Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Morse realized that there were two things that he could not carve. One was due to his selfish wanderings, and the other was limited by the reach of his skills.

The flaming sword has fallen into the palm of the statue. For safety reasons, the runes on it were replaced with another beautiful ancient language to prevent the heat wave caused by the fire from disturbing the softness between the Olympian reality and the supreme sky. The crystal curtain.

The ethereal fire is temporarily forged by the spiritual power of craftsmen. Mortals can only see the exquisite stone patterns that can be captured by the naked eye. Only those with extra spiritual powers can experience the soul from the harmonious connection of shadow and energy. The trembling was like a fire burning out of the filth, leaving only a cold, golden patch of cleanness.

However, apart from this long sword that was carefully carved, there are two remaining flaws that greatly detract from the overall sculpture. On the one hand, people want to urgently urge the author to complete them as soon as possible, and on the other hand, they also doubt whether the author has I really have the ability to make up for it.

This statue has no left hand and no face. The left hand is the hand holding the sacred object, and the face is the face of the saint.

Morse gently pressed the sides of his eyes to relieve the psychological stress caused by the carving process.

He has spent countless hours on this carving, and his excessive investment is enough to make even an eternal man fall into worry and introspection.

In the final analysis, he never figured out how he decided to carve the man's image at that time. He attributed it to some inspiration and a momentary inattention.

He sighed and looked out the window.

Night has come again, and the hustle and bustle on the streets returns to their homes with most of the industrial and commercial workers, leaving only the lights of the night shift and the occasional whisper-like sound of wind that breaks the silence, coming from very far away. , passes through human ears, and then falls to an extremely distant place. 【6】【9】【s】【h】【u】【x】【.】【c】【o】【m】

Morse put down the work he had assigned to himself and came to the edge of the window. Through the diamond-shaped window, he saw that the lights on the ground gradually dimmed. First, in the distance, Stratoi under the plateau where Lokos was located. The plains of Tis fell into a pure deep sleep, and then every family in the city slowly fell into drowsiness.

He is now in this city of people, but he has not always been here.

Occasionally he would think of his house in the woods, where every human sound died, and where natural and permanent life played the cradle's tune, making up its subtle rustling sounds to lull sleep.

His spiritual energy lights up his own light, where he reads all the stories, pictures, and statues he has recorded, and becomes a part of his spirit in the older, older nights, becoming the deepest aspect of the value represented by his existence itself. tangible manifestation.

Then he thought of the child who fell off the cliff.

He knew very well at that time that the child would be extraordinary, and with a feeling that he himself could not understand, he kept the child, so he knew that the child's name was Perturabo, and he himself got a brand new name , the separation from the past is not an absolute separation.

He knew that his new name symbolized the legendary god who had the power of death in Rome in the old night. This specialness coincided with his disgust for Rome itself. Perhaps this was a coincidence, and it was his past entanglement and response to the present.

The moment he happily accepted his new name, he accepted the reality that he was approaching the human world and a new life again.

Morse closed the curtain that blocked out the light and heard a low voice knocking on his door.

He paused and said, "Come on."

The boy opened the door and walked in without any delay: "Dameix invited me to participate in the construction of the project.

"Military industry?"

"Yes," said Perturabo, looking a little uneasy, annoyance plaguing his spirit.

Morse stretched out his hand to invite Perturabo to sit down. He stood by the window, one hand stroking the wooden frame. The window frames were an exercise in repetitive patterns carved by Perturabo.

"I won't stop you," Morse said, "if you make your choice."

Perturabo looked at him with stunned surprise in his ice-blue eyes. His lips pursed, and the two rows of teeth meshed tightly with each other.

"I did agree." The boy's hands grasped each other, "But I..."

Morse waited for his thoughts. Perturabo quickly completed the process.

"But I don't like to get involved in the struggle," he said forcefully. "I don't want to provide weapons for the exploits on their walls."

【

】

"I don't like watching the weapons I made kill another person. I don't want Olympia to mention that I can only think of a vendor who produces war. I don't want them to blame me for the bloodshed..."

Perturabo took a deep breath and let all the disgust out of his body through the circulation of gas. The gloom left a mark on his brow. “Their struggle is not for unification and development, but for the advancement of power at the expense of the regression of civilization.”

"Go on."

Perturabo stared at Morse uneasily, and every word that came out of his mouth was a reflection of his hesitation: "But unification requires war."

Morse nodded: "Continue."

Perturabo gritted his teeth hard, and the next words were no longer difficult. He relaxed his clasped hands with relief, as if a worried nightmare had finally let go of him.

"I hope that Lokos will win the final victory, Mors. Lokos is something we can control, but other city-states cannot." He announced his plan arrogantly, "Damecus's ambition happened to meet Olympia. Right. There is a long history of resentment between city-states. Diplomacy is the first option, war is the second option, and surrender is not an option. If they are to succeed, they really need us."

Morse was noncommittal. "Have you thought it through?" he just asked. "Does talking to me about this make you feel better?"

"Yes," said Perturabo. He pursed his lips and said, "I want a city-state that belongs to me."

"You have changed a lot."

"Because the citizens chose me, you told me so." As he said this, the extremely astonishing long letter Morse wrote to him came to mind, so the corners of his mouth turned up or down. No, it was weirdly frozen there.

Morse's fingers suddenly tightened, and together with his arms, a pungent heat coursed through his body. He heard his blood flowing, part of it rushing inside his body, and the other part spilling out of his once-broken skin like a phantom, intersecting with each other to form nameless shackles, almost comically following gravity in his consciousness. The command fell into the soil.

He lowered his eyes, and after half a second, the regular sarcastic smile returned to his face.

"Very good, you have learned to build a stage for yourself." He gently patted the palm of his left hand with the four fingers of his right hand. "I want to remind you in advance that I have no intention of directly joining any battle. Don't do it." Count on my help deep in the battlefield."

"I don't need that much help," Perturabo said.

He was confident that he would not get to that point, and he had done the math before coming and found that he could not afford to pay the price of admission in exchange for Morse.

“In what capacity are you going to join the struggle?”

"Considering my talents, I hope to be the commander-in-chief."

"Oh." Morse smiled and leaned against the window frame, "Our little young commander."

"Don't call me that - first I want to build a city, make swords and guns, and then when I grow taller, I will lead my army."

"Have you ever thought about the name and slogan of the army?"

"We don't need that falsehood."

"I suggest you think of one, Perturabo. When they take the oath before the battle and ask you to come on stage to give them a morale boost, you don't want to miss out on a high-spirited finish."

Perturabo imagined the scene in his mind, then nodded reluctantly. "I will think of a slogan, and the name will be whatever. It's not my army anyway."

"You can call them Aventine."

"What? What's the moral of that?"

"It sounds good." Morse shrugged, "It doesn't mean anything at all. Anyway, I'm going to continue studying my stone sculptures."

"If I name it that way, can you come and help me fight?"

"Are you sleepwalking?"

Perturabo wanted to roll his eyes.

Morse peered through the hazy cloth and peered into the light from the diamond window. "I guess you don't have the patience to watch the sunrise with me again."

"I'll leave now." The boy turned around and was about to leave, adding triumphantly: "This way Harkon will participate in the battle under my command."

Morse had to start thinking about where their relationship with Lokos would go after the death of the tyrant's eldest son.

The author's Seven Hundred Stones and Thirty Talisman has no five-star princess and the shipwreck, I hope everyone knows