Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

In rare cases, Morse will also hope that individuals with prophecy talents can successfully display their abilities and bring some effective assistance to his actions.

The torpedo boat "Mountain Cliff" was floating in space beyond the Moon and could not find a landing point, so the only passenger in the torpedo boat found it difficult to reach the ground. This was one of these situations.

The drop capsule equipped with this ship unfortunately crashed into a corner of the planet wrapped in orange mist on the first day of its last visit to Barbarus.

The culprit who caused the damage to the drop pod was currently riding his dozens-mile-long luxury ship, the Emperor's Dream, with a fleet of golden ships heading towards Terra, the glorious capital of the Human Empire. go.

In short, it was not until Morse took his iron-gray boat leisurely through the subspace and saw Baal's outline that he thought about his landing problem.

If Conrad Coates could have foreseen the events in the world they were living in now, Morse could have asked him to drive a drug disaster boat or something like that to pick him up.

At such a short distance, Morse did not intend to stuff his body into the subspace and reach the ground through the etheric realm. After locating an uninhabited surface desert area, he opened the hatch, used a layer of runes as a protective measure to block the burning, and jumped towards the surface of Baal's No. 2 satellite.

During the landing process, Morse discovered that there were some ships in the sky with lightning runes painted all over their bodies, sharp horns on their front ends, and long blood-colored curved sails embroidered with skull bat wings, floating around uncertainly.

This scene gave him a strange feeling, like midnight far away in the horizon suddenly breaking into the brilliant sun of Baal.

He fell into the sand, spent five minutes picking up an extra windproof cloak with a scarf, and searched for the direction of the gathering of humans by sensing the emotional projection cast by the thinking cluster in the high-level vision.

Counting the process of finding a path in the subspace, the process of finding Baal's specific location based on general memories rather than maps, and the unique time and space chaos in the non-material realm, it is difficult to say that the time when Konrad Coze arrived here is A few months ago or a few days ago.

Regardless, if Curze encountered trouble in Baal that he couldn't handle, Perturabo would know about it. Moreover, the current surrounding ether environment of the planet is stable, which makes Morse breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that during this vacation trip, he no longer needs to guard against the erosion of the real universe by the destructive power in the ancient darkness.

Morse bent down and picked up the crystal gravel. The high-intensity abnormal radiation on the Baal surface not only caused irreversible changes in the genes of the local people, but also left dots of transparent salt-like crystals in the long yellow sand.

He let the yellow sand flow through his fingers, and in this peaceful process, absorbed the collective memory of the yellow sand land of Baal.

No text. There are no history books. He heard the fighting, the swing of swords, and the falling of blood. The warriors of the tribe chanted sacred slogans as their bodies withered from the unprotected radiation environment. This is an ancient and desolate planet where people believe in pure blood and live devoutly amid the attacks of mutants created by radioactive materials.

Just under the sand here lies the blood of mutants. In the bloody battles that once broke out between pure bloods and mutants, pure blood humans with relatively pure genes finally won a comprehensive victory.

Among them, the great angel Sanguinius was indispensable. His eyes looking into the future reflected the pure victory of the Baal people, and his rage in battle was unstoppable.

The effective memory of the yellow sand remains at the moment when it was lifted up by Sanguinius' wings and then fell down with the trembling of the snow-white feathers.

It's a flawless story. Not every Primarch can conquer their homeworld without incident and be treated with the highest reverence by the natives, but Sanguinius did it particularly impeccably.

Morse shook his hand and walked forward in the yellow sand.

He originally wanted to go directly to Conrad Curze and ask if the brotherhood between him and Sanguinius was progressing, whether he had been fanned out by the good-hearted Archangel in the vision, and what to tell Conrad. It was a good thing that he had not chosen to go to Barbarus first, otherwise he would have spent half of every day in the baths bound by his mysophobia.

But the emperor's usual tricks gave him some interesting inspirations. For example, a person does not have to use his original appearance to meet someone he hopes to meet.

——

"He, the pure one, wishes no harm to befall us. He roared, first as a white flash, then as a blood-red thing, with death at his side. His eyes burned, and they were a bright flash. An arc of violence, a storm of destruction. We are captured by the deadly beauty of his dance, and there is only silence as he stands before us, dripping with blood. stone."

Sanguinius shook his head gently and handed the tablet back to the tribal elder beside him.

While performing this action, he maintained a sitting posture with his wings widely spread to both sides so that mortals could comb his feathers and put the dazzling gold ornaments, silver chains and finely carved jade pendants Hanging on the wings.

He never asked them to do this for him, but the people of Baal regard the feathering of angels as one of their most cherished honors. Not even Sanguinius himself had the power to wrest this sacred piety from the hands of the Baal.

"Conrad taught you the method of recording history, not because I hope you will use it to record my every move, Elder Nellie." The angel lowered his eyes slightly and advised helplessly, "Why don't you write Baal's own history? What about the story? You are already so respectable."

"Since the Midnight Angel taught us how to write history, the tribe has understood that the way to write down your stories is not limited to the songs we sing at night. Please allow us to love you, Sanguinius."

The elder raised his head, his squinted eyes filled with the noble face of an angel, like a snow-white stone statue. She holds the pureblooded Sanguinius in the highest esteem as anyone else.

"Oh..." Sanguinius sighed slightly, "Don't let Conrad hear your name. He really doesn't like to be called the Midnight Angel."

He made a tendency to fold his wings and stand up, giving the mortals time to react and retreat to both sides.

Above the tribe, at the end of the sky, there were a few tiny black dots. It was the fleet of Konrad Curze, the Bloodlord from Midnight's chosen residence in Baal.

Curze once told him clearly that whenever another Baal man raised his hands in worship to him, he would replace the raw materials needed for blood wine brewing with some fresher local substance.

After that, Curze insisted on living high in the sky beyond the reach of the Baal people.

If Sanguinius wanted to meet him, he could either wave on the ground and wait for a small boat to come down to pick him up, or he could rise up with the wind and fly high.

In recent days, Coates is working with him to complete a grand project, which is to compare and integrate the fragments of words the two people received in the foreshadowed future, and write a complete file for future needs.

This is a unique task that only the two of them can accomplish among the Primarchs. Curze did not want to openly mention this matter to any other brothers, so as not to cause unnecessary trouble - he seemed to have a deep understanding of the harm that the prophecy could cause.

"Lord Sanguinius," the elder said, "we have recently heard that a new Inspired One appeared at the fair between the tribes, telling..."

"...in front of us, blood is dripping, as quiet as a stone."

Sanguinius blinked, habitually showing a respectable smile, and returned from the foreboding glimpse to the touchable reality of the moment.

He shook his head gently, kept his wings stretched, and returned the slip to the tribal elder beside him.

"Conrad taught you how to record history..."