Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 481 Meaning

Azhak Ahriman watched as Prospero's soul departed in the siphon of the crossroads of the Webway.

Looking away, this passage is extremely long, and flowing in the middle are every minute and second that countless lives have had, every moment of the clock swing that once marked the node of life's destiny.

He heard the big Tizka's hourglass tapping gently on the table, and the vast world opened in front of him. Does it all make sense? Or does it have a purpose?

He saw: an eleven-year-old child running under the blue sky in front of him, a bullet shattered the head of a Planetary Guard soldier and his brain burst into blood and white flowers, the tanned brother and sister shook together The maraca sat on the bench and sang tuneless songs, they were once only seven years old and they had not grown up when they died under a fallen burning tree, the archaeologist lovingly swept away the baroque statue with a small brush The floating dust on the floor, the ancient gilt painting that had been restored for thirty years was burned to the ground by the flames of the flamethrower...

Is this destruction the will of God in the game of the gods, or the sacrifice of destiny? Prospero shed the last drop of his blood for the Emperor, and their deaths were not even wasted. No...their death has value, their value is only in their death.

Is this a comfort to his soul, or is it a sharp, cruel and unsoothing single-molecule war blade that cuts into his heart and continues to stir ruthlessly to one side?

Azak Ahriman has probably never been more afraid than he is now - more afraid, even resisting the existence of the empire, the existence of the emperor... not the stolen thing on the throne, but the real emperor The emperor, the one who even after death was still asking for everything they had.

That - that real plunderer.

He saw: The thirty-nine-year-old mother began to worry that her child would never come back to see her after leaving with the fleet. She anxiously chopped up a piece of turnip with the spoon in her hand and mixed it with lemon vinegar. Writings fell on the road. There were twenty footprints with traces of magnetic locks on the scrap paper of lyrics. People carrying pockets on the street were chased by children holding bugs that bowed after the rain. Soon...

Soon Prospero's death was also taken up. These souls were taken away by the existence at the end of the glorious path. The moments they had were lost in painful death. All the colors were squeezed out bit by bit, and soon not even the last traces left in the world were left. exist.

And Ahriman had no right to take back even a shred of it, for the true Emperor was demanding these cruel deaths from the universe. After he took away Magnus' life, he would also take away more things that humans have from this world, because...

Why?

Ahriman opened his mouth slightly, biting his lip to push back any more noise into his throat. His lips twisted and closed, forcing an expression that might have been a smile.

Because the Emperor protects humanity, his request is the right one. Because only this dedication can exchange for his awakening, he cannot refuse.

He understood all this the moment the light from the Path of Glory fell on him. The same goes for other temple lecturers.

He heard: A star is about to be born, but the condition for his birth is death. He is the giant spider in the middle of the cobweb of the Milky Way, the sole ruler of countless hives, and the death trill on every string will nurture his growth. There was so much information in a single beam of light, how clearly he was informed of it all, of the nourishment that the unawakened stars relentlessly demanded from them. Informed of the existence of the crossroads. Telling Magnus the last bit of his will...

Did their father, Magnus, foresee Prospero's destruction when he led the Emperor to the crossroads? Will the Red King know that in the emperor's rebirth, the nutrients he demands include Prospero, including his own home, for which he has devoted half his life? Did he expect that? Did he expect that the City of Light would be one of the true Emperor's sacrifices or even the first sacrifice?

Azhak Ahriman gasped hard and squeezed out a powerful but powerless roar from his lungs.

"Azhak..." He heard a voice. Ahriman looked back, turned around, his eyes searching for that voice in the torrent of his soul. He saw him, hanging on him was a scarab that was exactly like him, only different in color, his outline was similar to his, and he met his eyes.

"Ormuz," Azak said, witnessing his biological brother walking towards him from the torrent of souls. He could hear his power armor still humming, and the blood on his face faded to a cobweb. thick white gauze.

Yes, a brother, born together in the Achaemenids on Terra, who followed Magnus to the stars. They were a pair of dim stars that seldom met, and Azhak Ahriman did not say goodbye to Prospero before he left Prospero for the last time.

"I'm sorry," Olmuz said. "My suspended animation didn't save me. I've long said that this function isn't that practical."

He smiled.

Coldness surged through Ahriman's body, and his shivering ceased, silenced along with his panic. His hands ached with cold.

"What happened?" Ahriman asked softly, slowly holding his breath.

"Many died fighting. The Luna Wolves were destroying Prospero," answered Ormuz, looking confused as he looked at the torrent he was in. "Is this the way to the Golden Throne? Why are you here too?"

"No, Ormuz, this leads to the Crossroads. A millstone of souls. You will lose the last trace of your existence there, and you will leave nothing behind, Ormuz. You are the nourishment of the Emperor's resurrection."

Bursts of light spread from the distant Crossroads, treating every soul as a lens for it to transmit, constantly refracting at the far end of the Crossroads, gradually weaving thousands of souls into its huge spider web. It keeps spreading, stretching, piercing, and tearing everything it passes.

"What about... Prospero?" Ormuz asked, "We protected it with all our strength, Azak. Did we succeed?"

"Look back, Ormuz, there are more and more. There are more and more dead."

Ormuz was silent for a few seconds, his calmness accompanied by the flash of explosions and the powder splashing when bricks and tiles were broken. Everything was too trivial and too magnificent.

"Why don't you stop Prospero from burning?" he asked.

"I'm too late."

"You never say too late, Azak." Ormuz said, his face was traversed by another floating soul, he alternated between blur and clarity.

"You can find Prospero against the torrent of souls, even if it is indeed almost... a wreckage, even if there are only a thousand of you, even if your greatest reliance, psychic power, cannot be used in Prospero, even if you are indeed too late, Azak. You even have several spells to reverse time. Although dangerous. You don't use it."

Azak Ahriman turned his head and looked at the soul flow rushing to the intersection of the crossroads with Ormuz. Like a vast waterfall or a rushing river, this is the full proof of the existence of every life, and they have the cruel meaning of the last time in this life.

The Emperor protected everything, and they want to return everything to the Emperor, voluntarily or unwillingly. Every penny they took must be sent back again. This is... the concept praised by the human empire. Only the Emperor is above.

"But this is not what the Emperor needs, this is what humans need." Azak muttered to himself, his emotions gradually returned to tranquility, based on his powerlessness.

Ormuz nodded slightly: "It sounds like we are just passing the souls and existence of some people through a transit point that has also exhausted the last bit of soul, and offering them to more people for their future survival. The two ends of the equation: death and survival."

Ahriman looked at his brother and did not speak. The thoughts contained in the torrent of souls seemed to become faint and difficult to distinguish one by one. Even his own existence was not as clear as usual.

His extension was expanded, almost blending into the waves of death. In the alternation of the light of the crossroads and the death of the soul, a part of him also went with it, and an invisible footprint fell in the bright mist, small and distant.

Ormuz continued to speak, untied his scarab, tossed it in his hand, and handed it to Azak.

"Just as we have been doing, Azak. Two hundred years ago, Achaemenid gave his son to the throne of the empire, gave a part of it to the expedition, and became a part of the whole of humanity. We silently recited honor, loyalty, brotherhood, and were no longer ourselves. We have been crushed by the wheel of fate once and reshaped into what we are now. This time, the world under the axle is Prospero's turn..."

"I know."

Ormuz snorted, turned his head, and looked intently in the direction of the crossroads. "I don't want to die, Azak, and our second home doesn't want it either."

"It can't be stopped, Ormuz." Ahriman said, holding the scarab in his hand. "And if you want to feed the stars with years of death, it's too slow, right?"

"You already understand." Ormuz replied, his expression fluctuated again, and the color became lighter, like the spider silk on his face spreading, spreading over his whole body.

"I always knew," Ahriman shook his head and waved away the image of Ormuz he had constructed. The scarab in his hand turned into flying sand, glittering back into the torrent before him.

Ormuz had indeed died in the burning of Prospero, Ahriman thought, or else his heart would have resisted as he spoke to his own avatar. The hearts of two brothers must beat for each other. No, no, nothing.

Death is the final meaning.

Did Magnus think of this when he sacrificed himself? Did the father think of the decision his most cherished son would make?

Ahriman watched the events unfold, re-strengthening his connection with his fellow teachers, and called a new spell, causing it to rise from within him, the light spreading rapidly, following the direction of the beam. He closed his eyes.

+ Tell me, my brothers, + he said, + This is a river, a path with a source and an end. Will we go upstream to find the remains of Prospero, or will we go downstream to meet the true Emperor? +

+Have you given up Prospero, Azak? + said Fusistaka, his tone was particularly complicated.

+I have no right to give it up. I am only an Astarte, I do not own it. + Ahriman murmured.

+What about your arrogance? + Hathormat asked incredulously, +What about the pride you swore to protect Prospero, Azak? +

+So... I did not give it up. But not now, Hathor...+

We were thrown to the top by fate, and then fell down the cliff. For the future of most people, we can only close our eyes and fall into the wind, welcoming the arrangement of fate. A good intention brings bad results, and a set of bad actions leads to a good ending. A seemingly cruel and ruthless joke, a vulgar story that satirizes human existence itself.

This is the path that everyone is pushing unintentionally: the human empire will be a coral reef built on layers of rocks. If it is to continue in the vast sea of ​​stars, it will be built with the bones of corpses.

It is so disgusting in itself. The glory of the Great Crusade glorified it, made its outline gentle, made everything look prosperous, made millions of Astartes and several times the number of warriors seem to become angels of peace, made the essence of every gathering of generals covered up, made the bloody battles and killings blinded by expectations and dreams, and made the expectations and vows in the laughter cover up the destruction, occupation, rule and plunder of one world after another.

It is not even a scam, a trap. It clearly put blood and war on one side of the scale, nested with the possibility of hidden disasters, but the dreamlike future on the other side of the scale was too dazzling - too dazzling. And they just forgot that no one cared about the dead.

Now, the essence is revealed. The exchange has become more naked. Irreversible. Maybe... maybe.

A new idea was born in Ahriman's mind. He thought of an unfinished spell, engraved in the Book of Magnus, a set of secret scrolls that were different from the Holy Codex of Nicaea and truly recorded those taboo laws that could not be known to the public. He closed his lips tightly, not daring to say it, but a decision had been made lightly.

+What do you mean not now, Azak? +Balak asked.

+You will know. +Ahriman said, +There is always a choice, fate has not really written anything. But not now. As for now, go to see the Emperor? +

+Prospero will hate you. +Balak looked at Ahriman sadly.

+Will it? Ahriman smiled. A new beacon was sent to the Radiant Light, and together they would travel to the end of the Glorious Crossroads.