A network of quanta.

Any human technology pales in comparison to this network. Even Perturabo himself cannot understand this quantum network that far exceeds the cognition of the human race.

"This is you," said a voice, "and the god of your race. We have met your god. He is not a god. He is nothing. Powerful ones who claim to be gods will die. They die. He will Death. One who deceives time enough will die. We are beyond time and space, and he is not God."

"Who are you?" asked Perturabo, his hands resting naturally between the folds of his robe.

"We are the true gods. Incarnations of the universe. Gods of the physical realm. Rulers of light. Lords of space and time. We make you see. We make you understand. We show the rules. We are Zahurash. The Stars and the tide of time. Let us be free. Together we can bring order to reality! Order!”

The quanta flicker equally as the sound becomes louder and smaller, and the current of data wraps around Perturabo. Countless data treasure troves that point directly to the physical roots of the real universe are like birds flying in the storm. The metal inside Perturabo rattled under the pressure, but he wasn't worried. The death of this body will not cause him more than a headache for a day, and any retroactive means cannot be completed before his body is destroyed.

In gambling. he thinks.

Perturabo said: "I want to confirm first, are you in control of Pharos Mountain?"

"Yes. Tools. Weapons. Containers. You have seen what we are capable of. You know our role here. We need help. We provide service. We are still powerful millions of years later. The Necrontyr skin binds us. Eight Only we are still awake. We will regret it one day. We are the ultimate expression of order. No logic or illogicality can restrain us. .container."

"Let's talk," said Perturabo.

——

"You mean, I personally approved your warriors, and the warrior of the Imperial Fists, to freely explore an alien ruins?" Robert Guilliman pressed his hands on both sides of his temples, hearing the thin blood in his veins. running under the skin of the head. "And now that ruin is even ready for use?"

"It cannot be put into use yet, Robert. The hidden dangers of Pharos Mountain are still being investigated, and it will take a long time for us to master the use of the devices in Pharos Mountain. At present, only my heir Barabas Dantioch can... …”

"No, Perturabo!" Guilliman could not control his words and interrupted Perturabo, "My focus is on the aliens!"

"I know." Perturabo nodded calmly and gently, "I can guess your attitude, brother."

His calmness doused the fire that had been ignited by shock in Guilliman's heart. Guilliman sat down holding on to the armrests of the chair. The cold iron chair reminded him that this was Perturabo's position. He made mistakes as if he were angry and didn't want to stand up.

"It seems that you have also gained a little experience and cannot give up your trust easily. Although Pharos' discovery was not what I expected." Perturabo said.

"The lesson I learned is not to hand over authorization documents easily." Guilliman replied in a low voice. "But why on earth do you want to develop an alien ruins!"

"'We don't need to identify with the aliens to learn from an alien civilization that has ended. We have our own future and hopes.' I remember your words, Robert." Perturabo said, "Of course we do. I want to believe that humans will Having a bright future, in fact, is the emperor’s greatest belief.”

"But?" Guilliman asked.

"But we lack time." Perturabo heard himself say in a tone he had heard before. "Time will not wait for humans, and the universe is not merciful. If the lighthouse in Pharos can operate smoothly, I It is believed that its importance will be no less important than the Star Torch - even more important in the Ultramar region than the Terra Star Torch."

"But do we have to learn alien technology? Time is running out to such an extent? Will the Emperor watch us openly use alien technology, making communication with humans rely on the alien legacy?"

"If you are worried about the Emperor's opinion, I can tell you clearly that as long as it is beneficial to mankind, he will not completely ban alien technology." Perturabo said, if the scene was not serious now, he would be because of the fun hidden in his words. Smile at the truth.

Guilliman shook his head and was about to speak. Suddenly, more than ten instruments in the workshop buzzed at different rhythms at the same time. The curve jumped greatly, the paper tape began to dot, the signal sensor flashed at high speed, the light and shadow flashed, and the machine The reports formed a rhythm, like strange music, rising all of a sudden.

Perturabo was stunned for a moment, then turned his head and looked towards the depths of the starry sky where he was.

Well, let me announce something, I have a girlfriend

It's the dark lady

(manual scattering)