Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

"I'm awake," prompted Perturabo.

Morse glanced at him and ignored him.

He lay in the wicker chair and used a knife with a shorter blade to whet his wood. The sawdust disappeared before it fell on the black clothes, and if one looked carefully, one would find that they had formed a small mound in the corner of the room.

Perturabo stared at Morse for a moment, as if to warn him with his eyes that he should no longer remain indifferent.

His mind was still hazy, as if a tight layer of gauze had bound it, causing trembling spots of gray and white to overlap before his eyes. Fatigue made his limbs heavy, like bound steel that could not be moved.

Thirty seconds later, Perturabo lay down again. The touch of the pillow on the back of his head made him unsure when Morse's temperament would reverse, and he found a normal soft quilt, mattress and pillow for him.

Then he judged from the palace tassels hanging down from the pillow and the soft brocade cloth that it was not Morse that he should be grateful for.

"Harcon is here," Morse said slowly, with the soothing rhythm of his words like a knife scraping wood. "Apologise for his negligence and declare your victory."

He used a little force on the tip of the knife to trim the arc on the outside of the wood. "I told him that when you wake up, you will claim your prize. I believe you have thought about the content."

"Hmm," said Perturabo. Morse used repeated teachings to make him understand the terms that need to be announced after payment. "I heard that the library of Lokos has been in dust for many years, and the key to the door is in the hands of the royal family."

"Good choice," Morse said, blowing lightly to stop the sawdust from interfering with the blade's operation.

Perturabo looked at the familiar ceiling from bottom to top, and there was still a gloomy fog in his mind. His body was hot, but his forehead felt cold, as if being rolled up by the shaking tide, and everything was unclear.

Then he remembered how he had fallen.

He immediately became belatedly angry, raising his own weight on his elbows, blood pounding in the pipes.

"Someone is tampering with the water." Perturabo gritted his teeth angrily.

His anger was directed more toward himself, because he was gullible and easily fell into the trap, and fell into Morse's arms in front of others.

This was a thousand times more uncomfortable than the pain of his body's skin.

"Prince Callifon has come to explain this matter to me." Morse turned over one side of the wood and did some research on the other surface. "The poisoner committed suicide before he could be questioned, as did the man I captured."

"I allow their deaths to be swift."

Morse let the air of disdain roll out from the gap between his teeth, "That person actually thought of poisoning me with deception. Who did they think they could deceive?"

Perturabo felt that Morse was making oblique insinuations. The pain in his nerves was still attacking his thinking area, like someone hitting his head with a blunt instrument.

"Lie down a little longer, kid," Morse advised him in a straight voice.

Perturaboy lay back on his bed as he was told, with many questions lingering in his mind, rising and falling one after another.

He thought about this sudden attack, about Harkon, Andos and Callifon, and when Morse arrived at the scene and disguised himself as an ordinary citizen, and went up to the stage to personally celebrate his performance. The ending.

He remembered yesterday - if he hadn't been comatose for more than a day, it was yesterday. Morse finally praised him frankly, and then the gorgeous honey-like flowers grew seductively in his heart, almost reflecting reality. In his dream, the radiance of wakefulness reflected from the dreamlike beauty.

He thought that Morse had been watching him, and his heart softened.

"Do you know who is going to throw the poison, Morse?" Perturabo asked, turning his head.

"Theoretically, I don't know. It's just that the jealousy of other countries has finally drifted to Lokos. This kind of plotting tyrant can be encountered fifty-two times a year."

Morse had some difficulties with the carving of the wooden block. Logically speaking, he should have painted an extremely retro eagle image on the front of the badge, but he had always hated Rome; it would have been ironic to carve a cross with two lines crossing it. is too big.

"Actually?"

Morse placed the block of wood on the table next to the chair and threw it over with the knife. He felt calm when he saw it out of sight. He turned his wicker chair around to face Perturabo.

"The man who came to me was the brother of a Lokos soldier. The man who came to you on the stage was a spy from another country."

"Are the Lokos involved?"

"His brother died on the way to pick you and me up. Remember those three soldiers?"

Of course Perturabo remembered. The boy and he looked at each other for a few seconds, and the two of them agreed to skip this topic.

They each have their own reasons for being unable to express feelings of mourning, and they are unwilling to pretend in front of each other, giving the illusion of how noble their morals are and how sentimental their psychology is.

What the boy cares more about is actually another thing.

"The other half of your story came from Callifon's mouth." He said, "When did you communicate the information to her! Why can't you tell it directly to me in person?"

"Because I want you to hear other people's voices. I want you to hear not just my voice, but the voices of others."

In addition, he also hoped that the princess would be willing to take care of Perturabo for him in the future. He was beginning to feel tired; it was hard to imagine how parents in this world could raise one or more children to maturity.

Perturabo tilted his head in disapproval.

Morse touched the table, hooked his fingers on the gold-trimmed fruit plate, and let the plate containing a plate of juicy grapes slide to the armrest of the chair within easy reach.

He ate one himself and threw the other at Perturabo; Perturabo caught it, sat up straighter, and leaned against the head of the bed to eat the sugary fruit.

"Talk to me about your thoughts, kid." Morse said casually and vaguely as the grapes rolled and burst in his mouth.

Perturabo chewed the fruit into pieces, "The same story is narrated by two people. Will the content be biased? It's not that I don't want to hear what you have to say."

He let the two slightly pointed teeth in his mouth collide, rubbing out a sound that only he could hear through his bones.

He knew Morse was right, if he wanted to lead the Lokos forward, he would have to listen to the voices of the Lokos. What he saw and received gave him examples.

But Perturabo was still a little confused.

"But I don't want to talk so much with you all the time." Morse closed his eyes and leaned his head lightly on the upper edge of the back of the chair.

"Is that so?" Perturabo looked at him suspiciously.

"Hurry up and tell the truth." Morse closed his eyes and issued an order. He didn't want to put up with Perturabo's old problems.

Perturabo sat up straighter again. He has become much more awake from the stupor of poisoning, and can therefore regain the rationality of his flexible existence.

He swallowed the fruit, then hugged the quilt, turned his head, and said in a low voice as calmly as possible: "I thought you were leaving again, Morse. I thought you were preparing for this."

"I couldn't let you see him for half a day, so you are suspicious?" Morse opened his eyes, his pupils moved, and he looked at Perturabo through his scattered and raised hair.

He pondered for a moment and said simply: "That's not bad."

"Huh?" Perturabo raised his eyebrows.

"Are you jealous for no reason that I only exchange letters with Princess Callifon, or are you speculating on more thoughts that I can't guess, that's a good thing. You don't want me to leave, but I'm in no hurry to leave, so this is not become a problem."

Morse laughed breathlessly.

He straightened his head again and melted into the wicker chair like cheese melting in the sun, showing an inseparable closeness to the chair.

"You think there's nothing wrong with me?" Perturabo felt a warm flow of heat rush to his body, making his mind run smoothly.

"Oh, I don't expect you to become perfect." Morse whispered, enjoying the silent service of the perfect chair that fits the human body structure. "As long as your problem does not hinder the big things, then you can have it."

He moved his shoulders to find a more comfortable angle.

"I won't repeat the grand truth. After all, you are a smart child, and I am the embodiment of laziness. I have nothing to say for now. If you are sleepy, then lie down. Don't disturb me."

The warmth retreated from Perturabo's head to the soles of his feet.

"The truth is that I can never be moved by your performance." Perturabo lay back on the pillow with force.

Morse murmured: "That's right, that's okay."