Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

At first, the appearance of the hermit Fath caused quite a stir in Mortarion's haven camp.

The dark-skinned, weather-beaten old man, supported by the young man in black robes beside him, got down from the iron frame connected to the rear of Mortarion's vehicle, and slowly but surely landed on the ground in the camp. .

Leader Mortarion personally introduced with a straight face that this was the mysterious hermit who had been helping behind the Overlord War for several months. Now, after negotiations and discussions between the two parties, Hermit Fath finally agreed to come out and join Mortarion's battle ranks as a provider of wisdom.

The fact that an old man and a young man have been able to live alone in the mist-filled deep mountain valleys for many years is not only an abnormal phenomenon in the common sense of the Barbarus people, but in fact, this is something that even the most bizarre local legends dare not dare to do. Compiled tall tales.

No one can understand how two mortals like them survived the poisonous fog, ghosts in the cold night, scarce living resources, and the plunder swept by the overlord like a strong wind, and lived alone in the depths of the wilderness. and even provided foreshadowing and assistance to their venerable Reaper Mortarion.

Some warriors choose to trust Mortarion's judgment, pay respect to the two assistants who have made great contributions, and are willing to find food for the old man that is easier to chew and digest, or surround the old man after returning from victory and listen. This wise man told about the starry sky and ocean that Barbarus had never heard of.

Other warriors couldn't help but wonder if this was a conspiracy by a certain sorcery overlord, using some small favors to deceive the trust of their leader who was strong on the outside but soft on the inside, in the hope that Mortarion would become the overlord in the future. Rule willingly.

In any case, after the old Fath and the young Morse sent advice to Mortarion one after another and brought victory after victory to many camps and settlements, the masses were pragmatic. Let go of your doubts and draw nourishment for victory from the wisdom of the hermits.

After discovering that the old man Faz could accompany them to drink Barbarus' poisoned wine, the deep fighting friendship between the two parties reached its peak.

It was a good day when Mortarion returned from a great victory, returned to his safe haven from his military stronghold in the northwest, and invited his warriors to a feast.

That day, as long as the returning combatants could still open their mouths, they were carried to the central square, waiting to be put into the brand-new brewing machines built for them by a clan that had joined and were skilled in craftsmanship. , what kind of soul-shaking wine can flow out.

According to Mortarion's order, the water used for brewing was naturally the poisonous rain dropped by Barbarus, and the fermentation raw materials were the grain harvested from the wheat fields.

At first, everyone just had a small taste of it. Relying on their own toughness, they survived a wave of severe pain that burned through their hearts. They patted each other on the back in cold sweat to celebrate the victory.

Soon, some people who were particularly interested in the pungent and refreshing pain, or soldiers with painful faces who had lost consecutive boxing bets with their comrades next to them, began to taste the second glass of poisonous wine.

Mortarion drank cup after cup with them, monitoring the situation. If someone clutches the clothes on his chest and falls to the ground with a face as stiff as a mask, he will call the medical staff for him after more than fourteen seconds.

To Mortarion, the previous poisonous rain did not add much flavor to the pure water that passed through the water purifier. At most, it was just the difference from pure water to light herbal tea. Now, after careful refining and brewing, Barbarus's poisonous wine finally gave him some stimulating taste buds.

Mortarion squinted his eyes, letting the burning sting spread warmly in his body. He was intoxicated by the drunkenness brought by the poisonous wine. Suddenly he saw a hale and hearty old man approaching the row of poison-brewing plants with windy steps. The wine machine's eyes suddenly opened wide.

In the square, some soldiers who could still stand noticed the actions of the hermit Faas and rushed forward to avoid seeing the tragic scene of the old man foaming at the mouth and dying on the spot seven seconds later.

However, after the old man drank the first cup, his complexion gradually turned rosy, and his eyes shone with a sharpness that did not match his age. With just one glance back, the mortal warriors named Death Guard trembled in awe and did not dare to say anything.

"A toast to you, Mortarion." Fath raised his glass to Mortarion.

Mortarion walked from the steps on the side of the square to the center, bent down to take a glass of wine, and touched Fath lightly.

During the next period from midnight to early morning, the two of them engaged in a silent drinking contest without giving in to each other. By the time the weak sunlight penetrated the thick fog and fell on the eaves of the Haven City Gate Outpost, not a drop of poisonous wine was left in the several brewing machines.

The two figures still stood on the ground, letting the morning light pass over the two resolute but slightly white faces.

After staying up all night to watch how the two would decide the outcome, the crowd knew that it was the final moment of the fight. They all stood up unsteadily and stared attentively. Fath and Mortarion's next move.

After looking at each other for thirteen seconds, Mortarion's legs swayed slightly, stretched out his hand to support the large iron can of the brewing machine, and began to pant.

Cheers immediately echoed in the haven of dawn.

It was precisely in this way that the Emperor finally achieved a great victory in drinking for the first time in various meetings with his heirs.

Morse processed the matter with some minor artistic processing and sent it to Perturabo via a letter. Presumably, the next time Perturabo and Leman Russ get a chance to communicate, Russ will laugh and draw a chain of inequalities that he is better than the Emperor and the new brother.

Apart from the short leisure time used to celebrate the victory and relax the spirit, the Barbarus people almost always implement the silence and resistance they were born to train in the poisonous fog, following the direction pointed by Mortarion's sickle.

They try to get enough rest and sleep at night, living in settlements blessed by firelight, resisting the abnormal calls from the thick fog and the noise of demon nails scratching the smooth surface.

When the dying sunlight illuminated the path of battle, they trained day after day to wear heavy armor, use heavy weapons or large swords and clubs to fight before receiving Mortarion's call, learning how to judge the concentration of fog and the comparison of the anti-poison armor on their bodies, and how to put the captured weapons of the sorcery overlord into use.

The attempt to constantly adjust the armor and enhance the armor's protection has led to the consumption of many lives in the poison gas pools or death restricted areas where humans rarely go in Barbarus, and also made the armor of the Death Guards continue to thicken until it completely developed into a distinctive heavy armor.

Their marching speed is not fast, but it is heavy enough. And it is irresistible, showing a destructive quality. When a dark mountain is surrounded by the Death Guard troops that are gradually becoming famous in Barbarus, it is basically equivalent to the cruel arrival of a completely ruthless annihilation war.

Mortarion often stands at the front of the battle sequence, relying on his physique far stronger than that of mortals and his ruthless endurance to create the beginning of victory for his team.

Deep in the fog, his scythe swings like a crescent moon on the battlefield, and the blade shuttles, pierces, cuts, and pulls through the entrails and flesh of sorcery puppets and ferocious beasts, pulling the rotten entrails out of the enemy's chest, and then throws them together with the corpse at his feet, indicating the death of the enemy.

From the mouths of two aliens, Mortarion confirmed that the sorcery puppets still have the ability to feel emotions. They understand the meaning of pain and can be seized by the fear of facing death. Perhaps this is the power of destruction and the terribleness of death-as long as there is still the instinct of thinking, and the closer the ability of thinking is to the innate nature of living things, the more the enemy fears death.

Death creates the foundation of power. Mortarion gradually came to this point, which was the way of ruling that Nakre had emphasized to him many times, and the root of the tyranny of the sorcerer overlords on Barbarus.

He used to sneer at it, and the more Nakre emphasized this to him, the more he could not stand it. But in his own battle journey, Mortarion rediscovered this law himself.

Or perhaps, this idea has never left him. After all, his name is the Son of Death, and his legion is called the Death Guard.

But, Mortarion thought, death brings fear, fear brings obedience, and obedience brings the foundation of power.

But the word that truly crowns power should be a word that is contrary to death.

His squad followed the path he had killed in the blood, firing muskets or wielding huge machetes.

These weapons were snatched from the hands of various overlords, which made the process of unifying the legion's armaments too impossible to achieve.

Cold weapons are not a big problem, but there may not be a second box of ammunition for each gun. Therefore, the increasingly frantic equipment department asked them to throw away these messy muskets without ammunition after use. If there are no weapons available on the battlefield, they can also be used as sticks and short knives.

The heavily armored warriors also prefer to use large-caliber firearms at close range, so that blood and black poison burst and explode fiercely at the smoking muzzle, splashing everywhere.

In any case, this has never affected the morale of the Death Guard army. They marched quietly on the battlefield-some guys like to shout and raise the barrels of the guns that emit a wisp of green smoke to touch the side of their foreheads, proudly telling Mortarion that they are invincible; or rush to Mortarion at the moment when the reconnaissance mission is completed, excitedly reporting that there are no enemy troops in this direction, because they have cleared all the guards of the Overlord's stronghold during the reconnaissance.

Mortarion condemned them and warned them not to relax so much in the battle, and not to let their blood flow unnecessarily between the fortresses and fortresses in the mountains because of distraction or excessive mental excitement.

During the months of war, Mortarion was once annoyed by the fragility and fragility of mortal flesh and blood because of the casualties of the warriors. These weaknesses and dregs accumulated by biology for tens of thousands of years made the mortal body unable to bear the hardness and weight of their souls.

He needed a legion with enough physical strength and fighting will to keep up with his pace, otherwise, objectively speaking, they were dragging each other down. Even if Mortarion wanted to bring mortals to fight together while fighting to his heart's content, the difference in physiological conditions that could not be changed also frustrated him repeatedly.

Mortarion was also confused and frustrated by his own strength.

His unrivaled strength seemed like a natural curse, or a natural function. The more methods and techniques he intuitively calculated in battle, and the colder and sharper the bloody thoughts that emerged in his mind, the more he felt that he was a weapon born for war.

It was too late to feel resentful about the purpose of his birth. When Mortarion saw the mortal Fath and the wizard Morse leaning against the door railing at the entrance of the haven, waiting for him to return, one seemed to have endless patience, and the other was obviously because of waiting. When he was wandering around in the world with nothing to do, he felt that his behavior of depressingly struggling with the meaning of birth and doubting whether the two people and the Overlord were essentially the same was hopelessly weak.

With the help of Morse, Mortarion planned the location and outcome of each famous battle, using limited material and time resources to optimize the path, sequence and method of solving the battle.

One transfer station after another was destroyed, one transportation link after another was damaged and overturned, and Mortarion's chemical bombs made outstanding contributions.

The monitoring radar station was suddenly blasted, the mountains collapsed, and the signal was interrupted, making the overlord's army feel as helpless as mortals in the fog.

Warehouses and workshops were uprooted and burned to the ground. Military factories and civilian factories that provided the overlord with a wealthy life were captured by the Death Guard, and the enemy lost the source of its supply chain.

At the same time, the scout team, diligently in charge of another psyker, Karas Typhon, worked day and night, exploring the mountains and fortresses, reporting every piece of information needed for the war to Mortarion.

In such a long-lasting and constant offensive, the Barbarus Resistance Front swept across the entire dusk planet, like a beacon suddenly lighting up in the mist, and the light penetrated into the depths of darkness.

More and more overlords fall under Mortarion's scythe. They are often immersed in extreme shock before they die, and they don't understand why their extremely strong rule is suddenly overturned by the low-level races. Those who hand Mortarion a self-righteous letter of alliance and invite him to become a member of the Overlord often die faster.

With no extra emotion in his heart, Mortarion cut off the overlord's head step by step and threw it at the door of the hermit Fath. He began to understand that the true gift the Emperor had given him when they first met was a template for behavior. No explanation is needed, no report is needed, all the Emperor wants is the victory of the Legion and the surrender of the enemy.

Finally, there was only one last enemy left in front of him.

Heavy but steady breathing passed through Mortarion's mask, echoing under the dark mountains. He raised his head, looking through the rolling poisonous fog and accumulated clouds, staring indifferently at the dark realm exposed in the gap between the lightning and cumulus clouds.

On the day he escaped from Nakre's fortress, he jumped from this towering cliff and fell into a freedom he had never experienced before in his life.

In this year's war, Nakre's army has been retreating steadily, and all the subordinate subordinate forces have been killed. Mortarion will not accept any surrender. Destruction and death are the only good news he brings to his enemies.

The same goes for Nacre.

Mortarion's fingers slid over the scythe, and the blade tilted forward slightly. Silver light passed over the blade, stopping in the silence of preparation.

Behind him, the Death Guard awaited the call.

The hermit Faz and the wizard Morse ignored the well-meaning advice of the people in the haven and insisted on following the end of the team, waiting for the final battle that was bound to come.