Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

When I went out tonight, there was a pile of dead flesh lying on the street, with many irregular holes crushed by the spikes. I squatted down and stared at it, feeling that it was like a dead bird, with its fragile frame broken and rotting in the black blood without any reason.

I wonder if a dead bird would be afraid of me, like a whole city is afraid of me, the purple-black venom that buries them deep in their rotting hearts as they endure the torture squeezes through every violent, fear-laden pulse. Pressed out of the fragile and slender skin, it was peeled off along with the light tights with leaf-shaped blades attached.

I jumped onto the edge of the spire and hung myself on one of the hard spikes. There were some small mistakes here. I misjudged the distance and encountered a puncture in my hand. From between the second and third metacarpal bones, the black iron seemed to have grown on the back of my hand.

I debated whether to keep it as a representation of scars and a convenient concealed weapon. No, I don't want this troublesome thing to interfere with my crafting.

I freed myself from the spikes and climbed back to the top.

I saw the dimensions of the labyrinth stretching above me, flickering, straddling the real and the invisible, silvered like the mercury-coated back of a palace mirror, or part of a dirty veil dropped into a sewer. The city is like a tumor of flesh and blood parasitizing in the broken veil, moving along the yarn, communicating the network and reality, like...

The remains of a burning jetbike traced an elegant arc through the air, its smoke and flames twisting before me and melting into a dripping black mirror.

Familiar hallucinations enveloped me.

I saw another city spread out in front of me in the dark, and I saw my pursuit of a strange boy. Nostramo, I know its name even more than the dark city where I am now.

I watched him try to sneak up on me, using the toy-like knife in his hand, and wondered why the threads of fate kept showing me a lighter, simpler world.

No, that knife must have been smeared with a more deadly acidic venom, and the assassin's blood vessels should be filled with neurotoxins with a higher concentration than the blood.

Alien mercenaries, unknown pirates, and criminal traitors should board thousands of ships and dock in the raised spines of the port, and immerse themselves in the world without a unified government together with the despicable and selfish sadists and murderers. In the carnival, sinking and degenerating in the upper and lower limits of nobles and human sticks - haha, the scientific name of human sticks is freaks, I guess.

Those organisms modified from flesh and blood have various chemicals, growth agents, and steroids flowing through their muscles. The sharp claws and cleavers transplanted at the end of their arms are full of poison, and bright emerald green agents are in the channels on their bodies. Flow, sparing them pain and allowing them to pursue their fleeing prey endlessly.

I suddenly laughed out loud. For all the darkness, torture and sadism above, I really can't imagine what kind of fate it is that a human being trying to stab me with a toy knife would be so comical that when I fell into During the endless hunt, as a boring little program to adjust my mood, it was played in front of my eyes and in my ears, so that the never-ending dark hunting journey would not fall into a boring cycle.

I let my endless joy indulge in my wild laughter, and outside the hallucination I heard the evil that was erupting in the dark city under the spire like overflowing bubbles piling up where I was. Murder and betrayal are not worth mentioning, torture and torture are worthy of small talk.

I don't know whether all this chaos is the extreme decadence triggered by the rumored Great Fall, or the dryness of souls inherited from the ancient alien empire.

By the way, I actually like to call the explosion at the end of the Eldar decline the Autumn. I learned this term from the human city that flashed before me repeatedly. This often makes me feel closer to the human world.

During my...interesting growth process, I was happy to cherish every minute I spent peeking into human society, imagining the weakness and emptiness I would gain when I grew up on a planet that did not belong to me. I would have leisure to conceive of justice and evil, to carve up a world where there was still light, and to weep when my beautiful imagination was thwarted.

I was thrown out of the illusion and fell back into the reality where I was. My neck was in severe pain, my consciousness was drifting around the edge, my limbs were experiencing meaningless twitches, and my brain was stirred like a puddle of vomit that would be vomited by the work of a master of flesh and blood art. But I know how to enjoy this sweet pain, to drink from it a drop of the highest beauty in my senses.

In the abandoned areas where the structure or dimension collapsed, the skeletal ruins infested by monsters, and the boiling poison, in the long process of learning all the knowledge I needed from the Haemonculi, I understood the meaning of pain to me.

I heard a cry for help coming from the steeple, and his clever and complex language identified him. I shifted into a more comfortable sitting position, swinging my legs over the edge of the spire, letting the dirty night wind blow against my pale skin. I listened to their voices of struggle, and after the illusion faded, I was immersed in the local drama that Youdu had selflessly presented to me.

After three minutes and eleven human society seconds passed, the supplicant succeeded in killing his deceived enemy. This is how the capital works.

Sin City. I think this is the city I love so much. I can kill any creature here, no matter who is buried under my nails, I can instantly list a thousand reasons.

This is the bloody feast to which I was born, the seat of my genius and my soul, my court and my throne—I pronounce Gomo guilty, and I am guilty.

"Conrad," he called me, and I heard my companion's voice. Every time he calls me, I have to suppress the urge to rip out his heart and taste it, forcing the bloody sweetness to be pushed back from between my teeth into the depths of my brain.

Does this symbolize my conscience? Symbolizing my innocence?

"Conrad Curze. The Bloody Marquis." He whispered softly, standing in the middle of the street under the spire, in the center of darkness, as if stepping on the heart of Youdu.

I turned over and fell from the spire, into the depths of despair where all the mistakes of the past are repeated, sinking into the irrevocable night and the marginalized fearful, drawing eternal pain from the overlapping shadows and profound ingredients of life, like a swollen Spiders lurk in giant webs of shadow and pain, or blood-thirsty night bats crash between distant spiers and towers that touch the night sky, in the complexity of borders and the multitude of sloping pier masts jutting out from towers and the power of electromagnetism Crackling across every berth, swallowing evil together with the dark city, spitting the putrid air back into the void.

The dead bird. I suddenly remembered it. Yes, I know what that is. one person. A captured body was transported to our sinful city on a slave ship, tortured and mutilated, and then dumped in the middle of a blood-soaked street. The body awaited alongside the twisted bones and slime accumulated over millions of years. The thick liquid flowed into the flickering embers of the dying Eldar empire.

But his soul will be free. This is the best joke tonight - no matter how weak a human being is, his dead soul is freer than the most powerful Gemoling clan.

Why did I almost forget to mention it?