Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

The flame goes out. Thick fog flooded into the village again, lovingly caressing the rotting corpses half sunk in the soil. The dim clouds floated and moved slowly, and faint light poured down from the gaps in the clouds.

Soon, the last threads woven by the sun melted into the clouds and mist. The patter of rain began to fall, wrapping the surface of Barbarus in a hazy coldness. The independence of the objects themselves is reduced to an inseparable whole under the cover of thick fog. The buzzing sound of mosquitoes whispers in the mire, completing this unshakable realm of death.

Mortarion disappeared into the thick fog, even though his presence was still clearly visible to the two top psykers.

There were times when Morse would wonder what the Emperor was thinking, what theory behind his enigmatic actions supported him in choosing his end point, and a path to it.

Even though Morse often considered himself to be a follower who knew the earthly king relatively well, he still knew that the Emperor he knew was only a silhouette among the many faces of the Emperor. Or two. That's not all there is to this man who has lived through so many generations.

The boy wandering in the river, the man standing outside Nineveh, the knight on horseback with sword, the scholar at the stake, the farmer cultivating the fields, the cruel and blood-stained warlord, the counselor, the miracle, the everlasting Father, peace Mr...

The Imperium of Man, the Emperor.

"You made him angry, Emperor," Mors asked, wondering if this might be what the Emperor wanted. He could not see any loss or surprise on the dark-skinned face of the Lord of Humanity. There stood a figure like a statue of gold and jade, a blank and heartless mask.

In the thick fog, some subtle fluctuations were caused by Morse's words, spreading among the fine drizzle and the poisonous gas that seemed soft but was actually pungent.

"I know," the Emperor replied, shrinking back to mortal size. His dark gray robe is worn but clean, loose and strong, suitable for activities, running, and working. Some raindrops slid across his face along his dark brows and fell into his robe.

"Mortarion has finally become curious about you, Nyos."

The Emperor's spiritual energy has been restrained, and all the overflowing etheric light has been withdrawn. Morse met the Emperor's eyes, hoping it would help him learn more about the Emperor.

"He learned about your blood relationship with him; and considering what his adoptive father Nacre did to him, his reaction was better than I expected."

The Emperor listened quietly, as the raindrops wetted his hair more and the golden leaf crown on his hair.

"You can have a son." Morse hesitated when he said this.

The Emperor seemed to be thinking. He looked away, and Morse knew where he was looking, where Mortarion was heading.

Primarch No. 14 continues to walk towards the plains instead of the mountains. It is not difficult to imagine that Mortarion intends to find more villages. What he is looking for may be companions, maybe comrades, maybe just a place to live and a place to live. A nest of feet, but no longer family.

Then the Emperor looked away.

"If I had needed a son," said the Emperor, "I would not have come in golden armor."

Morse frowned.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Neos."

"Interests, emotions, and ideals. These are the three foundations of cooperation. Any chain that is strong enough can be put into use. And the collapse of any chain symbolizes the end." The emperor said. "Between you and me, we have all three."

His eyes told Morse that if the person who was here at this time was not a loyal person who had known him for tens of thousands of years, he would not have said any of these words.

The Emperor continued, in his own voice, a voice that spoke from ancient Eurasia into the thirtieth millennium, a cold voice of reason, a voice of choice and destiny that needed no comfort or tenderness.

"I cannot provide Mortarion with the emotional connection he needs. In both foreshadowing and deduction, he has been proven to be resistant to inadequate friendship. And our first meeting was already an irresistible one. A disaster of redemption.”

"Therefore, I will not be showing him a father figure."

"The master of the Twilight Raiders will be just a legion leader who follows the Skyhawk because of common ideals and interests, rather than a contradictory person who longs for and hates father's love."

"Tools." Morse paused, "Weapon, general, master of the legion, ally in battle, and enemy of witchcraft. This is what you ask of him."

The Emperor nodded slightly. "I want him to destroy the force of his enemies, throw their corpses under golden thrones, and chop off their heads."

"But not the heir." Morse asked tentatively.

The Emperor spoke: "Angron, Robert Guilliman, Perturabo... already have the Primarch of the first family, and they all rarely call me father."

There was neither displeasure nor joy in the words of the Lord of Mankind. He was just stating, and his tone could even be said to contain a certain gentleness floating in the fog.

"But they still fought for the Great Crusade. That was enough. When they looked at the evil and miracles in the world, they knew why they were fighting."

Morse's expression turned a little unhappy for a moment.

"You are truly a merciful monarch," he said in a low voice, "who is willing to hand over the truth to those who have the misfortune to become his heirs."

The Emperor glanced into the distance.

"Not really," he said. "I will leave the emotional tether to Horus Luperkar. He is naturally good at this."

The Emperor looked at Morse. "Maybe you can too."

"Me?" Morse shrugged, "I'll forget it, this is not my talent. I will accompany you until Mortarion officially joins the Great Crusade and then leave."

"Okay." The Emperor said slowly.

Morse suddenly thought of a question.

"If you knew that Mortarion would hate you," he asked, his tone cautious, "I mean, if this matter became a publicly known fact, under what circumstances would you still treat him like this? Treat him like a son, give him a gift, give him a token forged by your own hands, and when he rejects you, you allow him to take another weapon, allow him to fight you, accuse you of taking away his victory, and Do you still trust him until the end?"

The Emperor did not look at Morse or speak.

"When you occasionally decide to be selfish," Morse said with determination.

The Emperor stood silent, his gaze tracing the distance, tracing the cracks the scythe had carved in the earth as Primarch Fourteen staggered through the mist.

Even without the armor on, the shadow of the sword in the emperor's hand was still lit up, and fire surged out, sweeping out a blazing wind, and igniting a lantern-like light in the thick fog.

"Come," said the Emperor.

Morse shook his head and followed closely behind the Lord of Mankind.

——

"Although our misleading truth sounds really immoral, I am still happy to tell you the truth about my performance with the Emperor. First of all, your father is not acting at all. Whenever I want to help him change Mortarion's impression of him is that he must use his damn words from the bottom of his heart to put all the good hesitations that your brother was finally born into back into the sewer."

"Sometimes I think he is just a blind general wandering around in a maze. He doesn't listen to anyone except the crutch in his hand, and he doesn't believe anyone."

"When it comes to misleading truth, I often think that there is a difference between using misleading as the purpose, using wording that does not violate the facts, and using direct lies, that is, whether there is still a trace of moral bottom line. Desperate respect... No, let’s get back to the topic, Perturabo.”

"After that day, Mortarion wandered in the wasteland for a long time. Under the yellow mist at dawn, he walked through many places destroyed by death, dodging the pursuit of the sorcerous overlord, or the regular soldiers sent by the psychic aliens. Looting the party. If the pursuers are not many, he lets his scythe taste their blood."

"He actually doesn't know where he wants to go. I can only say that he does have tenacity in specific force competitions."

"Furthermore, without your robot guards, this is another person you can't defeat in hand-to-hand combat."

In the mist, Mortarion sharpened his scythe.

He picked up a rough stone and rubbed the scythe's blade repeatedly with it, dealing with the gaps and cracked scythe tips caused by the fight. The child of death was self-taught and sharpened the iron tool in his hand from a simple agricultural tool into a silent sharp blade that could easily cut through the twisted creatures kneaded by witchcraft.

He repaired the scythe, grabbed the handle, and supported himself to breathe in the thick fog. Under his feet were crushed heads on the ground, as well as stumps that had completely fallen into decay after being separated from the magic.

Respirators designed to protect against toxic gases have long been out of use. At first, the filters were overwhelmed, turning the respirators into decorative ornaments. Soon after, the straps holding the respirator in place snapped, forcing Mortarion to face Barbarus' poisonous mist.

Mortarion was submerged in the rising fog and became part of the dark yellow air background. He coughed heavily like a seriously ill and dying person and persisted in walking on the plains.

Being far away from those tall, dark mountains, the Primarch would not have fallen to the ground due to this level of damage. But if he decided to head for the cliff, he would have to equip himself with armor and a mask to withstand the poisonous gases gathering in the highlands.

The Emperor followed Mortarion at a distance, precisely blocking the distance and staying at the very edge of the Primarch's senses.

His following was precise and unshakable, letting Mortarion know that the Emperor was behind him, not interfering with his actions, just waiting for another refusal, a renewed hesitation, or a final compromise.

It is filled with broken fragments of once-living creatures, as well as indiscernible pieces of flesh and bones, and even some burn marks settled under the surface soil layer. This is a story that once took place in Barbarus, including hints of resistance and massacre, as well as the scattered bones of collective punishment and execution.

The acidic drizzle coated all this with a silk-glass curtain.

"Sometimes, I follow him and turn over the remains of some huge metal or stone objects left on the land of Barbarus. These things are very rusty, and it is basically impossible to tell what they were once, but I can generally tell that some of them are The gun barrels are covered with moss, and some are fallen aircraft. Perhaps every planet that has not experienced the old night has some remnants of symbolizing civilization.”

"The Emperor was very patient. I think it was because he only sent a psychic projection: everything that happened on Barbarus delayed only my time. It is a pity that I can be called What is soul and will are inseparable.”

"In your last reply, I saw you write that the timing of the Emperor's landing was indeed unlucky. Now I'm thinking that it was indeed a man who seemed to be tricked by metaphysical destiny, or the physical atmosphere and sorcery missiles. An unfortunate incident, but this was still within the Emperor’s expectations.”

"Your arrogant creator, sometimes surprisingly stubborn. I now wonder if he gained some reflection from his relationship with Horus, so much so that he began to adjust his image in front of his offspring. "

"Of course, just for me personally, I never think that binding a cooperative relationship with specific friendship is a long-term and stable method, and on this basis, it is difficult to build an unbreakable alliance. Neither will you You can conquer hundreds of different worlds in the Olympia Cluster just by relying on your personal charm, right? You give them tangible benefits."

"but……"

Morse removed the final twist and rewrote the ending.

"Anyway, I wish you an easy and pleasant journey to Betagamon to build a fortress."

He folded the message into a carrier pigeon and transmitted it along the cursed beacon he had left at Perturabo. In long-distance communication, the energy consumed by this method and the loss during the process cannot be ignored, and the transmission is not instantaneous. Now that Morse had nothing to do, he tried this method.

He pretended to adjust the tightness of the gas mask on his face, wiped the rainwater from the side of his cheeks, and called the Emperor.

The emperor's golden shadow turned back and waited for him where he was.

In his clenched hand, the light flowing from the runes on the long sword shone steadily in the thick fog, forming a round ball of light with blurred boundaries.

"Mortarion can go on like this for decades, my emperor." Mors reminded, "You have to do something instead of dragging me around Barbarus like a lonely ghost. "

+After he realizes what he needs. +

The Emperor's psychic voice came through the mist and rain.

+After he gets his first victory alone and creates the gap of desire. After he understands how far he can go, how much power he can control, and how many external objects he can use. +

"That shouldn't be too long," Morse said with relief. "There is a village not far away."

It was undeniable that the Emperor's words had already caused ripples in Mortarion's heart. The Lord of Mankind has told Mortarion that he hopes that the other party will eradicate the poison of witchcraft to mankind, and this is Mortarion's own wish.

In fact, the dream of the Great Crusade has almost the same essence as any ideal that hopes for a better future for mankind.

This may be why, when the Emperor occasionally withdrew from Mortarion's range of perception while standing silently thinking, the Fourteenth Primarch would hesitate to slow down until the Emperor caught up again.

As this strange understanding formed, Mors almost began to feel bad for Mortarion.

+I'm starting to think Mortarion is a little more likable than you, Emperor. He is simpler than you. +

Mortarion held the scythe in his arms and stood uncertainly outside the village for a long time before making up his mind to once again step into the human society that he had brought disaster to.

In the mist outside the village, Morse said this to the emperor.