Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Saul Sahar was walking in a dark corridor full of debris, holding a kerosene lamp burning with a faint green flame, and carefully examining every inch of the surrounding scenery covered by pale curtains. After the original army formation was temporarily disbanded, a night ghost who was randomly selected to be in his group looked alert and carefully suppressed the sound of his footsteps until it was so slight that it was almost inaudible.

After the last person in the three-person team just turned a corner and was lost in the darkness, the two of them did not dare to let down their guard.

The surrounding shelves seemed to be made of obsidian, but they lacked the clarity of that stone and became dimmer, as if the darkness of the entire galaxy had been condensed into this deep corridor.

Sahar smelled the smell of rotten wood. He raised the kerosene lamp slightly and used the edge that was not consumed by the fire to observe a series of puppets and soldiers thrown on the stone shelf.

They had strange postures and missing limbs. They were piled among a large number of hollow wheat ears and crow feather down, staring blankly at Sahar's face with a single, bright green eye illuminated by the light.

Long fingernail scratches cruelly scratched across their dry surfaces, making one seem to be witnessing how a cruel and resentful child played with his dolls, treating them as torture inflicted during the day. The aftermath continued to pass on in the darkness.

Sahar's companions watched Sahar's actions from a distance. After confirming that the company commander did not encounter any sudden accident, he approached cautiously and silently, and made some tactical gestures to Sahar with his free hand: "Is it this way?"

"I don't know." Sahar responded with a simple hand movement, moved the kerosene lamp away, and left the dolls in the darkness again.

"Let's go," said the companion's gesture, pointing in a direction they had not yet explored.

There isn't much time left. Thirty minutes ago, they passed by the three-pronged candlestick and found that in the silver candlestick, blood-red wax oil was already being heated and cooled, hanging down to the ground in layers.

This symbolizes that they must step up to find the end of the maze. Fortunately, judging from the distance they had traveled so far, the end wasn't too far away.

Sahar's fighting qualities helped him stabilize his breathing. He observed, looking through the heavy curtains, tensing his nerves. This scene has been repeated in front of him so many times that it is occasionally difficult for him to confirm whether he is moving forward, lingering in the same place, or whether time on his body has completely flowed backwards.

A hand gently tapped his left shoulder. Sahar's muscles tensed, and the airflow in the darkness almost became a tangible thing in his senses. Then, the hand appeared in his field of vision.

His companion said in sign language: "Shadow."

Of course Sahar noticed the shadow, because his own shadow was extending forward in the wrong way. Judging from the size, there was at least one, no, two shadow agents in his shadow, waiting to stab him with paint. Poisonous cold blade.

And if he can observe one, it means that there are at least hundreds of shadow agents, using the convenience brought by their bloodline talents to lurk in the endless dark shadows around them, waiting for opportunities.

They still took the wrong path. Sahar thought. A chill drifted down his shoulder blades.

The sound of some bells clashing sounded in the darkness, swaying back and forth, the sound was broken, and seemed to hide bursts of screams stretched to the extreme, wandering on the edge of the sensory nerves. Sahar stood ready, waiting to block the assassin's dagger of disaster from the shadows, and found a correct path during the battle to seize the time to escape.

Time passed little by little. No, nothing happened. His shadow was still as long as ever, but nothing came out of it.

Sahar continued to hold the lamp with his left hand, and gave his companion a warning signal with his right hand, then touched his waist. Rough fingers slowly slid over the exquisite rose skull pattern on the surface of the Dark Bite pistol given to him by the Primarch, drawing some comfort from it, and then attached the dagger sheath that was also hung on his belt.

Suddenly, a muffled sound rang out near him, and the smell of blood suddenly overflowed, accompanied by a large number of terrifying threads that wandered between the walls and shadows, as well as green tattoos that flashed in an instant, and The luster of gray rag hair.

They surged out of the shadows and tackled Sahar's companions to the ground.

The kerosene lamp crashed down, the glass exploded with a crisp and piercing sound, and the metal frame rolled across the stone floor, rolling across the uneven damp gaps.

Between Sahar and his companions, these shadow agents chose the weaker one - obviously, they also received compensation and started working, and of course they chose the easier to achieve results.

Without a trace of hesitation, Sahar immediately found the slit where the shadow changed, rushed forward quickly, stepped over the rosewood escalator railing lightly and nimbly, and jumped and slid down the spiral steps like a cat. .

The smell of stale and pungent spices continued to spread, highlighting the fishy smell of blood. In the picture that was bright and dark, like a half-destroyed film, he briefly glanced at the sets of sharp and prickly weapons, the blood-stained barbed whip, the hanging wet human skin, and a There are pictures inlaid on the walls around the spiral staircase.

Those strange figures, some wearing low-brimmed narrow hats, or wearing sharp piercing brooches, resemble life-like expressions of contempt and malice that have strong commonalities, and are distinguished by varying degrees of indulgence and emaciation.

Their faces are slightly slimmer than humans, with protruding cheekbones and sunken eye sockets. Even if they have undeniable beauty, they are dissipated in the natural fear brought to humans by their human-like and inhuman characteristics.

The lower right corner of each portrait is decorated with bloody handprints and a skull mark that means "executed one" within the Legion.

Sahar's face was condensed, his heart was beating fast, and the kerosene lamp in his hand was shaking violently, desperately trying to engulf the nearby darkness with its green light.

No, he did not choose the wrong route. The Mandela agents under Night Ghost Blood Marquis are the last line of defense in the maze. Even though he was falling at top speed, Mandela was still chasing after him, fulfilling the tasks assigned to them by the Blood Marquis.

Those sharp claws and machetes were too close, and they scratched against his back, cutting open the black training robe, and going a little deeper was enough to dig out his heart and lungs.

Sahar drew out his dagger and attacked the sudden attack from behind fiercely. Once and for the second time, countless shadow agents gathered into a huge force that was almost irresistible, especially in the process of falling.

He estimated the distance, no longer looking for the handrail of the stairs as a foothold, but allowed himself to fall freely in the air. The gravity system inside the spacecraft helped him, pushing him to the bottom platform and helping him escape the shadow agents' pursuit.

Sahar adjusted his position in the last few moments before landing, trying his best to adjust his state when he landed. At the bottom of the spiral staircase is a wide circular platform, covered with a particularly thick carpet, and surrounded by faint orange-red torches.

Three doors are evenly distributed at three points on the wall of the rotunda. One is a turquoise door, the other is a pale bone door, and the last one is a rusty iron door. The rust left by blood The color seeped out from under the door and stained the edges of the soft carpet.

He wasted a lot of effort and landed on the front. His knees and elbows felt a lot of pain in the cushioning. The dagger in his hand cut directly into the carpet and was completely submerged.

Something quietly approached him from behind, forming a cruel image similar to a ferocious beast in his senses. Its threatening nature caused Sahar's brain to immediately fall into an instinctive blank. It was completely out of him. With the combat awareness gained from years of training, he violently smashed the lantern in his left hand backwards. The movement was so large and the impact was so strong that it almost tore part of his muscles.

Then, a pale hand stopped casually, and two fingers pinched his wrist, forcing him to drop the lantern and open his palm. The lamp rolled several times on the thick carpet, turning on and off silently.

"Well done, Saul Sahar," a hoarse and affectionate whisper sounded against the back of Sahar's head, as if it could tear eternal cold claw marks on his back, although if the speaker really Once done, Saul Sahar would never say no.

"Lord of the Night," Sahar gasped. The intense concentration of energy for eight Terras and the excessive amount of information in the Night Number caused all the fatigue accumulated in his high-speed brain to explode in an instant. He forced himself to calm down and continued to narrate: "Did I pass?"

"Passed?" Conrad Coates laughed in surprise. "What are you thinking, company commander? Go and continue advancing in the depths of the night. You have another five hours to find the real end point."

"Sir, then you are here -" Under the ups and downs, even Sahar could not help but feel a sense of despair that his hope was shattered.

"Whoever doesn't attack me will be eliminated." Coze said happily, crossing his arm over Sahar's shoulder and pointing to the gorgeous door inlaid with turquoise, "Over there, the loser's resting place. "

Sahar asked obediently: "Then where should I go, my lord?"

Curze's arm turned and pointed at the bleeding iron door. "Go, my company commander, and take your light. What you have left is..."

He calculated the time for a moment, licked his scarred lips, and said with a low smile: "Four hours and fifty-five minutes. Or do you want to chat for a while longer?"

Saul Sahar quickly stood up, forcing down his fatigue. "As you command, Father."

After Sahar left, Coates waved his hand. In the dark round hall, all the gaps in the walls were instantly covered by the images returned from various camera equipment. The angle of view was shaky and low, indicating that these equipments were used today. The lanterns in the hands of the night ghosts in the Labyrinth Trial.

The Primarch dragged a simple chair out of the shadows, sat down comfortably, and continued to monitor the current movements of all the night ghosts still in the maze.

The pair of white bone skull wings decorating the bone door separated to both sides. After Morse walked out of the third bone door, the bone wings closed again.

Holding the rolled-up notebook in his hand, he walked to Conrad Coates: "Are you satisfied with the design of Nightfall?"

"The first half... give me the design," Cozz asked for the design and took out a red ink pen from the tool bag he carried.

Morse threw the design drawing to Conrad, which was a copy of the original drawing. The real drawing was collected by Conrad Coates himself and buried in an unknown dark but dry cave.

"The first half, in terms of design, is already impeccable, with almost no flaws..." Coates said, flipping through the complicated drawings and writing notes in some places, such as adding more cabal warriors as guards. Or you can rearrange the overlapping angles of some curtains and match the dangerous mechanisms set up before and after to create a greater shadow of psychological horror.

"And the second half of the effect that no one has yet explored is for Sahar to try. Morse, you helped complete the second half, right?"

"Since you have described your needs beyond the limits of the rules of the real universe, of course I can only help the shipyard to complete it in a surreal way." Morse said, taking out a new card from nowhere. Parchment, unfold and read. "You're not going to let Magnus build a small internal network tunnel on the Nightfall, are you?"

"Impossible." Cozzi said coldly, flicked the pen tip, took out a bottle of bright red and sticky ink from the tool bag, and put it at hand for dipping.

Morse continued to flip the letter and said calmly: "Mortarion and the Death Guard are about to go to the battlefield where they will fight for the first time, in Garaspa."

"Where are Sanguinius and the Blood Angels?" Curze tilted his head.

"Following the Luna Wolf, you may observe two battles first, or you may directly practice on the battlefield."

This information was sent directly to Morse from Prime Minister Malcador. If the communication was not interfered with, the two immortals could communicate in real time, and sometimes the latter would indeed handle some official duties for the busy prime minister.

Malcador had said that at some point in the distant future, towards the end of the Crusade, he would form the Council of Terra to take over power from the superhuman conquerors and from the Emperor and his sons in the War Council. , transferred to the mortal hands of thousands of financial officials, judges, tax auditors, diplomatic ambassadors, cultural attachés, etc. in the Ministry of Interior, to return the future of the empire to mortals as much as possible.

Morse advised him to be careful of Horus.

"Galaspar," Curze repeated, "friendship with Magnus will not change the Death Guard's destructive practices. Thousands, maybe too many, maybe not enough, and the men will fall like wheat. Next, succumb to the scythe of death..."

"And the Emperor will watch, watch the scorched earth left by the Death Guard, and then send his trusted son to find the Pale King standing in the ruins, to test his methods, and ask him how he plans to give a complete The ruins give him the liberation he hopes to bring.”

Curze chuckled softly, "But all I need is a little sweet fear to bring the planet to its knees."

"You sound very proud," Mors said. "Let Horus and his two brothers solve the problem of Galaspa on their own, which obviously has little to do with me. Do you have any battles to fight recently?" "

"Yes and no." Coze sat up alertly, "What happened to Perturabo?"

"You can continue to complete the military objectives given to you by Malcador, Conrad." Morse folded the letter, "otherwise the prime minister will say that slowing down the progress of the expedition is a great evil. In addition, Satra Progress there is steady, but I don't think there will be any obstacles there; if I ever need help from the Eighth Army, I want a response."

"I will come for him." Coze laughed briefly. Just a second later, his expression reset, revealing a moment of gloom.

There were some sounds of fighting and running above, and Marquis Xue waved his hand, and the rotunda fell into darkness again.