Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 330 Angel’s Dream: Where are my wings?

"...Do you want to start it..."

"...Oh...he himself agreed..."

It’s another new day on Parcel Moon.

Sanguinius woke up in the small nest he had specially prepared to make himself sleep more comfortably. He reluctantly squinted his eyes and looked at the sun. The overwhelming sleepiness turned into the strongest barrier in the entire galaxy. Sanguinius pushed deeper into the den.

He turned over, vaguely feeling that there was some strange difference somewhere, but he didn't have time to decide to sleep for a while before he fell into the abyss of sleep.

About a third of Terra's hour later, Sanguinius suddenly opened his eyes, clutching a mess of quilt, and woke up completely refreshed. He felt that something was definitely wrong with him, but a special lightness covered up the abnormality.

He jumped out of the den, his perspective suddenly dropped, and he found that his room had been enlarged incomprehensibly at some point: the thin wooden tabletop was higher than his head, and the water glass placed on it had to be reached by standing on tiptoes. And even if he got it, he would still need to hold the cup with both hands.

His little nest became big enough to sleep two of himself. Such a spacious and warm bed made him want to climb up and sleep again.

Directly above him, the tribe's drawing of the angel's arrival was as high as if it were actually in the sky. His own flawless face was staring at him with compassion, which made Sanguinius feel awkward.

Then, just as Sanguinius was about to flutter his wings, he discovered the last change of the day.

His wings left him.

The angel's smile immediately disappeared. After an extremely strong thought - could this be the moment of a sweet dream, he thought in disbelief. The endless worries were like Baal's sandstorm, instantly burying him in the hesitating sand dunes.

Sanguinius tentatively reached his hand behind his back, pushed aside his soft long hair, and touched his back where he should have a pair of pure white wings.

There was nothing, no remnants of feathers, no strong roots of wings, no subtle itching of down feathers brushing against his fingertips. There was only his empty, smooth back that was not covered by clothes.

The clothes that had been cut at the back to accommodate the wings were now simply tattered robes with a big hole in the back. They should quickly go to the tailor to replace them with new ones.

He frowned and was worried. He didn't know who had cast such a spell on him and when he would be able to recover in the future.

For his part, Sanguinius was itching to rush out, break through all the doors that he had previously been unable to enter due to his size and wings, and use his feet through the narrow front entrance of the rock fortress like the rest of the tribe. Walk in instead of arduously flying to the top of the towering rock formations about a hundred meters high, and then fly down from the large hole on the top of the fortress for ventilation and light transmission.

Every time he had to bask in the sunshine falling from the sky, the admiring looks of the men and women around him made him almost unable to keep the smile on his face.

Sanguinius walked towards the indoor mirror, and the usually short distance became twice as long, and even stretched further because of his hesitation.

Now that he is in Baal and plays an important role as the leader of the pure-blood tribe, he must consider the serious impact that his loss of flying ability and superhuman physique will have on the entire tribe. The loss of glory, especially the loss of combat and administrative capabilities, will truly affect the survival of the entire tribe.

And the Emperor. Sanguinius thought. The Emperor will arrive soon. Would the Lord of Mankind prefer to see a mortal, or a mutated gene-child?

Maybe the Emperor didn't want to see either.

Sanguinius pinched his fingers absentmindedly and stared at the man in the mirror who was still beautiful, but with a sad expression.

So what kind of bargaining chip will he use in exchange for the political and religious autonomy of Baal's triple celestial sphere within the human empire?

Sanguinius found it difficult to get his feet out of his chamber, he had to figure out what was happening to him. Maybe he could turn to Konrad Coates, and the new guy Morse. But that meant he had to get out of the room and let others see him as he was now.

He didn't allow himself to dwell on his troubles for too long.

The shrunken angel pursed his lips and climbed onto the chair in order to ring the brass bell hanging above the table. Soon, the mortal maid responsible for serving him appeared outside his door - and it was not until the maid called his name that Sanguinius realized that he had not even sensed the other person's footsteps.

Okay, it's okay. Sanguinius encouraged himself.

"Come in," said the angel, returning to the ground and leaning against his chair. From the moment the maid appeared, he carefully observed every expression and movement of the maid, wanting to know how the other party viewed his changed self.

The maid held the tray with one hand and smiled at the angel indifferently: "Lord Sanguinius, your breakfast."

Sanguinius confirmed again and again until the maid's expression turned confused. He hesitated for a moment, took the tray from the other person's hand, and put it on a chair of suitable height. At the same time, he casually asked: "Do you think I am any different today, Ayesha?"

"You look better than usual," the maid replied, "probably because you slept an extra hour today."

Sanguinius raised his eyebrows in surprise, "Are you complaining to me?"

"How dare I, my lord." The maid smiled slyly, "Please enjoy your breakfast slowly. The bread has just been reheated."

Sanguinius nodded and sent the maid away. Then, he looked in the mirror full of doubts for the second time and clicked on his white face set off by his blond hair in the mirror.

It seems that his magical charm has also disappeared, and...it seems that others don't think there is anything wrong with him?

It was like the most incredible dream he could have imagined.

With hesitation in mind, Sanguinius picked up the morning glass of grape juice, tasted it, and made a move.

He was sure that he either woke up and went to a completely different world, or he was still lying in his den having his sweet dream.

The soil of Parvado is not capable of cultivating such sweet grapes.

Sanguinius tried to stretch his hands, finally able to stretch his arms back more comfortably now that he had lost his troublesome wings.

No matter what the truth was, Angel was convinced that this was a problem that a non-psychic genius like him couldn't solve on his own.

So, why didn't he enjoy this sudden gift?

Sanguinius pushed the door with energy, but did not push it open.

He smiled at his dizzy self, opened the door inward, and determined to get out of the room.

Thirty seconds later, Sanguinius fled back inside and began ringing the bell urgently.

After losing his extraordinary physique, Baal's radiation hit his face, like a fine needle sweeping across his skin. Maybe this was the price of the gift - he had to ask the maids if there was any protective clothing suitable for him.