Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Why did Morse reject me again?

A week ago, when Perturabo woke up from the ground and looked up at the back of Morse's chair, this sentence was jumping repeatedly in his heart, even covering the fatigue on his body.

He deliberately brushed the question from his heart, trying to save some precious pride for himself, but all the self-encouragement only wiped the sentence brighter and clearer.

Perturabo had to lift the thick white cloth that kept his body warm and asked loudly: "Morse, why can't you teach me to win?"

Then he heard the answer, which was exactly the same as the answer he got before he fell asleep.

"You have learned from the local stonemasons in Lokos." Morse's voice came through the back of the chair.

This was all the answer he got.

Perturabo didn't know if the anger he showed was too obvious, because in the next day, wherever he passed by, the people around him immediately shut their mouths and avoided his eyes, as if he could split them alive and swallow them.

In his heart, he angrily denounced the cowardice of others. Was he such a ruthless person, such a sadistic and unrestrained character?

At least he hadn't done anything out of the ordinary so far.

He would not do it in the future.

Thinking of this, he made a special note in his heart that the small scars he had inflicted on Morse a few months ago must not count.

Wandering around the whole circle, he visited every corner of the capital of Lokos, and saw nothing but ordinary things.

Soon, Perturabo had to return to the workshop to check the source of the burning pain caused by the friction between his sandals and the soles of his feet.

He should have been accustomed to the weakness of his mortal body, but it seemed that he had forgotten his current situation again.

This mistake from himself made him turn part of his anger back to his own mind. When he analyzed his behavior with a guilty look, reason returned accordingly.

Why did Morse reject me again?

Perturabo sat cross-legged on a soft cloth cushion. He and Morse both rejected the tyrant's brocade felt. Morse loved his rattan chair, and he sewed a cloth cushion with stitches dense enough to hold thirteen layers of leather. The pain from his ankles to his calves gradually eased. He counted the seconds, and countless thoughts in his mind swirled like a school of fish in the sea. He did nothing wrong, and did not violate the rules given to him by Morse; in the final analysis, Morse had never given him clear rules. Whether it was the cold words about the transaction or the urging and orders about frankness, they were all part of a vague rule. These hazy conditions together shaped an untouchable boundary. Perturabo was always aware of its existence, but he could not accurately locate it with words. He could not tell how many bushels of wheat Morse's patience had, nor how many drachmas Morse's tolerance needed to be exchanged. He groped and tried, but every time Perturabo thought he had won Morse's favor, the rope boundary that was like a spider's silk or a web would fall abruptly.

Didn't Morse want him to win? Didn't Morse have high hopes for him anymore?

Perturabo thought gloomily, picking the stitches of the cloth pad with the edge of his nails, gloomily fiddling with the most inconspicuous of his countless works, his eyes sliding over the large number of drawings and models scattered around, and falling on the one he made most carefully among his works.

Remade double stone statue.

He stood up against the wall and walked to the side of the stone statue.

Born from the idea of ​​the stone statue he first fought with Morse, he applied all the knowledge and skills he had learned recently to it, and every line and every bend was carefully calculated from the drawings to the wax model.

However, his heart was still beating against his chest with worry.

Perturabo gently touched the war hammer held by his image in the stone statue. The wave of hesitation carried the angry boat, sometimes lifting it up, sometimes submerging it.

He read a vague lack from the object he carefully constructed, but he could not find a breakthrough.

What necessary knowledge did he lack in the carving process?

The craftsmen in this backward country could not complete his teaching.

And if Morse could take a look, everything would be solved.

Just one instruction, he obviously only wanted one instruction.

He picked up the awl from the tools and was about to modify some meaningless places, when a thin, folded snow-white paper appeared from under the awl.

He immediately knew the source of the paper, and the waves in his heart calmed down instantly, leaving only a little shame and annoyance that made his hands tremble.

Perturabo quickly unfolded the paper to the light.

Then he witnessed how economical a man who always said that he would tell everything in words, not let others guess his thoughts, so that the communication between each other could reach the peak of efficiency, was.

There may be many indicators that cannot be quantified for Morse, but his words must be sold at a high price, and their value is equivalent to the gold reserves of several city-states.

On the paper, a short line of handwriting reads: "Who is Arachne?"

"He is simply incomprehensible!" Perturabo blurted out.

"Who?"

Sitting opposite Perturabo, observing the various lifestyles of the citizens who were gradually gathering below the platform, Andos was suddenly called back to reality by Perturabo's voice.

Andos subconsciously replied with a word, turned his head, and saw a boy whose face was a little red from the summer morning sun, torturing the edge of his cushion with his nails.

Perturabo kept his mouth shut, telling himself that Andros must have heard wrong.

Soon, Andos's confused face slowly turned away. The boy just breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Callifon whispering to the waiter, and then he personally placed a drink on the three-color concentric with mythical pattern in the center. The rimmed disc walked towards him, leaned down, and handed the fruit drink two feet in front of him.

Perturabo expressed his refusal with a sustained gaze, and Calliphon was lifeless.

"We should set up parasols here." The daughter of Lokos said with a smile. "Obviously there are no priests from the religious religion to preside over today, but everyone still abides by the custom of not blocking the sight of the gods with a canopy."

"You are too backward." Perturabo said bluntly.

"Maybe." Callifon held the tray with both hands and stood up straight again. A soft strand of hair was hung on her cheek by the breeze. "Maybe comparing the knowledge we have with the knowledge held by your teacher, there is indeed a long river of distance."

Perturabo felt his hands gradually tense up on the brocade cushions. He didn't know what went wrong, so he had to attribute everything to the fact that he was still worried about Morse.

After all, he didn't even know if a man in black would appear in the spectator seats on the high platform today.

"This is exactly the truth of the matter. Morse's knowledge is an endless storehouse." Perturabo suppressed his confused mood and said with confidence, "But you can put down your worries, I will get Lokos's approval. Use my ability to lead the Lokos people to overcome difficulties and regain their lives."

Kalifon looked at the sea of ​​people under the high platform. It was getting late, the sun was getting higher, and people had already filled the streets in front of the palace with their bodies and voices.

Different lively faces are chatting happily, boasting about recent experiences, sharing wonderful things at home, and wondering about the existence of the high platform. Square patches on robes, newly made simple ornaments, yellow pottery kettles, hair towels, fruits with stones to be sold in the market, vegetables with seeds, and all kinds of fresh soil. Living things are spread out nicely under the bright sky.

Her eyelashes fluttered slightly, and the shadow of the white vulture in the sky passed over her face, as if her face itself was making waves. After the light and shadow passed by, she was as elegant as ever.

"Lokos will thank you." Callifon said, "If that day comes, your statue will replace the statue of the late king at the city gate. But people are here, and I have to go back to my place first."