Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Rogal Dorn used the broken sword to block the huge weapon. This was the last time the Stormfang served him.

As the chain sword was completely shattered and disintegrated from the Aquila guard downwards, the shock wave of the impact rippled through the dead world of blood and sand. Ashes and dust rose up, and scattered into flying mist together with the blood of the white-haired primarch. His armor was torn apart by the sword and cut into several heavy cracks, like a gold and jade jar that had been smashed and cracked, and blood seeped out from all the cracks.

Dorn gasped violently and raised his eyes to stare at the demon's right wing - maybe a few seconds ago, maybe a few hours ago, in a short and short moment, the broken sword had pierced the demon's left wing membrane, like a cut. When the dark sail was stretched tight in the hurricane, once a gap was torn, a cut of several meters long appeared in the entire wing membrane in an instant.

The demon was unresponsive to pain, and this further fueled the rage that pulsed through its veins and skin. However, Dorn reduced the enemy's mobility, limiting the three-dimensional battlefield to the ground, so that it could no longer react at any time. Flying or gliding contrary to the laws of nature.

"Why do you say I am..." Dorn used the hilt of his sword as a short stick to deflect the enemy's weapon slightly, "traitor?"

The only answer the devil gave was the next swing of his sword. Each of his attacks is extremely powerful and heavy. This is supposed to be a style of play that trades slow speed for unparalleled power, but this shortcoming has been compensated by the upgraded, more extraordinary and incomprehensible speed. . His polearm roared as it roared, as if it would bleed the air and the earth, if not harm Dorne. Dorn tried his best to avoid being directly hurt. His broken bones had begun to bleed from his internal organs. All the flesh and blood seemed to be squeezed into a ball, barely covered by golden armor.

After a heavy blow, Dorn stepped forward and got close to the demon's body in exchange for a short blind spot for long-handled weapon attacks. He clenched his hands into fists and hit the side of the demon's kneecap with the plastic steel gauntlet and joint cover. Then, he The gauntlet was scattered, the rivets and chains were loose, hanging precariously on the hand. Before being kicked away, Dorn repeated: "Why do you call me a traitor?"

"Him." The demon said one word, then laughed rudely. "You would betray him."

It rushed up and struck Dorn's left side with its giant blade. The armor instantly shattered over a large area, revealing the sizzling fiber bundles underneath. Dorn stumbled backwards, looking for the conditions to survive for the next time in this fierce attack of wind and thick fog. If he died here, his death would bring no value to the galaxy, and he didn't accept that, but he didn't find a way out either.

"He." Dorn repeated, savoring the emphasis on words that highlighted the theological characteristics. He dodged with bare hands among the flaming skeletons, ready to take off his gauntlets and put them to good use at any time. "Is it the Emperor?"

A kind of terrible resentment burst out from the demon's eyes as he stared at Dorne. The blood-colored cloak that had to be cut into three rows due to the existence of its wings was bulged and unfolded by the lava heat rising from the cracks in the stone slabs under its beastly claws. Like blood boiling, it seems to be a living embodiment of hatred and killing, an eternal and unresolved evil soul, approaching Dorne with overwhelming momentum.

"Who else could it be?" The demon irreverently transferred part of its anger to the betrayed emperor in his mouth, its breathing became hotter and faster, and its position immediately became blurred. Its next blow coincided with its grunt, and Dorn's right hand was broken off into a crumpled, burned mutil. At the same time, a collapse occurred in the entire area. Grooves several meters deep were carved out by the aftermath of the attack, and the rubble and remaining blades were squeezed into a dense combination.

The Primarch was unmoved, and he began to learn without any instruction to become accustomed to pain, and then to abandon it, viewing this weakness as a trivial problem that the Primarch's physiology could overcome.

He used the fragment of the gauntlet on his left hand like a knife, gouging out a flaming bloody mouth on the demon's leg. He could not let the initiative be completely controlled by the devil, which would mean his own meaningless death, even though the blood as thick as poisonous mist had rushed towards his face, suffocating him in the smell of brass and sulfuric acid.

"Are you loyal to the Emperor?" Dorn asked, feeling his skull rattling, a hum reverberating through his bones.

The temporary deafness caused by the exploding skull cannon reoccupied him, and was added to the blindness caused by the dense fog. He stumbled, searching for center of gravity among the piles of broken bones and blood-red vision, while continuing to resist the noisy whispers.

From the moment his sword ceased to exist, the echo of blood began to touch his heart even further.

- You can't beat it. you need me. More powerful. More blood. Stay alive. Accept the killing.

Dorn continued to ignore these whispers, even though he was dizzy and on the verge of death. Blood stains followed the traces of the battle and were everywhere within a few dozen meters. His arm was broken, his sternum was broken, his muscles were torn, and the broken bones were connected to his wrists by a thin layer of skin. Even so, he could still think.

The daemon that baselessly accused him of betraying the Emperor also refused to acknowledge its own loyalty. Donne was hard to understand.

The Primarchs were far more resilient than mortals, just as they had to hide their great nature behind a veneer of humanity. But will the original body die? Donne answered in the affirmative. If he died today, he would regret his death. It would be too soon.

- Receive blood. warrior. It's too early to give up at this point. Accept the gift.

The voice was endlessly coaxing, comforting, and encouraging.

At any time, giving up is a choice that can be called premature. Donne never backs down, but that doesn't mean he has to accept another evil.

He threw out his left hand gauntlet and aimed at the pair of glowing red eyes that could barely be discerned in the blood mist. This move only lifted the devil's hood, and he still couldn't see the other person's face clearly.

"How many people have died because of you." The demon sneered, wings and cloak flapping against each other. The emphasis is on the word "you." "Because of your stubbornness and stupidity!"

-Don't listen to him. my warrior. Your nobility and perseverance are far superior to anyone else. Bleed for me. Then you can make him bleed for you.

Dorn was knocked to the ground, his legs seemed to no longer belong to him, their senses separated from his own, almost non-existent. The devil's shadow enveloped him, making him feel as if he was being swallowed by blood mist and gunpowder smoke.

He grabbed a collapsed stone pillar and struggled to get up, but he could only half kneel.

The weakened spirit caused Donne to shift his limited attention from himself to the inside of his mind. Every word the devil said brought more doubts to him, and he knew that he didn't have that many chances to ask all the questions.

He had to choose a question. It must be important enough not to touch the devil's bottom line.

However, if the demon was indeed his brother, then they would have equal intelligence. Of course his intentions can be read by the other party. He needs to break through the opponent's defenses, uncover the enemy's pain, and pry open the opponent's heart like the weapon peeling off his own golden armor... He is talented in this area, and Dorn knows it.

"Have you succumbed to that voice?" Dawn said, squinting his eyes, blood rolling through his eyelashes and rolling across his cheeks, "It says I am more resilient."

The devil's anger was detonated, and the blood-red wrapper wrapped around the huge weapon was finally torn by the blade, melting and disappearing in the blood mist as it fell off. The huge scythe swung down from the air, passed through Dorn's back, and stabbed out from the chest, making the original body tremble.

The face emerged from the blood mist, almost face to face with Dorn's face. Compared with this world of blood, it is so pale and depleted. The lower half of the face is like blackened dry carbon. The severe burns that will never heal become some kind of symbolic mask of revenge, forcibly combined on the devil's face.

Blood covered Dorn's throat, and he choked. The voice still spoke to him, Dorn completely blocking out the endless noise. Using its words to stimulate the demon in front of you is the only value of those sounds.

He used everything he had left to dodge the next attack, and every part of his body that could be mobilized was filled with more spiritual commands. The scythe came towards his throat. Dorn avoided the first blow and half of his shoulder was cut off. With the second blow, Dorn's right leg was broken. The demon was not a torturer. Each of its attacks was aimed at the heart or carotid artery, which was enough to kill him. These extra injuries were only caused by Dorn's constant struggle.

In the gap between attacks, at the junction of life and death, the sharp touch on Dorn's skin suddenly disappeared, and all the hissing roars and gurgling venom and blood left him in an instant. The confusing whispers suddenly turned into angry roars, but the originally extremely angry demon let out a deathly sigh before disappearing.

A gust of cold wind from high above blew through him, penetrating violently through the damage and fractures in his body, covering and smoothing the hot torment with icy pain. Dorn lay on his back in the open space, unable to move, but did not allow himself to pass out. He must maintain control of his body.

His left hand was gently pressed by a smooth and light hollow ball. He crossed his fingers. The golden skull fell into Dorn's palm and continued its company silently.

——

+Don't ask about what's going on here, Perturabo. +

Morse kicked open an iron door in the fortress, and the heavy blow of the psychic package destroyed the iron door. He strode into the fortress, his spiritual energy surged, and the ether torrent smashed the small automatic defense machines rushing to the left and right, and further destroyed several launching instruments hidden in the walls or on the ceiling, dismantling them violently and efficiently. This solid fortress inherits ancient technology.

+If you ask one hundred and thirty times whether Dorne is dead or alive, I will have to spend time looking for where the altar is. +

+It’s not me who’s asking, it’s that Sigismund. +Perturabo said that due to the long distance, the psychic communication channel he and Morse established was somewhat intermittent. This made the Primarch extremely anxious.

Three days before, the World Eaters had filled his corridors with their knees, and they had found a battered Angron, sending the Lord of the Red Sands to the infirmary in tears and introspection.

Today was the day Angron woke up - he had far more external wounds than internal wounds. These injuries that did not touch the internal organs and bones were only minor injuries to the original body, and healing was not difficult. The World Eaters finally left his Ironblood and surrounded the Gene Father, giving Pertura a clean corridor.

But he gained yet another troublesome brother's son.

Templar Sigismund, the first minute he learned of Rogal Dorn's disappearance, rushed out of the Resolute Resolve, transferred to the Iron-Blooded in a transport ship, and went straight to the office of the Iron Warriors Primarch.

From the first second Perturabo saw him, the golden warrior wearing a black and white robe insisted on standing in a corner of his office. At certain intervals, the armor, which was motionless while touching the hilt of the sword, On the top, from the tightly covered helmet, a low voice will be heard: "Is there any news about my father?"

And have the ability to urgently cross the vast sea of ​​​​stars when communication is interrupted, find and rush to Dorne's location, and effectively solve most unknown problems - and have free time, and cannot act as a shining golden idol on the expedition front all day long. Naturally, there is only one candidate for the image of the actor.

+Say it like you don't want to ask. +Morse looked down at the edge of the stairs, weighed it, jumped down close to the edge, and landed on the beams on the middle floor, feeling the direction of the subspace energy inside the fortress from top to bottom.

When he arrived, the entire planet was shrouded in blood mist, and unlike the previous accidental psychic obstruction caused by the vengeful souls of Angron, the highly recognizable power that descended here consciously sealed the entire space. The echoes of sacrifices or summonses penetrated the curtain of reality, calling upon the evil power of the dark gods, and Rogal Dorn was deeply trapped in it.

He raised his left hand flat, and his spiritual energy was replaced by a curse. Some of the World Eaters who had been contaminated by the arrival of the Blood God were burned into ashes by the purer energy. There is no way for them to be saved, and the liberation of their souls is the only reward for their years of dedication.

Morse pulled a thin thread in the power flow and followed the suction to quickly float towards the source of dark energy.

This force was directed at the command room of the planet's leader. Several corpses that were obviously members of the planet's leader's family were lying in the middle of the floor. Ancient and rough summoning spells were smeared on the ground with blood. From their state of death, one can imagine the pitiable gesture of these mortals begging for greatness in despair.

There are only two explanations for how this trick can summon the power of Chaos. Either the blood accumulated here has far exceeded the needs of the ritual, or the Blood God is really willing to come here. Morse preferred both to be correct, and was curious that anyone would be interested in Rogal Dorn's unchanging stone.

A beast of chaos, made of mortal flesh and dark blessings, clung to the wall and pounced on his face with its fangs and claws. Morse killed it easily. The subspace inside the circle may be indestructible, but the coordinates outside in the real universe are fragile.

As the golden flames burned along the wire-like magic circle, a beam of golden light suddenly rose into the sky. Within a few seconds, the eight red lights faded and the blood mist dissipated. The subspace branch whose coordinates were removed separated from the real universe and fell back into the bottom of the etheric ocean.

+Dorn should fall out. + Morse straightened up, shook his numb left hand, and watched the bloodstains symbolizing corruption fade away layer by layer. +I'll go find where he dropped it. +

I recommend a book called Super Seedling, 40k Black Templar Small Can, which is also a book by translator Tingren. I suggest you update it (applause)