Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 476 The Seal Holder

The inner court of the palace was as bright as new. Every gilded wall was flowing with dazzling light, and every tower was shining brightly.

The mortal servants led the lecturers of the Temple of the Thousand Dust Sun through spacious halls as bright as the rising sun, and the pillars cut a hundred prison-like marks in the space.

Sometimes Ahriman suspected that he was walking in a mud accumulated for hundreds of generations, and the stains and blood stained the soles of his boots, making it difficult for him to move. However, the ground was a smooth mirror tile that was repeatedly scrubbed thirteen times a day by the mechanical servants. Nothing was reaching out from the ground and grabbing his ankle with its withered hands...

No? Or if he only had to look into the vast ocean of the warp, he could see countless grudge souls pulling each other, hoping to make him unable to move?

They passed by those halls, the stairs extended to different angles, forming a vague geometric vortex. The golden armored guards still stood at those special corners, or stepped out of a door and flashed past, as if nothing could change their will, or the change was over.

The closer they got to the sea level, the clearer the roar of machinery and the long whistles brought by various steam and horns became. The temperature of the fuel baked the passage they were in at the edge of the floor and the wall. Some glittering glassware seemed to be sweating, and other white metal plates hissed.

The people of the 15th Legion listened to their own footsteps and moved forward. No one spoke. The oppression imposed on their bodies became more and more terrifying. The thick darkness wandered and surged in their consciousness. Behind every beam of real light, there was a hundred times more super-material shadow lurking.

Ahriman felt that they were being watched by a higher being, as if they were a few fish swimming aimlessly in an aquarium or a culture tank, being watched with interest by the giant outside the glass...

"The throne room?" Hathor Mat whispered, his voice seemed to be freezing in the cold environment.

"I think so," Ahriman replied. This long road should lead to the Terran underground palace that Magnus had briefly described to them, otherwise where else could they go?

In any case, approaching with the darkness was their perception of the remaining mark of Magnus. This point became clearer and clearer, so that it gradually became a new and strange motivation, adding hot fuel to their progress. Their hearts became hot as they sank, breeding despair and accompanied by trance optimism.

They were about to touch the last echo of Magnus in the world, weren't they? They came to find their father, because they were his descendants. Because the truth should not be buried.

But what should they do after that? After stepping into the abyss, will the abyss let them go?

The old scent of incense gradually became thicker, almost damply covering them, and distant mechanical music and bells echoed together. They passed some heavy doors, and the skull patterns outlined in fine gold formed a tight array of pentagrams, representing those unknown blockades... Something, some kind of will seemed to be trembling faintly on one of the doors, ready to come out...

Finally, it was the throne room.

But first, it was the Word Bearers. The light-colored armor that used to be like paper had been replaced with dried blood-colored paint, or perhaps the gaps in their armor structure were indeed soaked with blood. Ten Space Marines in blood-red armor stood with their backs to them in front of the extremely tall and exquisitely carved door, reverently chanting some low-voiced prayers, but only made Ahriman feel uncomfortable.

Some sweat flowed down his forehead and flowed through the Prospero-style eyeliner drawn near his eyes.

"You're here," said a Word Bearer, noticing their arrival, or rather, finally waiting for this moment. He turned his head, his power armor humming.

"We come to see the Emperor," Azak Ahriman whispered, "We come to explore an unanswerable question."

The Word Bearer's eyepiece looked at them, "Traitors," he said calmly.

"What did you say?" Hathor demanded.

"Traitors of the Fifteenth Legion," said another Word Bearer, his gaze stinging and angry, but more uneasy.

The feeling of being observed became stronger.

"Prospero never betrayed the Emperor," Ahriman said, "never-"

Before his voice reached the wall of the tunnel, space suddenly fell downward, infinite darkness suddenly unfolded, time itself lost its concrete meaning, he felt himself being fixed to the specimen stand by a long needle through his heart, and the eyes that had always been watching them approached.

Not a physical eye, but the gaze of the mind itself, the endless dark power that wrapped and fixed them, the face without existence and the curse beyond death...

+The Betrayer...+

A will that crossed the world's veil bombarded Ahriman's spirit, and he felt that he was melting into non-existent fragments, but he came here with a purpose.

+Emperor,+Ahriman asked painfully, his mind seemed to be cracking for this,+I beg you to tell us, where is our father? +

For a moment, he seemed to have fallen into the border between life and death, and Ahriman forced himself to maintain his attention on the communication with this huge existence.

He heard...

+Magnus... betrayed the throne,+The voice cut his skin, and the hatred it carried seemed to remove his bones and flesh, and Ahriman trembled.

+This is impossible, Emperor. +He said tremblingly.

+ Prospero will pay with blood and fire, + the words of the voice become more fluent, as if this terrifying being is quickly grasping the floating fragments and reassembling them into a completely different whole, + and Magnus is dead. +

+No! + Ahriman shouted, his whole body cold.

The existence in the darkness seems to be gradually becoming more concrete. The coiled pipes and cold lines outline the silhouette of the throne. The ground gradually takes shape, and near the throne, there seems to be a dry, thin, and seemingly... Mortal arms stretched out from the darkness towards the throne, but before touching the throne, they were helplessly reduced to ashes...

A vaguely existing mark seems to still exist in the depths of the darkness, stubbornly exuding a ray of light. However, those traces are not much left, only a few shaken residues, falling on the fallen scepter, as if falling into the In the grave.

The name comes to mind. Ahriman was so shaken that his breath stopped.

Malcador the Sealbearer...

But how is that possible? Is that scarred and torn piece of cloth the same entity as the former imperial prime minister? If so, or was he wrong?

And the light of the swaying mark twitched, curled up from the edge of the throne, and suddenly flew towards Ahriman, imprinted on the bones of his hand in an instant, and shattered in the next fleeting moment.

Ahriman endured the pain of this moment. His palms seemed to be pierced by an anchor and the pain was excruciating. However, his senses fixed a special position in the darkness, vaguely pointing to a heavy door that had been opened. at the same time……

The pronouncement of the throne continues.

+Obey, Azhak Ahriman. +

+You have no other choice. +

+ Or burn with Prospero. +

What did this being say? The Burning of Prospero? How could Prospero fall into the rumored burning? Isn’t the invisible Amon guarding Prospero? Who has the ability to make Prospero burn——

The being who gave the order was undoubtedly in front of him, watching his fear and despair, drawing the strength he longed for from the fragments of his pain, but unable to hurt him further... Yes, he suddenly realized that he was still intact. exist.

And the remaining mark of Magnus also became obvious, surrounding his other hand, gentle and hot. Ahriman realized part of the truth, and it broke his heart.

Pain and fear at their culmination transformed into the power of peace that filled Ahriman.

Where were his other brothers? Are you receiving the same rebuke from the Emperor - or from things that were once the Emperor? He felt their souls from the darkness, those weak candlelights, distant yet close, blurry, but still maintaining the resonance that would not be abandoned. They are consistent.

+No. +

Ahriman's heart no longer struggled, and he slowly resumed his breathing. Feeling the warning-like bends and vortices in the surge of time, he repeated again, + No. +

Is there a terrible echo there? Burst out from behind the closed door of the throne room and submerge them in rage? He felt that the specimens of his body were being torn apart, and he kept falling downwards...

He suddenly fell back to reality, and time and space returned to their original state. He lay on the ground with a pair of power swords on the back of his neck.

"Don't move, traitor," said the Word Bearer.

Ahriman gasped violently and stood up, escorted by the Word Bearers. At some point, more Word Bearers appeared here.

and the watchers of the palace. Custodes. The pointed helmets of the Imperial Guards turned towards their embarrassment, and they watched as their armor was forcibly torn off, and the neural interface began to bleed.

"You will watch Prospero burn."

"Then it will be you who burn."

The Word Bearers passed on orders from higher beings in turn, and the backs of each Thousand Dust Suns were pressed against the cold muzzles of bolt guns. Hathor Maat gritted his teeth. For a moment Ahriman Thinking he was about to start berating the empire that had truly betrayed them, he said dryly: "No, Hathor."

Hathor glanced at him and paused, his eyes filled with sadness.

Ahriman nodded to him, believing that he would understand that he had not chosen to submit.

They were led and exited along the way. Ahriman's palms were still hot, and the pair of marks could not be seen, as if they did not exist, but he knew that they were imprinted deep in his soul.

He counted the doors and identified the patterns... which pattern made his hand bones particularly sore, and at which moment the feeling became intense.

A door. Engraved with complex patterns and seals, somewhere in this passage, it hissed, calling him to go forward, right between the thin curtain of reality and the gap between subspace - this is the infinite The unspoken and understood plan was the wandering fate chosen by Magnus and Malcador for them.

Yes, he had vaguely felt something. After all, he was a Black Crow, and his eyes could see the most distant moments.

Azak Ahriman suddenly combined a series of subspace explosions. Everything around him seemed to be stagnant. Dangerous helmeted faces suddenly turned towards him. The explosive propellant was ignited, and terrifying kinetic energy accumulated rapidly. Then the muffled sound of the explosion blasted his eardrums. His companions set up a psychic shield for him in an instant, and he only had a few breaths to complete his mission...

He pressed his hands against the tightly closed door in the underground palace. The magic pattern of the Imperial Chancellor and the spell of Magnus collapsed and unraveled at the same time as receiving the order. Only the remaining Emperor's psychic energy was still flickering, but without the support of the other two forces, this psychic energy was violently turbulent.

Ahriman exerted all his strength and smashed his fists on the door. The tide of psychic energy surged around him, and the remaining marks of his hands burned more and more fiercely, bursting out with lightning-like red light. The temporary storm continued to intensify, blending and rising, until the heavy door cracked a thrilling gap, and then collapsed in an instant.

A huge engine was finally re-emerged after more than a hundred years of sealing.

In an instant, it broke free and flew out of the door. Ahriman stretched out his right hand, and a new psychic reins were tightly tied on the engine. He immediately pulled up the other companions of the Thousand Dust Sun. They were always connected and never separated.

A new name appeared in Azak Ahriman's mind. This is the name of the engine.

Tuchucha.

The attacks of the Word Bearers and the Custodians were left behind in the real universe, and the last sound they heard was the throne's high, cold judgment: + Prospero must burn. +

They turned and immersed themselves in the vast ocean in the roaring tide of the warp, crossing thousands of roaring colors that rolled endlessly, desperately connecting their minds, supporting each other with a foam-like thin layer to resist the breath of chaos.

This simple and shaky force field fixed the few real space beings around them, preventing them from directly contacting the vast ocean naked.

The impacting waves broke and destroyed each other, all forces were melting and trembling, the warp roared and boiled, rolling endlessly, the demon's scream pierced the consciousness, becoming sharper and sharper, the broken screams were everywhere, the world squeezed and twisted and expanded, tearing apart everything incredible...

+ Where are we going? + Fusistaka asked, his voice still sounded shocked and sad.

Ahriman pulled the reins of the engine, his mouth filled with the coldness of metal and the smell of blood, destruction and darkness chasing behind.

Ahriman's nerves were highly tense, Magnus's thoughts were burning in his bones, and fragments of afterimages passed by him. He saw the flames, the fragments and ashes that Magnus had seen, and pictures hung above his head, howling and swirling. He trembled, but still gave his remaining strength, pulling at the existence of Tuchucha, feeling the power of its cheers, and persisting, pushing a small deflection -

+ Webway. + He said calmly.

In the precise and never-ending calculations, with the assistance of other temple lecturers, a dark vortex appeared on their way forward. The Tuchucha engine took them through the blockade of the dark power. In an instant, they fell into the webway. Magnus's power expanded and surged around them, catching their fall, wrapping their rampage, silently, and even unconsciously bringing invisible protection.

The speed of the engine was unwillingly slowed down by the power left by the red Magnus in the webway. Gravity was recovering, and they fell to the strange white and red ground, gasping for breath.

And the sentence that was once the Emperor's still echoing.

+Prospero must burn. +