Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 478 The Head of Heresy

Batusa Narek grasped the snake-like handrails on the wall as the ship shook violently, frowning as he watched the servitors and crew members fall to the ground in the bombing.

Some people stood up, covered their bleeding noses, and rushed to the control console to check the navigation system and subspace engine that were on the verge of going out of control. The parameters of Geller's position dragged out a terrible arc with ups and downs. Some cables in the room came loose, and they whipped the walls of the room dangerously in the flash of electric sparks.

"Turn on the plasma engine," a temporarily promoted supervisor squinted and yelled, using his eyelids to block the dripping sweat, "We must temporarily leave the subspace!"

"But--" another crew member responded anxiously, and the light spot indicating the attack danced in the reflection of his pupils.

"Listen to him and do it." Narek let go of the handle and walked forward, his two hearts struggling and beating in fatigue. They had to make a choice: either fall apart in the warp or run into the pursuit of the legion they once belonged to in the real universe.

The navigator sitting on the ground climbed out from the pile of paper boxes and flying combat manuals, looking pale, and glanced at the Space Marine hesitantly. Narek noticed him keenly, or his attention was always half on him.

"What do you want to say, navigator?"

"I'm not sure, my lord, I don't think we need to get involved..."

"Either tell me what you found now, or let your discovery be buried with all of us. You know we are heading towards the end." Narek reminded in a lightly reproachful tone, "There is no supply, no destination. All we have is our own life, and there is nothing else worth losing besides it."

The ship began to float up from the warp, and the colorful stars shattered in the roar of the engine in the real universe. They fell out of the back of the world. The violent turbulence made the armored shell of the ship creak. Everyone's thoughts were as tight as a string, but the next assault artillery fire was delayed.

In addition to the dedicated servitors who were still operating the system panel, many people were obviously relieved.

The navigator pulled a broken stool to climb up, as difficult as if he had just climbed out of a mental storm, "There are more than one ship around, sir. There are some people, some signals are floating over, but I am not a professional astropath."

"We should hide?"

"No, sir, that is not a familiar signal, that is not the Word Bearers," he said quickly, "If we have no hatred for them, we can ask for help, sir, we can't fall like this!"

"Not the Word Bearers?" Narek murmured. "What kind of ship?"

"I'm not sure... but-"

"There is a signal, sir!" said another crew member, he was almost shouting with joy, "That is... they took the initiative to contact us, the flagship of the 15th Legion, Wanzhang..."

"Tell them that we are being hunted by the Word Bearers, right now." Narek interrupted him, a bad possibility rushed into his mind.

If they are all being hunted by the Word Bearers, then what about the 15th Legion that stands on the same side as Perturabo? There are a hundred doubts that tell him that this ship should not be here. If it is already here——

The enemy of the Word Bearers is my friend.

A message was sent almost instantly, just as Narek finished speaking. The urgency and solemnity of the former Word Bearer made the crew realize the seriousness of the matter. The signal of identity declaration crossed thousands of miles in the blink of an eye, chasing the footsteps of the previous reply to the Thousand-foot Light.

Time seemed to be still in an instant. The red lightning that suddenly fell from the endless depths of space rested in the broken storm. The infinitely spreading power was forcibly gathered, leaving only the remaining grief and anger, still lingering in the aftermath of the power of the Thousand Dust Sun, and has not yet completely dissipated.

+Enemy? +A voice said this, or a thousand voices, a thousand lonely questions from the depths of the universe.

Narek took the data board: "Batusa Narek, I am no longer a Word Bearer."

+...Why? +

+The Word Bearers took Ahriman away...+

+...dead? No, no...+

These words of the mind kept swirling and turning, like light red water drops, sliding down the glass surface of the universe. Finally, a voice gradually stood out.

+No longer the Word Bearers? +

Narek took a deep breath, hoping that the words he sent would not sound so empty, at least not as empty as his two hearts.

"The Word Bearers are lost, brothers of the Fifteenth Legion...or maybe I am lost, and Batusa Narek is a heretic in my legion. If you are willing to accept a rebellious heretic leader, please allow me to board your flagship-I hope to tell you everything I know, because someone must do this."

--

The gray storm swept across the desolate surface of the planet, like a wrinkled rough shroud, shaking from time to time. When the Iron Blood was close enough to see the outline of Morro's planet, Morse slowly exhaled. From the vague past, he intended to extract a few possible memories.

No, there was nothing there, as if everything that had ever happened on this planet had not yet happened to him.

"There is a ship," he said, his mind sweeping across the cold planet, "black plating, no markings. The technology used is ancient but advanced. What can you see, Perturabo?"

The image of the Lord of Iron appeared on the side of the porthole in front of Morse. The image woven by the data stream changed light and dark, highlighting a slightly gloomy iron face.

"I can see that the warp storm has stopped here. I can see that the planet registered as the Forge World was completely destroyed at some point and turned into an exiled ruin." Perturabo did not speak, and a passing fully mechanical servant spoke for his will.

"Yes... yes. The curtain here is not unique, but it is protected - after the planet was destroyed long ago, this wreckage is still under strict protection."

This is why the Iron Blood still failed to enter the orbit of Moro. A thin non-material network that hides dangers blocks Moro from the invasion of the vast soul sea. No one can reach Moro's atmosphere directly from the warp channel; in the real universe, the invisible electric light jumping on the same layer of protection network also hinders the process of the spacecraft entering the interior of the planet safely.

Behind them, the frenzied vast ocean was endlessly howling and agitated, and the heavy poisonous colors condensed into giant pus-flowing blocks, slamming on the surface of the network, but only smashing themselves on countless sharp grid lines, leaving only turbid stains of various colors.

Morse stared at the dense network that was still in operation, with mixed emotions in his heart. Perturabo noticed this, no matter which camera was installed in the Iron Blood. He didn't ask more.

"How did the spacecraft get in?" Perturabo said, and then he got the answer himself: "The Emperor's handwriting."

"You guessed right, I guess it was arranged before the Lord of Humanity ascended the Golden Throne." Morse replied in a low voice, hesitated for a moment, and then suddenly retreated to the state of bodyless void. His will reached forward, approaching the rotating mesh surface, and one of the golden threads was pulled out in an instant, shrinking from a thin line stretching tens of thousands of miles back to a tiny invisible morpheme...

It returned to Morse's missing arm, like a small button, hanging to the edge of the original body, filling a tiny piece of the missing part - even though it was so small that it was imperceptible, there was no doubt about its destination.

"...Morse?"

Perturabo's question became distant on the Iron Blood, and Morse gently slid back to the material shell he had made and propped it up again.

"I dare not imagine what Neos had done here, but now, I think we can enter Morro." Morse said.

As the landing craft thrusters gradually approached the ground, the lights illuminated the floating embers on the surface of the planet: the thick fog of volcanic ash still floated in the thick atmosphere after 15,000 years of stagnation. They landed on the flat ground, and the psychic energy became dense here, so dense that if a soulless person came here, he would probably be drowned by the psychic energy instead.

Morse's hand wrapped in black cloth held up a handful of dust, trying to discern whether there were still memories of the past... No, it was too long ago, and there was almost nothing left. There were still remnants of destruction, rusty dust left by war machines, some remnants of colored plating, and the loud bang of an instant explosion.

This planet was once destroyed by humans, but why?

Then he turned his head and looked at a point in the sky - a small dot that overlapped with the light of the stars.

That was the next lost spell element.

"I believe it is over there," he said, "I am also beginning to be sure that there is indeed a long-buried secret here. In fact, I think there should be guards here, sent by your father, waiting for the call of mission."

Morse shook the dust in his hand, "I have heard his breathing... Yes, if he must be somewhere, then he must have received the personal order of the Emperor. He was born for the Emperor."

"Commander of the Guards." Perturabo frowned. The absence of the head of the golden guards might not be noticed by everyone, but as the warmaster, he could not help but catch this abnormality. Malcador had told him not to worry, and he accepted the advice of the Imperial Chancellor.

... Is Malcador okay now? If something happened to the Golden Throne, what about the loyal but unpleasant old man?

Perturabo stopped his thoughts. Enough, he thought, enough. He probably already knew the answer, and the answer fell on his numb soul, as if it still cut a tear of blood.

Morse said simply: "You are very perceptive, yes, Constantine Valdor is in the shallow underground 1,300 kilometers away, and his consciousness is still alive. The distance is not too far, I will take you there now."

They walked against the wind, and the vast scale of the earth shortened under their feet, turning into a small gray afterimage. The edge of the canyon rushed towards them, and they fell down the steep cliff edge, fell along the mountain, and then landed on the ground, stirring up a circle of rising embers. A few pieces of discarded iron fell off the cliff and fell among the ashes, and the dust was turbulent in the air.

The wind and sand returned to their original flow, and the clanging sound of metal boots rang out in the whistling silence. Slowly, a golden outline emerged at the dark edge of the cave not far away, stopped there, and watched quietly.

Then he took off his helmet and met Morse and Perturabo's eyes. There was still dried blood on that face.

"My Lord said that someone would come." Constantine Valdo said, his voice cracked in the wind and sand. "Someone who needs to wait."

Perturabo took a step forward, examining the commander of the Custodes, identifying the scars hidden in his armor. Details formed a clear conclusion: a long close combat had just ended, and although Constantine won, he was also seriously injured. Regardless, he stood there, like an immortal monument.

"Now we are here," Perturabo said in a low voice, "What is the Emperor's plan?"

Morse muttered softly in the dust: "I didn't even know when he turned back into a prophet."

Valdor looked at them, thinking left a mark in his eyes, and in a moment, he spoke.

"The one I am waiting for my lord is not you," he said. "He is waiting for a human."

——

Olaneus Persson didn't know what happened on Terra, but it must have been beyond the expectations of the Legion that took him away.

But what about the Primarch of the Legion? This is a mystery. At least, the worries that could be detected from the mortal servants of the Legion and the few Space Marines who were not good at disguise had never appeared on the Primarch named Joe or the demigod Alpharius who was sitting in front of him and looking down at him.

Is this really Alpharius now? No, Orr didn't want to worry about it anymore. He got tired of the tricks of the Alpha Legion so quickly. In the face of real disaster, no matter how exquisite the magic was, it was not enough to make people laugh.

"The Lord of Mankind is no longer the one we knew." Alpharius said, "He has changed."

Orr nodded dully, unsure of the future.

No one in the galaxy remains unchanged. Moreover, he had been away for too long, and the past with the Lord of Mankind was as vague as a cloud of smoke from the past. They parted ways, but never drew a gap with hatred, but just let time take them in different directions. But if there is a chance... to meet him again?

He couldn't think of what he wanted to say. Perhaps he would ask if the omen he believed in, the omen that had broken him from Erda, had brought him the outcome he wanted. Or maybe he would shrink from meeting the Lord of Mankind.

Alpharius did not expect his answer.

"I had a premonition of his change, and I knew that part of me had paid the price," the Primarch continued, a veiled soliloquy, telling something that only he knew. "Our hands have brought disaster, and I believe it is irreversible."

"What is that?" Orr asked.

Alpharius glanced at him. "Only I know."

Orr shook his head. "You don't know, Primarch."

"Really?" Alpharius was noncommittal. He paused for a moment, and Orr drank a sip of water in the frozen silence. "So what are you doing now?"

"Choosing."

"I can't help you. I'm just an ordinary human." Orr murmured, feeling the hanging cross cold against his chest.

Alpharius leaned forward, and his shadow fell on the table. The shadow of a terrible giant.

"Are you loyal to the Lord of Mankind?" he asked.

"Of course," Or sighed, "of course."

"Do you think loyalty to the Lord of Mankind is always right?"

Or raised his eyebrows in confusion. Did he need to deny this? In front of a general under the Lord of Mankind?

"Yes," he said.

Alpharius leaned back his upper body, then he stood up and took a step back to the door.

"Then the Alpha Legion will return to Terra," the Primarch said, "You gave me good advice, Or."

Or suddenly felt uneasy, he watched the Primarch leave and leaned back in his chair.

Every day passed as usual, and Alpharius never came to Or Persson's room again. Hydra's servants ensured Or's daily life, even if Or didn't think he needed extra care. When he figured out the rules of the bathroom faucet and saw the shadows through the curtains, he still accepted this surveillance silently.

Day after day, he listened to the broadcasts on the radio - he was sure that this was a toy made specifically for him, which made him feel mixed emotions.

From the outer side of the solar star field to the inner side, they passed by planets that revived Orr's memories one by one. Jupiter... Mars... Storms that disrupted the subspace route again and again, almost there, the satellite of the earth, the moon? He chewed on this word. The moon?

"We are expected to enter the planetary orbit of the throne world Terra tomorrow. Please prepare yourselves..." Today's announcer was replaced by a young man, whose tone was more casual than others. "Hold the handrails firmly and fasten the safety magnetic buckle. In Terra, you can see the Imperial Palace on the left and the ruins of the warlords' melee on the right. Maybe it's snowing in the Achaemenids this season..." Or began to feel that something was wrong. "And so on. Damn it, I don't know. If you plan to leave this damn place, please call John Grammaticus. He will take you thousands of miles away. Make sure to take all your belongings with you, Orlanius Persson. I'm outside the door. Someone asked me to talk to you."