Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

It all started with a crossbow arrow.

It crosses the ocean and connects the world, burning with purple and gold flames, finding its way along the twisted and changeable overlapping threads, until the colorful and bright deep pink color suddenly appears in the lush and harmonious garden soil, bringing warmth and beauty to the little creatures. The scene of play burned into black ashes.

The Corruptor holds up its naughty and adorable children and sadly touches the ashes left by their burning.

That disgusting purple mist, why does it hurt its good children like this again? If you really want that pointed-eared goddess of life, then be brave enough to come directly to it - although of course it won't hand over the little guy who can drink a lot of medicinal soup.

It stretched out its tentacles and probed into the vast river in the sky, thinking irritably about making some kind of response. Where is the scent of the thirsty strongest? Here, there, everywhere.

It grabbed a dead soul that was floating away and smelled the soul.

Ah, it is a split strand of the fire taken away by the traitor, belonging to the third legion under the cursed one. The source of the fire is a beautiful flame that moves restlessly.

What a well-behaved flame with the gift of decay, it just fell into the heartless stomach and intestines of the hungry and thirsty person, oh...

It continues to stir the viscous swamp mud soup, touching some images in the depths of the ether of oily transformed light. Swordsmanship, music, politics... there is a suitable little guy who is particularly afraid of despair and death, and he also has some talent for brewing medicine.

With a bit of condemnation and a gentle heart, it quietly thought that it must persuade him carefully in the future. After decay, there will be eternal life.

With a goal and a breakthrough, it then looks for the soup it wants.

Finally, it fished out a disease.

This is not a disease it deliberately sows, but it likes the name sentient beings give it, blight.

Then, from now on, it is a disease deliberately sown by the rotten.

yield. child. Stop in your tracks.

——

Fulgrim did not recognize them.

Of course, when they died in wars, diseases, and lost their lives in the cold snow fields, mud, and operating tables, the purple-robed phoenix was still in Chemos, exchanging glasses of wine and feasting with his political allies.

They have never met.

Ghosts still gather, emerging from the garden's bogs and trees. Their armor was pale and covered in a painful and blurry coat, and the festered skin caused by genetic diseases continued to fall from their bodies in the form of ash after death.

At first there were dozens of people, then hundreds, or even more than a thousand souls, faded, thin, identical in appearance, and gray and white, like silhouettes separated from the same soul, bringing with it a cold and dark aura. Their power overwhelmed the black grass that stood up like fingers on the ground, causing the aura of despair to spread in pure grief, forming a wave-like colorless haze.

Those disgusting but prosperous flowers, trees and vines were struck in their pain, and even voluntarily gave up further reproduction. They withered one after another, quietly melting into the decaying and silent dying world, and fell into a hopeless gray. Dead silence.

What will they say? Fulgrim thought as more ash fell from his left hand and face.

Will they blame me? Because of my absence?

The desolate emotions of a sad soul have affected his soul, and even if one is aware of this, it is not easy to resist. He was getting weaker bit by bit.

Regardless, Fulgrim raised his flaming sword. In this dark corner of the garden, even the color of the sword was lost.

"I'm sorry," he said solemnly. Death is the only gift he can give them.

If they resented him, he couldn't change anything. This is a flaw and stain in his career, a destined imperfection. To be more precise, it is a particularly profound one among the countless ugly scars that are destined to be destined.

It is a known, latent fistula, a fear beneath arrogance, a scar beneath the surface.

If he thinks he is perfect, why should he pursue perfection?

The Milky Way is cold and will not leave any space for incomplete failure to survive.

As Fulgrim pointed his sword at the melancholy and heartbreaking ghosts, they finally responded. Not to fight back, but to retreat. From the gray skin of their faces, which were as stiff as shrouds, pairs of empty eyes looked at him sadly.

Still no ghost made a move, and some ghosts in front caught a plain white robe from the solemn and stagnant air, with blue-green dark light slowly flowing on it, and light yellow bright lines like the lines on the wings of a butterfly. Another group of ghosts presented Fulgrim with a plain hood, floating quietly, as if they expected Fulgrim to bow their heads for them, allowing them to put on a veil and robe for him. .

If they wanted to touch the top of his head, Fulgrim would have to lower himself to a certain level. For example, kneel down.

On his return to the Legion, he knelt for the living Legion members. But the soldier who left too soon did not receive his apology.

Father. they seemed to say. Father.

A true warrior shouldn't hesitate, but a derelict father will.

Then, a sword was swung out.

Not Fulgrim's pale flaming sword, nor the ghost's pale, gray crystal-like broken sword.

It was a brand new sharp blade, with silver light shining and bright sharpness. It was held by a warrior wearing a brand new squire's armor. It was like a bright white light crashing down from lightning, fast and sharp, fierce and determined.

In the sword's power, wherever the ghost was touched, it was ignited by a bright golden fire. The gradient from orange-red to light gold instantly pierces the faded canvas of the rotten world, shining the bright and true light of life savagely into the damp garden.

A swordsman with the same body as a ghost, but the outline of his body was clearly outlined by the shining golden light. With his back to Fulgrim, he raised his purple-gold sword towards the pale and faded legion, blocking the way. Between the dead soul and the purple phoenix.

Just behind the purple-gold flame, Fulgrim felt an inexplicable warmth spreading from the depths of his body.

"Are you..." he asked softly.

"Lycaon, father," the warrior answered loudly, his tone high. "Let me fight for you!"

Fulgrim felt a little nervous. He didn't ask why Lycaon was here. He just took a step forward and stood side by side with the warrior.

"I came too late." Phoenix said. "I made mistakes."

I'm not perfect.

"Indeed," Lycaon nodded seriously, and continued: "But you are here, father! That's enough!"

"I will cherish this opportunity." Fulgrim said, unable to grasp his emotions. He seemed to have regained the strength to draw his sword.

Under Lycaon's attack, the ghosts finally slowly grasped their swords, but Fulgrim was faster than them. If the Primarch wanted to, no one could touch even a hem of his clothes.

Just think of it as for the dead.

"Are they real?" Phoenix asked.

"Father," Lycaon said with a smile. His soul was not without traces of the pain of being transformed, tortured and restrained, but the look he looked at Fulgrim was enough to offset all of this. "No matter what, the real us It’s impossible to resent you as long as you keep moving forward!”

The high-heat flaming sword and Lycaon's burning purple-gold sword swung at the army of the undead, dancing in the halo of grief, blooming in the gray and black old world. There is no need to distinguish whether they are real imprisoned souls or illusions fabricated by evil gods. Brilliant flames will destroy gray death.

The ashes that fell from the erosion of the Phoenix body and the ashes that fell when the ghost was burned fell together in the ashes of the dead wood and rusty iron garden, and then rose up with Fulgrim's every step. , burning out the last sparks in the high temperature.

Lycaon's sword could inflict eternal and complete damage to the dead, but Fulgrim's sword could not. The ghosts seemed to be protected by some kind of corrosive nature. When the flaming sword passed through their bodies, what was corroded was the blade made by Ferrus Manus, one of the top craftsmen in the galaxy.

When Fulgrim thrust out his sword, thinking it would be in vain again, his ghosts began to burn.

He was slightly startled, and soon found that it was another ghost who made the move.

The ghost was pierced by Lycaon's burning purple-gold sword, and his whole body burned with a destructive cold golden light like a blazing flame. However, just before his destruction really came, he seemed to have regained his consciousness, or made some determination, and used his fire-stained weapon to wield the sword for Fulgrim.

Go ahead. Fulgrim seemed to hear a voice.

Much faster than Lycaon doing it alone, this kind of real death that is almost like a fire ritual is almost a chain of diffusion. With Fulgrim as the center, the ring of fire spreads outward, and in a short, incalculable period of time, Within a short period of time, the golden fire quickly ignited dozens or even hundreds of faceless soul forms, causing them to burn in bright and heroic flames.

They do so voluntarily.

At the feet of these ghosts, withered plants and small creatures whispered anxiously, seemingly unable to understand what was happening. Ghosts could obviously live and extend their lives forever, but they didn't. Here they burn themselves to ashes. Soon, these native creatures burst out with fire for the only time in their lives, and then burned into charcoal and ash, leaving a burned-out darkness on the ground.

The scorching heat surrounded Fulgrim, which was shockingly hot. More ash fell from Fulgrim's arms, and the corrosion continued, but he didn't say a word. The souls of his children were dying, which was also a relief. His body or soul is suffering trauma, so let it go. Whether it was pain or lingering fatigue, they were all melted in this flame, and a warm feeling surrounded his soul.

Fulgrim took a step forward, closer to the center of thousands of dead souls. Lycaon escorted him, and the thick ash reached the warrior's ankles. In the distance, at the black and green end of the Corrupt Garden, the dusk paradise is still frozen in a dead and twisted false peace, seeming to maintain some ridiculous and cringing self-proclaimed prosperity.

"I know I'm not perfect," Fulgrim said, some ash staining his peeling face and falling into his purple robe. There was no longer a strong rancid smell in the air, and the special flame brought a piece of clean air that filled his surroundings.

"You are moving forward, father," Lycaon replied. The light on his body was fading. He came alone, and the golden spiritual energy he carried was draining away, leaving a clean and light fragrance. "We would like to be your sons, no?" Because you are perfect. You deserve our love, you are the eternal phoenix.”

"Then why not love a wind, an ocean, a sun?" Fulgrim laughed, as ashes piled up around him. This is not just the ashes of the ghosts, but the remains of the burned objects in the garden itself. And, of course, his own. “Those things are much more permanent than me.”

"They just exist, and you are soaring." Lycaon replied, "If you don't give up your pursuit for a day, we will not leave you for a day."

Fulgrim nodded calmly and patted Lycaon on the shoulder. The Primarch noticed that more enemies were gathering towards his location. Those were the real enemies, covered in rot, glowing with a strange and ugly green light, and flowing with abscesses and bad blood. The dim yellow sky became even darker, as if red and yellow blood was about to seep out. Their actions attracted the attention of more monsters, and this time, no one would turn against him.

"I could do no better than you, my son," Fulgrim said.

The warrior smiled at him, then thrust the sword upright into the ashes on the ground.

There was not much left of the ghost at this time, but the ashes that had burned once immediately began to burn again, continuing to expand outward from the periphery of the ghost's ashes, even if they did not go beyond it, they were extinguished by the damp garden mire. Tiny flames are burning everywhere in the ashes, climbing up the drooping leaves, tracing the outline of the dead trees, leaping hotly in every corner from the ground to the sky, circling, dancing, and rising to higher places.

It clearly originates from dead things, from the ashes of a long dead life, but the music brought by the burning of the fire is more vital than any elegant music in the court, crackling and singing loudly, full of pride.

I'm proud of them. Phoenix thought, listening to his expectant voice in the flames. I love them as they love me and as they love this galaxy.

Ah, was that a call to him? Those indistinguishable encouragements, inaudible songs, and the last war cry embraced his soul. As long as you are alive, we will live with you. If you had not fallen, we would never have left.

When the narration in his soul gradually dissipated, the falling ashes covered his body.

The flames stirred up the wind, and the bright embers rose high into the sky, like the golden wings of thousands of flying eagles rising at dusk, gathering into majestic feathers of fire, illuminating the sky in another bright form. Exit the top floor of the garden.

The metal roof, the gorgeous columns, the flying buttresses, his ship. Ship of the Emperor's Children. It was the hot, fiery Milky Way, a corner of reality lit by the life-fire of the dead.

Lycaon looked at him in the flames. The edges of the flames around his body danced into free purple and gold patterns in the miracle of life, rough and powerful, almost transparent but extremely vigorous. In the firelight, he gradually disappeared and merged into a part of the fire. Being briefly a vehicle of power had burned through the carrying capacity of his soul.

"Goodbye, father. Rotten things are never immortal." Lycaon gestured to him like an eagle, and the golden light gradually faded away. "For the Emperor!"

"And the fight never ends." Fulgrim said goodbye, watching Lycaon disappear in smoke and fire.

The purple-robed phoenix felt sweat pouring from his body, leaving traces in the soot all over his body. The flames covered his body, but did not harm him. Instead, they were woven into a long garment of flames, attached to his purple robe, just like the phoenix itself was burning endlessly, with glowing embers peeling off its body. The ends of his silver hair also began to burn, and sparks spread on his shoulders, weaving into feathers of living fire.

In front of him, the trees that had been burned for a long time suddenly broke and collapsed with a loud noise, with smoke and fire still coming out of the broken lines.

Fulgrim held the flaming sword in one hand.

Corroded by highly toxic and strong acids, it became rusty and incomplete. However, at this moment, it is burning. Near the hilt of the sword is a rich golden-purple light, and the end is shining with bright light gold, jumping energetically and stirring the air around it.

Flaming Sword.

Behind the thick smoke ahead, something seemed to be stirring the smoke of the fire and the hot air, approaching Fulgrim. Fulgrim faced him with his sword. He observed the enemy as it appeared, calmly facing its rotten and stinking twisted legs several meters high, and its pink belly protruding from its dark green body.

A good duel master will know how to exploit the opponent's weaknesses. Fulgrim fought with this hulking monster calmly, using the ignited sword to dismember the monster piece by piece, dodging at the right time, and quickly And nimbly cut the opponent's limbs, jump back, take off, strike after strike, until the enemy's defense is completely reduced. He fought intently, and the ichor splashed from the monster's body was burned in the fire before it could reach Fulgrim.

Soon, the huge demon was completely cut open, and the decaying liquid flowed into the ashes, forming a torrent like a water channel. Fulgrim put his foot on the monster's back, stuck his sword into it with one hand, and looked around. His left hand had completely turned into fly ash, blending into the embers that filled the sky. Fulgrim tried sealing the wound with the fire on his sword, and after enough ash was burned away, the deterioration stopped.

He smiled, raised his chin, and glanced at the small devils surrounding him. The monsters each have their own twisted forms, missing or adding limbs, their bloated organs are exposed, their eyes are like moths breaking out of cocoons, tusked spikes protrude from their shoulders, and their intestines and blood vessels are like iron chains. Generally hung on the outside. there are more. Some are big and some are small, some are high and some are low, poking out of trees, emerging from swamps, and emerging from the soil.

join us. They said in a muffled and disgusting voice. We will love you.

No, Phoenix smiled, no. He doesn't like dead things. Because he is loved by living souls.

He fought in a field of ash fire with an endless stream of dead things, spinning his flaming sword and burning away the corrupted blood. He even had some time to think about Vulcan. Now I borrow a little bit of Salamander's characteristic flames and hold the sword of the Iron Hand. What a battle worth admiring.

The fire burned through the skin and blood of the rotten things, bursting with irresistible force. Corruptions surrounded him and attacked him in various ways. Fulgrim responded as usual, fighting freely, burning the filthy blood and putrid corpses, his robes of fire billowing as if dancing in the fire. Different animal limbs began to pile up at his feet, forming a stage of ashes.

More rotten corpses fell at his feet, and Fulgrim looked into the distance, looking for the exit of the garden between battles. He could clearly see the flaws in these rotten monsters, but he couldn't find a way out of the entire garden.

Fulgrim!

Someone called him, the voice was very familiar and trembling.

"Magnus?" Fulgrim asked.

+It's me! + Magnus said, only his voice was heard, but his person was not seen. But there was indeed a red gold power that began to cover his body, forming a pair of combat boots that supported his feet and lifted him out of the corrupted blood pool. +Throne, I finally found you! +

"Can you find the exit?" Fulgrim asked. "Besides, I'm glad to hear your voice."

+I can't...vomit...+ Magnus coughed dryly, +I can't, I can't even help myself...here you are, the Emperor discovered you. +

"Is there anything I can help with, my brother?" Fulgrim smiled, and his tone was particularly lively when he mentioned the theoretical blood connection between the two.

+Alive! +Magnus said,+They were all scared to death! Perturabo and Ange...+

The sound stopped suddenly, but the boots remained.

His brothers were watching him, waiting for him. Even if it all started with a mistake made by Fulgrim himself.

Fulgrim touched his face, because his left eye had just turned into ashes, and he was able to stop the trend of continuing to collapse. The fire burned his face, wrapped around his jaw, and washed his cheeks with high temperature and burning. After his purple robe was contaminated with the pus of the evil thing, it was burned to ashes by the golden fire and covered his body in the form of ash.

In the lake of ashes and blood, Fulgrim fought on. He wasn't sure if time was distorted here, stuck in a long slit.

Time passed, and after fighting long enough, he started to get hurt. He bleeds. Sweat flowed into his eyes, and the blood-red and brown-yellow grid on the world was compressed in his field of vision. The disease tried every possible way to eat away at him, and his battles went awry. He didn't have time to make any more decisions. There were times when he thought he was going to fall, or lose his sword.

But he didn't.

The fire still burned in him. Wherever the sword's edge touched, rotten matter turned into ashes, and fire broke out.

Then he heard singing. Coming from the deepest part of the garden, it found him through some kind of connection. It was light and distant, stirring his thoughts and echoing softly. It was a song without words, not a human voice, but it penetrated the miasma of illness and fear, bringing hints of clear springs and healing, and flowing with vitality that was exactly contrary to the decay of this place. and the voice of hope.

The song was short-lived, but it did sustain Fulgrim's power, helping him through the period when the Emperor's Golden Flame began to wane.

After that, he began to burn his own power. This seemed to be a talent and ability that he learned without any teacher. He learned to draw out a part of himself to provide more fuel for the flaming sword. The fire became alive again.

Finally, he saw a ray of golden light suddenly appear in the dusk of the garden, breaking through the rotten world, echoing the fire in him.

+My son, come. +

Fulgrim closed his eyes, then opened them quickly. The flames on the sword grew stronger.

He laughed proudly.