Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Perturabo strode back to his office carrying the datapad he had unloaded from the center of Agora Bazaar, the door lock falling behind him. He slammed the dataslate against the iron table as hard as it could bear.

The latest batch of orders have all been issued and they are to return immediately. That's all the command is.

They had no time to go to Sepetus to retrieve the scattered soldiers. Dantioch would remain on Osiris with Rogal Dorn to handle the remaining counter-insurgency duties, while the remaining fleets of Ultramarines and Iron Warriors would be ready to infiltrate the Warp within ten minutes.

The Lord of Iron tapped his fingers on the tabletop that was too low for him, and suddenly shouted into the air: "Morse. You are here."

"I'm here." The man in black robe walked out of the air, his expression as calm and indifferent as ever.

"You know what is going to happen to Macragge," Perturabo said firmly.

"I have no idea."

"Lie!" Perturabo breathed out, and the roar was locked in the office with the sound insulation effect that was designed to be greatly improved. "You can't lie to me, Morse, we understand each other so well!"

"And you are too excited, Perturabo." Morse's tone remained unchanged, "Don't vent your worries in the form of anger. I know what you are worried about. As you said, we understand each other so well. ”

Perturabo stared at him, his chest heaving beneath his steel breastplate. He reluctantly swallowed a breath, and the faint smell of burning fire rolled up his throat with a smell of rust.

Yes, Morse was right. He had already made one mistake, a blind and careless mistake. His ignorance of the situation led to sudden riots in the red sand lands, Angron's sacrifice, and Rogal Dorn's almost death on an unknown battlefield.

It's the same hidden danger that mortals take action, it's the same turmoil in peacetime, and it's the same without any clear evidence in advance. But now he is very likely to make a second mistake. Just thinking about that possibility made his stomach twitch violently, as if hot gravel was rolling in his respiratory tract, causing endless pain.

He didn't dare to imagine all this, his second oversight, his second sin.

"You are afraid that another disaster that can obviously be prevented will break out in front of you, and you can do nothing but regret and cry in the shadow of belated arrival." Morse slowly walked to him. "You are afraid that Rogal Dorn and Robert Guilliman will be disappointed in you, that you have failed to fulfill your responsibilities as brothers."

Perturabo grabbed Morse's shoulder and let go suddenly as if he had been burned. He hunched over, displaying a huddle that seemed unbecoming of an adult Primarch.

"Maybe nothing happened on Macragge. Maybe Robert Guilliman's territory is still secure. After all, you have met Praetor Gloria, and you are sure that he has long since lost the courage to start a rebellion. But you are still uneasy, You know something is lurking in the shadows, waiting. Your subconscious is helping you gather information, and you've picked up on some hidden clues, but not enough."

"What on earth do you know..." Petula Boss dropped the personal pronoun at the end of the sentence. What he read in Morse's words was full of cold cruelty. "Why did you hide it from me?"

Mors walked up to Perturabo and held out his hand. Perturabo grasped the craftsman's hand - so difficult for the Primarch's oversized hand that he could only grasp nearly the entirety of Morse's forearm.

"Feeling better?" Morse asked.

Perturabo made no answer.

"What you fear most is that I unreasonably deceived you, betrayed you, knew everything but said nothing, and watched you jump into the abyss of danger and sin. You are afraid that I will stand by and watch you become irreversible, You're afraid I hope you do it a second time," Morse said, shaking his head, "No, I'm not that crazy, and you can still trust me to calm down. Personal recommendations for you to blame.”

He also dropped the personal pronoun in the sentence.

Perturabo remained motionless, maintaining his silence. Time passes in stillness indoors.

Thirty seconds later, he exhaled the hot air in his chest, let go of the craftsman's hand, stood up straight, and asked a question that went straight to the core: "What are you and Malcador talking about these days?"

——

"Are you ready?" Sigismund asked, waiting for the nine brave men in front of him to first put their gauntlet-covered fingers on the magnetic buckle that fixed the power sword.

The ever-burning candle crackled quietly in the dark sanctuary at the core of the Phalanx. The oath brazier placed in the center was raised and hung in the air by iron chains, with flames burning in the basin.

On the backside of the light, in the shadows that were sometimes briefly illuminated, nine battle brothers wearing bright yellow armor and all wearing helmets stood calmly and cautiously. The weapons were silently held in their hands, and the bolters that had been inspected and removed from the bullets were hung on their waists in a ceremonial manner.

This is a templar selection trial. After the establishment of the Haskar Guard, Sigismund adjusted the admission criteria for the Templars as promised. He no longer limits the number of challengers or demands that they must be defeated. What will be valued is not only the skill of fighting, but also the will of the warrior.

However, even after the standards were relaxed, the Imperial Fists seemed to continue a certain prideful habit of challenging him one-on-one. Today's nine-person joint battle request is the first multi-player battle request that Sigismund has received.

He gladly accepted.

"Ready," the warriors answered him, letting the weight of their weapons become one with their arms.

Sigismund nodded, turned around, and pulled out the edgeless oath sword specially used for trials from the empty round platform behind him. The servo engine on his body made a running sound, announcing the upcoming test.

The long sword gradually came out of the silver scabbard and fell into the hands of the only templar warrior.

At this moment, a series of wind-breaking sounds pierced out from behind him. As if he had expected it, Sigismund suddenly drew his sword and swung it around. Nine bullets were cut off by him in the air, and the gunpowder and bullet casings were thrown away. The residue splashed and scattered.

The attack came like a storm, followed by bullets, and Sigismund raised his sword to meet it. The attacker's rhythm is as fast and furious as a poisonous snake, changing from all the shadows. The tip of the sword flashes with a cold light that is enough to kill, forming a secret code with the new round of explosive bombs fired.

Sigismund raised the Sword of Oath, and the blade whirled cleanly, accurately picking off a warrior's faceplate in a diagonal move. The candlelight changed in brightness and darkness, and he could clearly see the unfamiliar face.

The next blow struck the attacker hard in the side, causing a fatal stagger. He had no time to strengthen his advantage this time and immediately withdrew from the circle of nine people who cooperated seamlessly. At the same time, he wrapped the edgeless sword around his right hand through the chain.

"Go on," said Sigismund.

——

Angron disliked Macragge.

No, this wasn't Macragge's problem, or that he had anything negative to say about Robert Guilliman.

Objectively speaking, he actually had a hidden respect for Robert: every reform measure proposed by Guilliman and his sons would be sent to Angron's desk the moment it was implemented, and the next decree approved in the Senate would be During execution, the impact data of the previous instruction is often being summarized.

He would never deny how happy he felt for Robert Guilliman and Macragge when he read how the citizens of Macragge had gained actual benefits from Guilliman and his son's new deal. I sincerely hope that more beneficial laws and regulations will be born in the high-speed Macragge government, through the rolling data and printed documents among countless meditators, in this country covered by rocks, but increasingly Showing a wonderful world full of vitality.

And his opinions on Macragge only come from another faction represented by Macragge's dual-war king system, that is, the old aristocratic faction headed by Consul Gloria.

These people are stubborn and corrupt, protecting the so-called old aristocratic factions and supporting all the dross in the culture that can maintain their own dominance and interests. Angron did not understand why Robert Guilliman allowed the two parties to take turns in power in the Senate.

Apart from the bad habits of overthrowing and criticizing each other, and the wastage of assets committed to revoking every order ever given by the other faction, he could not see what benefit the coexistence of the two factions had to the overall politics.

As for democracy, it is an unreasonable joke: dividing the limited public power handed over by the people equally to two opposing parties will only lead to both parties using all kinds of rhetoric and coercion to exploit more power from the people. Accept it for your own use.

However, Angron knew that no matter what, Macragge was Robert Guilliman's home planet. He can suggest, but not interfere.

This often made him regretful.

And the reason why he left Macragge was different from what most people thought. He didn't leave out of disgust - he didn't have time to make overly emotional choices out of emotion. There was too much that could be done and too much that needed to be done.

Angron just returned to Nuceria with the results of Guilliman's reform practice, and picked out the laws that Nuceria could use, or that could be properly used after some local modifications, and tried Implement it on his own planet.

As for why he didn't explain clearly... well, it was because he didn't like Macragge.

Regardless, Angron is leaving Nuceria again and heading towards Macragge. He still needs to discuss some problems encountered in practice with Robert. As one of the founders of the reform theory from a planet with the same culture, he believes that there are some problems that Robert can solve, and new experiences can be shared. of.

At this moment, the Resolute Resolve is suspended outside the orbit of Macragge, undergoing the customary entry inspection of the local Ultramarines. Of course, regulations need to be followed, and the Primarch's fleet has no immunity for direct entry.

The visitor has arrived at Angron's door. The Lord of Red Sand pressed the button to open the door and allow the officer to enter.

He saw a red-helmeted sergeant salute him. This warrior's armor is as neat as new, and he exudes a confident and steady demeanor that can easily gain anyone's trust.

"The entry documents have been sent to you," Angron said. "Do you have any questions, sergeant?"

"Since the communication network is being fully updated recently, the new version of the system is not compatible with the old letter message format." The soldier said, "The fastest method currently is paper information, sir."

"A fleet has a large amount of documents, sergeant. It will take a long time to print them all as paper materials."

"I'm sorry to have caused you unnecessary trouble, sir," the soldier bowed his head and saluted, "but this is our duty."

Angron stared at him and sighed. "come here."

The warrior followed the instructions and approached. The Lord of Red Sand left his seat, walked around the desk, walked to the warrior, and looked down at him condescendingly.

The warrior raised his head, his expression hidden by his mask. "My lord?" he asked confused.

He stretched out his hand, patted the soldier's shoulder, and then with great force, pressed the back of his head and slammed his head into the wooden table.

"Who are you!" the original body growled, breaking the man's hand that was reaching for the weapon at his waist. "Do you think I can't hear the emotional fluctuations in your heart, pretender?"

——

"What do you want from me, warrior?" Robert Guilliman sat sleepily, barely holding on to his groggy energy, and covering the paperwork on the table with his palms. "your name?"

After receiving Perturabo's warning, Robert was completely caught in the dilemma of wanting to rest but not daring to rest, wanting to wake up but objectively unable to do so. He had to forcibly awaken his tired soul by reading more Legion documents. He knew he wouldn't get a moment's sleep until Macragge's condition was confirmed.

"Iote Capa, my lord," said the tall warrior, "a soldier under Commander Valentus."

Robert remembered Valentus and the tremor in his voice in the command room. Recalling that scene made him feel an undeniable sadness, and he softened his words to Capa: "Okay. You are all brave soldiers, my worthy heirs. So, what brings you here?"

Capa took a step forward. "President Valentus wishes to know what kind of burial honors Commander Caspian will receive. He considers him a dear friend, my lord."

"The Macragge Memorial Garden is just east of the Avenue of Heroes. The dead warriors will have a peaceful sleep there. This is Macragge's tradition, is it acceptable?" Robert said softly, guessing that it might be possible. It was Valentus Doro who didn't know what kind of place the Memorial Garden was.

"Thank you, sir." Capa saluted respectfully and did not leave.

"Any other questions?" Guilliman asked.

"Yes, sir. I have a personal request." Capa took a step forward again.

Guilliman's eyelids dropped heavily, then raised quickly. The weakness in his soul left him almost unable to move. "Say it." He said softly.

There was a gunshot.

A bright bloody hole appeared in Capa's hand when he was about to lift the bolter. The second bolt hit his thigh, forcing him to fall to the ground on the spot.

Perturabo stepped into Guilliman's office, grabbed Iote Capa from the ground, held his neck and looked down at the painful face at close range: "Who are you!"

"I am..." The warrior smiled eerily, and the smile superimposed a distortion unique to the pretender on his painful face, "Alfaris..."

A third gunshot rang out, but no bullets were fired.

Mors put down the hand that had just cast a small sounding spell and walked into the office. While directly injecting psychic energy to nourish the soul of Robert Guilliman, who was determined not to rest, he muttered: "Don't listen to his nonsense. Perturabo is clearly not Alpharius himself."