Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

"The Titans are coming, sir. They are emerging from the southwest of the Ross River Gate to the shed area. It is expected that the attack will be implemented in the direction of the Weak Sound Palace in the outer city."

War blacksmith Browne listened to the reports of several of his company commanders, raised his head from the round table, and exchanged glances with his colleagues.

The senior commanders in charge of defense have already responded to the latest intelligence in their own customary ways. Some people are using classical voices or texts, and some people follow their gene fathers and gradually replace unnecessary physical voices with bundles of neural communication.

Browne chose to connect his temple and data board with a pipeline. Although he has always been an extremely good stone carving mason outside of war, he is no exception to a more modern lifestyle like any Olympian.

And on the first seat of the hall, their silent commander-in-chief's performance in the war is still so pleasing to the eye. His fingers tap on different steel screens one by one like flowing clouds and water, and the digital streams roll horizontally on different horizontal planes like the wind. Everything was like an orderly forging, and Perturabo seemed to be born for this.

"How many Titan troops are there?" Bronne turned back and asked his adjutant to answer in the internal channel.

"After the bombing, the enemy forces reorganized and now there are two teams. In addition, there are two corresponding knight troops, three air cover support troops, and an air transport unit. The Thousand Sons warriors are deciphering the enemy's assembly order."

"Contact the war blacksmiths in the underground hive and ask them to lift the cannons to the ground. We will give them a war."

Bronne knocked on the side of his helmet, leaned back and closed his eyes. Data and thoughts merged in an empty field, making it deep into the detector system outside the war fortress that was open to him.

He heard the mortal soldiers and servitors in the fortress busy loading and firing shells, and hurriedly, non-stop, and heavy-footedly went to complete their war missions between the long corridors, the hot hangars and the roaring energy room walkways. Each person only had time to take charge of a single action, and had no time to pay attention to how many bunkers and flesh and blood bodies were shattered by the continuous gunfire...

The shaking void shields burst into bright spots like topaz and red garnets, and the hot chain saws replaced the arms of the giant machines. Clusters of gun barrels spun, and flashes of blue flames exploded from the elliptical ventilation holes on the sides of the gun barrels, accompanied by the furious roar of the overloaded reactor. The concrete on the ground cracked and shattered under their giant feet, and white light permeated the vaporized steam everywhere...

The entire battlefield was so hurried that every part in the war was just a worker bee in the hive. Perhaps the hive was destined to be filled with some kind of life in the hive, whether it was the local residents of Isstvan III or the bodies of the warring parties, alive or dead.

This long scroll seemed to be constantly moving, and yet it seemed to have been frozen forever, just like the stone carvings he had carved, capturing a momentary section of time...

The sky above their heads was burning fiercely. Flames were falling from the sky one after another, and dozens of tiny reflective points flew up like meteors against the rain of fire. The wings of the fighter planes sprinted, hovered, spun, and dodged under vector acceleration, drawing extremely bold and sharp arcs, and the bright beams that pierced the black smoke, and the missiles that outlined the arc of fire, together weaved this gray sky...

The thunder of artillery bombardment...

The sound of breaking through the air like a scream...

A burst of noise.

The silent noise suddenly cut out a huge blank in the various audios - or, in other words, a particularly dark gap.

The war blacksmith suddenly opened his eyes, and his colleagues also felt it.

There was a silent force that suddenly overwhelmed the information transmission in their link equipment, tearing a different silence in the torrent of all the shouting, yelling and rolling gunfire.

"Report, Tech Sergeant," Browne whispered, "What is this?"

His Tech Sergeant team did not answer. Before they could answer, in the humming silence, a voice seemed to be born from the void, like a song in a torrent:

"... Holding the divine revelation... Beyond the flames of war, it is the mercy of the God-Emperor that is calling you. Your loyalty is misplaced, and the guilt is not yet determined... Your hands no longer need to be stained with blood, but will be lifted up and led to the peaceful shore leading to the throne of light... The only true glory is the Holy Name of the Emperor... Think about it, why do you want to do things to your compatriots and your neighbors; Alas, brothers, when will you make up for this sin and shame..."

Warsmith Bronne's brows were furrowed as deep as a knife, and his fists were clenched. Other warsmiths were either serious or annoyed. Some of them temporarily turned off their headphones, angry that the singing of the Word Bearers was spreading everywhere.

A wave of anger rolled in Bronne's steel chest. "Is the Word Bearer crazy? To shake our loyalty?" he said.

"Loyalty to whom?"

A deep voice fell from above them, and the Iron Lord Perturabo stood up from his throne wrapped in layers of chain-like pipes, his eyes looking far away, as if he was still immersed in his full concentration on war command.

When his eyes met Bronne directly, Bronne suddenly felt a chill as if he was being locked by the entire weapon system of a city, even if this feeling was fleeting.

"Loyalty to you, my lord." Bronne said, his nerves tense.

Perturabo was noncommittal, "What do you think of this battlefield?"

This question made Brown's spirit continue to tense up, and his mind started to work rapidly. He needs to give a general and comprehensive layout, just like carving a stone statue, starting from the largest outline, then changing tools to chisel out details bit by bit, and finally polishing the silicon carbide stylus and adjusting the sandpaper... …

"We have to maintain the front line in this area. This is the top priority of Anthem City." Brown stood up, called up the hologram, and used a data pen to draw a long red line on the map. "In this area, The enemy needs at least eight to nine companies, as well as all corresponding mortal auxiliaries, engineers, and medics , air support teams and rear firepower; and their attack radius should be in this area," he added two dotted lines, "We must guard the fourth trunk line of the land train to supplement forces to the front and ensure that we can stably control the aviation launch. To this end, I request the deployment of two additional rocket regiments to the area."

"Do you think that's enough?"

Brown was silent for a moment. "First of all, normal operation of communication channels must be restored."

"So what if it's hard to do?"

"No, my lord, we can—"

"We have to assume this. The Thousand Sons are too weak," Perturabo said.

Brown understood the Iron Lord's hint. What the Word Bearers use is not purely technological. Of course, in the prayers they sang in unison, they disguised the witchcraft of the subspace as the magic given by the God-Emperor, and regarded the flow of their own corrupt blood as a manifestation of loyalty.

"Our loyalty will not be shaken by the Word Bearers' sweet talk, my lord."

"Loyalty to whom?" a recurring question.

"Loyal to the empire." Brown blurted out. It was such a familiar answer, but this time, his voice gradually lost its previous determination.

Perturabo's eyes cut like sharp knives. "A collapsed empire?"

Brown lowered his head and was silent for a moment. The Iron Warrior's armor seemed to turn into an iron chain, locking his chest tightly.

He had to rethink the original body's question.

Normally, this would not have been a question - loyalty to the Imperium, loyalty to the Emperor, loyalty to the ideals, loyalty to the Primarch... he could give any answer, and the entire Iron Warriors would agree with him with pride.

What now?

"Loyal to our ideals." Brown replied nervously. As soon as he said these words, he seemed to feel something strange, as if these words were incompatible with his beliefs.

"An ideal to conquer humanity?"

"Yes, my lord."

"So that we can pursue a golden and peaceful future?"

...Istvan III evaporated into ashes all over the sky in their hands, becoming fodder for war itself.

"Yes, my lord," Brown said, his lips pursed.

Perturabo laughed coldly, and his light eyes fell on Brown's face. The reflected light was like the sharp edge on the surface of a scalpel, gently and accurately cutting open Brown's mind.

"Then you should listen to Aurelion and choose the side of the Throne World." Perturabo said, "Because we are actively launching a war against humanity, which will definitely turn half of the empire into dust."

Brown was silent. His face burned.

"What we should abide by is our loyalty to you, my lord." He said this answer again. Even if this was not what Perturabo wanted, it was the only thing he could think of at the moment.

"Sit down," said Perturabo.

Brown adjusted the armrest of the seat and sat at the round table again.

"Yes, my lord," he said reluctantly.

"The last man to whom we were personally loyal was the Master of Mankind," Perturabo said softly.

The warsmiths were silent, staring unblinkingly at their primarch.

"The Lord of Mankind. The future. The ideals. The Imperium. It's all gone. We bleed. Vaporize into smoke under Titan fire. It's no longer about loyalty and our old oaths, for we have broken them all. So there is no more glory," said Perturabo forcefully.

"Loyal to pain. Loyal to death. Loyal to the flames of war. Loyal to the talent with which you were forged. Loyal to the steel outside of you, and the steel within you. All we have to offer is war. More war. I don't care who you are loyal to, my warriors, I only want the flames of war to burn under the throne."

Brown felt his bones trembling slightly inside the armor, half of it was the fear generated by the moral code he was taught, and half of it was the turbulent excitement in his blood and genes.

He seemed to hear a stone drill buzzing on the front edge of his skull, driving an iron nail that would never rust, and penetrated his mind...

"Yes, my lord." Brown murmured, responding almost instinctively, as if he had never doubted it. "We're ready."

Perturabo turned and stepped across the richly carved golden floor, his footsteps easily breaking the rhythm of the Word Bearers' preaching.

"Steel inside and out," Brown heard his partner tremble. He whispered as he continued, and the anger and fear accumulated in his heart strangely calmed down.

Calm as steel. So cold.

"Andraz, go find Angron. Ask him to come over." Perturabo said suddenly. "And Brown, I want you to remember everything you saw."

"For what purpose, my lord?"

Perturabo paused for a moment, then sat back on his iron throne, and the metal plates began to slide, covering him layer by layer.

"Because you are a stonemason," Perturabo replied. "One day, we will need to remember what is happening. Then you will no longer carve for yourself, but for someone in the future. Anyone."

Bronne's heavy heart gently raised a corner, which meant only one thing to him, that is, Perturabo promised them personally that there would be a future.

——

"All he wants is a war." Gaviel Loken heard the voice of the wolf god again in his mind. Horus' eyes were extremely cold, but with some unspeakable complexity.

He turned sideways, swung his sword, the blade pierced through a piece of blue and white armor, blocked and counterattacked, and raised his right hand. Killed in one blow.

The World Eaters rushed towards them, one after another, stepping on the accumulated bones under their feet. They had no time to collect them, and they had no intention to do it.

The raindrops hit his visor and evaporated into white steam in an instant. It was raining in the Anthem City, and the gunfire of the Iron Warriors was thunder in the rain. The rain blurred the vision in the distance, and those God Machines were like burly giants, biting the gunmetal battlements... Those sharp giant power claws and rotating blades cut a piece of broken light.

A slightly smaller knight, like a small bird and beast, flew into the battle formation with fluttering flag feathers, and was then hit by a cluster of hot rays in the face. A handful of white mist erupted in the fire, and the knight fell down, the deformed metal legs broke on the ground, and the driver's wet and soft body rolled out of the open cabin.

Corpses... piled up in the rain, and in the countless days when the war was extinguished, the bones were the new mountains on the surface of Isstvan III, and the layers of history would be the layers of rock layers of the mountains themselves.

"Should we give them to them?" Loken recalled his answer with complex entanglement. "Give them war?"

He remembered the last look Horus gave him, the deep thought in his eyes when he mentioned Perturabo, and - sadness. A delicate mental turmoil made the wolf god's expression difficult to hide.

He aimed to the side and front, and the crosshairs in his mind moved among several places in the misty rain curtain, judging the hiding place of the sniper hidden in the building of the hive. A shock wave exploded around him, and the air wave pushed him back. He immediately pulled the trigger, and the explosive bomb passed the air wave and hit the high target. Several pieces of broken metal cut through the raindrops and disappeared from sight in the blink of an eye.

More explosions occurred around him, and the whole street fell into endless turmoil, as if he himself was standing in a rolling kaleidoscope. He panted and dodged, and the strong smell of oil and blood was filtered by the mask, leaving only a faint trace, and his tongue tip was filled with the smell of hot metal.

The stone slabs under his feet shook as he jumped. Loken's body instinctively leaned forward, holding his sword tightly, welcoming a fierce counterattack. The World Eater rushed out from the heavy rain, and the huge hammer swung down, tearing the air. He had no time to think. Intuition and training made him dodge sideways, and the long sword slashed through the air, brushing against the opponent's hammer. The violent impact almost made him lose his balance, but his steps were still as steady as a rock. He quickly counterattacked and cut open the metal chain wrapped around the enemy's arm armor with one knife.

"Wolves are born for this." Horus's answer was brief, and there was no wavering in his tone. A few days later, he left the ground and returned to the high starry sky of the Isstvan system, commanding the endless void fleet battles, letting the fire burn in the far distance.

The rainstorm intensified. Perhaps what they did on this continent intentionally or unintentionally promoted the gathering of rain clouds. Once again, the rain and blood mixed into one, and Loken did not dare to look back, so he could only move forward. The knights in front were flattening the slippery streets in the hive city. A building was completely sunk from top to bottom under the thin floor, and people on both sides fell from the edge of the breach.

Loken turned on the sound array, his neck muscles tightened, and the throat microphone began to capture sound signals. He quickly issued some instructions to improve the exploration of mines, trenches, and engineering obstacles, and to strengthen the support of the front line. In this chaotic battlefield, any second of hesitation could lead to irreversible consequences.

The laser beam flew past his calf, and he felt the blood splashing out of the wound. Beside him, the Shadow Moon Wolf was dying in a new round of hidden volleys, being torn and injured, and constantly accumulating on this wet rainy street full of corpses. The red armor of the Word Bearer when he fell filled a bright cinnabar blood color...

If no one cleans up the battlefield, perhaps a plague that endangers both sides will eventually break out among the fragile mortals. This is an invisible bomb that hurts others and oneself-but it is not difficult to imagine its sad possibility.

After all, despite Loken's orders, despite his efforts to ensure that every detail was arranged accurately, they were still just wasting their time outside the city, piling up their bodies day after day.

The Iron Warriors guarded the ground, the Imperial Fists defended the sky, and the World Eaters and the Emperor's Children... they could not defeat the enemy. And no matter how many charges or bombardments... the battlefield seemed to be just an endless cycle, repeating the same blood and destruction. The Palace of the Chancellor still stood proudly in the upper nest, and the tip of the gold and red diamond reflected the hazy white light in the rain.

This war has lasted for nearly two months.

"All he wants is a war." Loken whispered to himself. Those words were like a hook, hooking deeply into his heart, making him doubt his every move and the value of this battle. Meaning - if it means anything at all. In a brief moment, this suspicion almost overshadowed all the anger and sadness that had accumulated in his heart.

When the negative emotions rising in his heart dissipated, the air on the battlefield suddenly changed, as if it was distorted by some invisible force.

Strange sounds came from the sound-transmitting rosary that kept capturing the rumbling war flames and urgent instructions. It started out as a weak, high-pitched buzzing tone, barely noticeable amid the thunderous gunfire. But as time went by, the voice gradually became clearer and became impossible to ignore.

It is a kind of choral singing.

It did not come from any single human throat, but some kind of mechanized chorus, ethereal, grotesque and sacred, as if hidden in some indescribable power - making Loken almost wonder whether this was the Word Bearers Astropathic Chorus. A true masterpiece.

The melody is light and distant, but it is also extremely corrosive to the mind, like a poisonous snake lurking in the bottom of the heart, slowly climbing up the nerves and tearing apart the barriers of reason.

"...All glory goes to our God-Emperor, your bravery and crimes will be counted on the day of reckoning... We long for His mercy for you, and ask Him to turn to your true heart..."

The song rose slowly and echoed in the semi-ruined city, carrying an indescribable sacred aura, as if the bloody and wet battlefield itself had been given a noble meaning. It's like a compulsive disorder that tightly grips everyone's heart. Although the artillery fire is still thundering, even though the smell of blood and decay is everywhere...

How did the Word Bearers do it? Loken thought silently in his mind, as a series of new data scrolled on the inside of his visor - the identification code of the Word Bearers side.

However, what methods did these madmen use to fully occupy the information channels? Couldn't it be that they really relied on their devotion to the God-Emperor as they said?

"We firmly believe that in this world, we will definitely see a country that embraces all believers. You must have the courage to find true loyalty..."

All the comrades wearing bloody red armor beside him stopped what they were doing, as if some irresistible call made their hearts find sustenance. It is not difficult to imagine how the faces under the masks trembled slightly, and their expressions How to become intoxicated - and on these people of devout faith, a dark invisible film flashed past, and some firelight disappeared without a trace before licking the surface of their armor.

Even at the next moment, the Iron Warriors' attack hit the entity again, and those who were lucky enough to escape for one second were given life again in the next second as if they had fulfilled a silent promise.

Regardless, this brief miracle only fueled the Word Bearers' ecstasy, and their war cries could be heard through their helmets.

...Within the sound array, the singing became clearer and clearer, like a horn coming from the sky, causing some kind of sacred fanaticism to spread among the team. To a certain extent, Loken deeply doubted whether this had affected Shadow Moon Cang. Wolf.

Is the Emperor watching us? Loken thought in panic.

If this was a feeling born from his heart, I'm afraid he wouldn't be so uneasy, but - it was the Word Bearer who drew this sacred source. This added a lingering shadow to all the glory... In the final analysis, he could not eliminate his prejudice against the Word Bearers. Perhaps it stemmed from the assassination that year, or perhaps it was some natural hostility.

It is in this radio song that all pain and blood are sanctified, and all violence and slaughter are given meaning. The singing became louder and louder, like simmering spices. Dark flashes of light rushed towards every inch of his skin, soaking into every drop of his blood, dyeing the notes with fanaticism, and this fanaticism was like a rain curtain, for all the death and death in this place. Pain is covered with a glowing veil.

For a moment, he felt that he was isolated from the world by the heavy rain and was incompatible with this war.

Even though his bolter muzzle was spitting out brilliant fire. And his power sword was going deep into the enemy's ribs. He suddenly drew the sword and turned around to block.

"Wolves were born for this..." Horus's voice sounded in his ears again, calm and deep.

Then came Sol Tarvitz's heavy answer and his show of mercy. There is no doubt about it.

Loken took a deep breath and cleared his mind. He let the bolter roar in his palms, determined to view this battle as another insurmountable challenge, another insurmountable mountain. That's all.

Until he received new information. He had been waiting for a long time, and now he still felt a little joyful when he heard it.

The assistance legion summoned by Lorgar Aurelion has broken away from the subspace route of Isstvan III and arrived in real space.

——

Unrelatedly, he recalled a world he had executed with his own hands.

At that time, he stood on the bridge and pointed the scythe forward, so the atmosphere on the surface of the planet was torn outward by the explosion of the shattered core. This piece of gas, which was originally dyed slightly purulent green by the poisonous mist, was like a broken moon, spreading into the surrounding darkness, gradually thinning, and spreading out in all directions.

Soil, rock layers and a few minerals drifted into fine dust, floating to every corner of the universe. Some of them were gently crushed by invisible hands and sank into the deep darkness forever; while others were sucked into the companion star by the ruthless gravity, performing a second catastrophe, sweeping in without warning and destroying more lives.

He witnessed the death of life on the bridge, with neither joy nor sadness in his heart. Even for him, his emotions were still more inclined to the former.

Because he was the Emperor's sickle, and the sickle was born for harvesting. Whether it was crops or other things, the harvested could only be life.

However, even during that time, the planets he executed still left pieces of residue, as the discarded residue in the universe, waiting to be turned into nutrients one day. One day, from the yeast of death, the sweet wine of new life will be brewed and dedicated to all those who should continue to live...

Prospero had a different fate.

Magnus was no different…

Their disappearance was complete, without a trace, and in ashes.

When he tried to pursue, questioning Prospero's fate with an unbelievable, betrayed heart, he got only a handful of dust.

Mortarion strode through the plainly decorated long hall of the Endurance, like a gray and cold ghost - but tall enough that this fragile paleness itself turned into an overflowing horror. His anger was faintly steaming in his chest, almost floating out of his gray and yellow robes, turning into another handful of dust, a pale dust condensed from anger and pain.

Finally, outside the domed mathematical divination room, Mortarion stopped and lowered his head to respond to the sound of footsteps following him.

For Karas Typhon, he was willing to accept the questions he was about to ask.

Typhon's armor was engraved with many geometric patterns and simple formulas, as well as runes of numerology that Mortarion had studied himself, and seals of formations that Magnus had added. On Typhon, these patterns were just decorations carved with a knife, without real power. This was a physical recording of his learning process, and now it has almost become a carrier of memory.

"My lord," Typhon looked a little confused, "Do you really believe the words of the Word Bearers?"

"The words of a group of flattering and unaware jesters? The words of a coward who was forced to kneel in public at the Nicaea Congress?" Mortarion said, using his sickle to hook open the door of the divination room, his robes rising and falling with every word he said.

Typhon nodded. Ever since Lorgar Aurelion publicly expressed his opposition "with those mysterious nonsense" at the Nicaea Congress jointly convened by Mortarion and Magnus, Mortarion has never had a single positive evaluation of the Word Bearers.

He knew this very well. He had been very close to Mortarion, and could smell his pungent anger and hesitation, which seemed to float outside with the smoke from the small incense burner hanging on his body, covering the Lord of Death.

He narrowed his eyes, pondered, and assessed the current situation. When Mortarion stepped into the divination room, he boldly followed him in. Sure enough, his Primarch let the door close naturally after he entered.

"But we are still here, my lord. We have come all the way to Isstvan III."

"Because this is the will of the Emperor." Mortarion said, stepping over the crystal mirror circle displayed on the ground and coming to the center of the room. The broken crystals formed a circular circle that nested each other, embodying a certain endless quality with inorganic matter, surrounding the Lord of Death.

"At least, it was the will of the Emperor conveyed by the Guards themselves." The Primarch added, his face shrouded in the shadow of the gray-yellow hood.