Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

They chose to land from the alpine mountains, where they could overlook the many city-states under the mountains. Due to his subjective anger towards the Nucerians, Perturabo criticized in his mind that the purity of such a vast night was polluted by the local people's unregulated lights, like parasitic fluorescent bugs, gnawing at the earth and sky. Bloodline.

Thanks to the restraint of the two Primarchs who each led the army, most city-states have not yet realized what the meteor shower meant that day. Therefore, Nuceria can still be called peaceful on the surface. Only the entire Desia The city was shrouded in darkness under a strict curfew, as if it had died from the surface.

Perturabo was halfway there when he began to curse under his breath.

"What are these people doing?" he said dissatisfiedly. "So much manpower and material resources are wasted in the arena. The whole city is living in useless enjoyment, not to mention the ordinary residences of the civilians. Are all the king’s palaces so ugly?”

"They have no enemies. No one will kill these high-ranking riders. Everything is arranged according to their wishes." Angron said, the cold wind blowing his robes.

The mortal servants on the Iron Blood urgently cut out a new suit for Angron. The harmonious relationship between the mortal servants and the Astartes warriors in the regular management of the Iron Blood demonstrated an unexpectedly important role at this moment. Angron therefore Trust Perturabo even more.

"Have you thought about what to do with them?"

"Kill them," Angron said.

Angron has no creativity in how to torture his enemies, or he instinctively avoids thinking about these things, even though he still sniffs uncertainly in the restless wind and fleeting shadows from time to time. To the blood and pain soaked in the red sand.

Perturabo pulled back the brim of his hat that had been blown off by the wind. He had told Angron about the security of the data cables, hoping his brother would come to accept them. But after installing his carefully designed transmission lines, he walked around the room a few more times, asking mortals to bring hooded cloaks to cover as much as possible the steel cables.

They reached a height that was not high enough for snow to fall. The rocks were gradually exposed, and the edges and corners were cut by the howling wind. White mist evaporates in the breath, blurring each other's expressions.

Perturabo saw some old blood stains on the stones, as well as some fine powder and broken pieces. He tried to avoid these fragments and walked in the gaps.

There is no doubt that these are fragments of bones. Long-term wind erosion has made it difficult to identify the bone fragments, but the number of bones covering a large area of ​​hills like gravel in glaciers shows how many people have bled to death and turned into ghosts in the mountains due to hunger, cold, injuries and other reasons.

"I was not the first gladiator to try to resist," Angron said, "although I was probably the only one who could jump to the platform. Many more would try to seize even the slightest opportunity to escape, and some People were captured, thrown into the herd, skinned or hanged. Those who escaped had no choice but to go to the mountains, and they would die here.”

Perturabo chose to listen.

"I remember when I first appeared on this mountain." Angron said, squatting down and gently picking up a fragile bone. It is difficult to discern any information from these broken bones. A person's life is concentrated in this unidentified bone. His past and future, emotions and rationality, struggles and ideals, all disappear with the strong wind.

"It was like I came out of a metal cylinder and I was running around these mountains," he said. "It's hard for me to remember anything more."

"I can't remember anything about my birth," Perturabo said, crouching down next to Angron. "I must have lost my memory one day. When I woke up again, I was climbing a cliff and was frightened by my later mortal mentor Morse and fell down."

Angron did not smile, his expression was frozen in solemn contemplation. He cried for the first time in his life and stepped out of the metal cylinder at the same moment. When the cold wind rushed towards him and froze the scarlet blood and scars all over his body caused by the injury when he landed, tears fell on the face of that young boy. Perhaps at that time he had already sensed the death of countless people in the future and their inescapable fate.

"After I woke up, I encountered some slender creatures." He continued in as calm a tone as possible, "shouting in a language I couldn't understand. They carried metal weapons and attacked without reason. I chased them and killed some of them with wings, but the rest escaped.

"Who!" Perturabo growled, his anger suddenly rising.

He originally thought that the locals had captured his brother directly - this was possible, as he later learned from Olympian records that his young self would also be injured when fighting the hydra. The Primarch was not invulnerable. But now he suddenly learned that there was something hidden in his brother's suffering.

"I don't know them," Angron said. He paused quietly for a few seconds, then continued: "But the night before you came, I received their heads. The heads that were killed by me and weathered into bones, and the heads that were not killed by me, died that night of fresh heads.”

Perturabo frowned.

"That night, I heard some sounds of wind. I knew there were people moving outside the cave, but I couldn't see them." Angron said, thinking about the meaning of the text message. He didn't know if it was a prophecy, or if those unknown beings had actually seen the vast fleet of Primarchs.

"I received a note, nailed with a dart-shaped hidden weapon. The note said... My pain will end soon, and some demigods will come to save me. They are very concerned about their own blood relatives. I felt helpless because of my ignorance, so I sent him a gift.”

Perturabo pondered for a moment and shook his head. He had never heard of this alien style, and could the belated compensation make up for even a tiny bit of their sins? A thousand more heads could not make up for the unfortunate suffering of his brother.

"Do you remember the original text?"

"Not forgotten yet."

"I'll relay it to Morse, and he probably knows something. He's a living library, even though he's generally lazy and eccentric," Perturabo said.

Angron laid down the bones, and the mountains became the tombs of these wandering souls. When the bones of countless similar people have been mixed in the wind, their souls have also lingered and mourned for a long time as a whole concept.

If his two brothers had never arrived, perhaps his brothers and sisters in the cave would have met the same fate. Kleist, Yochuka, Laberdon who lost an arm due to gangrene, little Asty holding a dagger... their bones may never rest here, eroded by the cold wind, in despair Looking forward to a bloody revenge that no one can achieve.

He made a decision, and found that he was not disgusted by the war he was about to initiate. He thought he had burned to ashes after death, but here, in the burial ground of countless freedom-seekers, his anger was rekindled.

"Leave the rest of the city to me," Angron said, standing up first and extending his hand to Perturabo. He became taller at this moment. "Leave Nuceria to me and my brothers and sisters in the pit and cage. Let us strangle the high-ranking riders on the golden platform with our own hands with the chains that once bound us, and our anger will burn Nuceria to ashes ”