Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Olympia.

In Morse's memory, Olympia is a lush green planet.

Before everything began, before the meteor-falling Primarch sent the prelude of the new era along the invisible line of music to this planet that had spent too many peaceful days in the old night, Olympia was Such a place.

Silent and motionless, from the small needle-like green leaves on the tender brown treetops, to the hazy mist at the bottom of the cliff that changes every season, and the mist between the rugged rocks. In the snow-white city and the farmland villages beyond the bushes outside the city, the soft lights trembled and burned slightly, and the flowing streams lapped on the shore and murmured.

People rode four-hoofed animals, driving nailed wooden carts, carrying bundles of animal skins, dried bird feathers, or newly harvested barley. If they were close to rivers and valleys, they would add more. Get on a cart of river fish pressed with ice, go to the market in the center of the city, pull on a colorful sunshade cloth, and put a string of homemade straw hats beside the stall.

Then, imagine how the poets would sing in front of the temple you passed by on your way home.

——On the way back and forth, remember to avoid the sheep grazing on the road. Who knows what kind of disputes there may be?

When walking outside the city, you can take a look at the barracks and tents in the distance. If you get too close, the spears of the soldiers of the local lord will be blocked by the door.

They won't let people in, but even if you are bored enough to put on a different costume, perform a little deception, and enter the barracks, you will soon be bored and leave again. There is no other way. Besides food, spear racks and money bags, what else can be found in these places.

In Olympia, see these hills, many forests, valleys, oceanless rivers, flat heather fields, fortresses, dotted city-states, these scenes that have not changed for thousands of years - no, add Perturabo Before leaving Lokos, let’s do the magnificent work in the last ten years!

Then, there are still a group of factories built thirty years ago, some steel steam, a new military defense circle, more gray-white or yellow-black traffic roads, and new drainage channels that cannot be seen on the surface but do exist. , the regular street lights brought by the new power supply system, and the double-layered glass windows that reflect the bright sun and require curtains to block the midday sun in summer...

All living things are thus rolled up by the planet's atmosphere. The milky white clouds hovering above the earth are constantly wrapped in the silence of the universe, like solidified crystal or frozen amber, staying at Morse's last thoughts here. in memory.

Like a transparent and clear crystal ball that can be held in both hands, everything is clear and clean, converging into a soft and rhythmic familiar word, Olympia.

his home?

Did he ever say the word? Morse thought, He didn't.

Morse knew something would be different. The time he had lost was twenty years, and the separation from Olympia was more than thirty years.

If this period of time were placed in the old night, it would not even be as long as a minute or a millisecond; but now is the Great Expedition, in that bright and glorious day when the great hope shines like a dream, everything is competing, Dream shadows flicker, and the years change incredibly fast.

Although it is only a few decades, it is not difficult to imagine that the people on this planet can make up for the scientific and technological progress that spans hundreds of years. Under the guidance and planning of Perturabo and Califon, and under the Primarch himself, Under the selection and leadership of Olympia, it is difficult to overstate how many changes Olympia has undergone.

Suddenly, everything appears, renewed. The planet appeared at the edge of his sight. His aimless imagination suddenly hit the bank of reality violently.

Those shiny thin threads, the bead-like monofilament network woven from metal, were clearly in front of his eyes.

The space stations floating in orbit suddenly appeared in circles like rustling sounds in the dark universe, forming several intertwined artificial silver stripes that were woven around the outside of the entire planet.

Countless merchant ships exchanged between the space station and space. Although the number was not as high as that of Terra, the core throne world of the human empire, with the snow-like clouds and looming verdant surface of Olympia as the background, combined with the careful planning and organization, it brought The regular interweaving and exchange of elements emphasizes the beauty of the combination of regularity and practicality.

Behind the clouds, in the green planet that once had different shades of oil paint, there are silver and black walls running along the terrain, reminding Morse of the silver edge on the shoulder armor of a Space Marine, or the edge of the Aquila flag. The flying tassels re-divide and utilize the original green material, transforming it into something that has been adjusted to adapt to the new era.

Olympia. Morse thought.

It is like an old olive tree with lush branches and leaves, dark green and standing for thousands of years. The branches and young leaves sway privately year after year. In the remote plain wilderness, they rustle to themselves, making the world A canopy as thick and concealing as black velvet covered it.

Until one day, people found it, discovered it, decorated it with gold and silver ribbons, let it be rediscovered, and let the sky once again envelope it in another bright and joyful way, until it was covered by thousands of people. A golden light was sprayed with a layer of clear glaze again.

It's different. It's no longer the Olympia it once was. Even though it still bears that particularly ancient name, it has left Morse's memory.

It's not just the memories of the 30th millennium. What it really leaves behind are the memories of those 30,000 years ago that once belonged to him, and only to him, and to a few other lucky or unfortunate people.

The more ancient Olympia, the original one.

Morse wasn't sure how to describe the present...Olympia. Now it was a planet that belonged to Perturabo alone, the experimental city and utopia of the Iron Lord. It is a forward-looking microcosm of the future and a transformative manifesto for the past.

He quietly looked at the changed planet through the porthole of the Iron-Blooded.

The porthole was of course closed, reflecting his own face, a pale face divided by messy black hair, and an expression that always seemed to have some irony.

Outwardly, he has not changed much; but Perturabo and Olympia are moving forward, and the era led by the Emperor is marching forward, peeling off the puddles and stair railings on the country roads that are not conducive to the advancement of vehicles. of sawdust and the slender, attractive wildflowers at the edge of the fields were left behind.

Morse listened to the blood flowing calmly in the simulated blood vessels. He did not feel hesitant or confused, nor was he very excited.

If he still loved the land, it was because it was Perturabo's work.

——Suddenly, all the thoughts gathered together to form a long thread, passing through the maze, leading to a clear end point: there were some words written on the end point, which read like the language he was familiar with many years ago, and the meaning was roughly Yes, this place is called Olympia, but it is not Olympia of Terra.

Not from the beginning.

In the long river of time, it had once been similar and had become... Maybe this similarity also contained some of his handwriting, but he would not admit it.

Now, when the river forks and the planet chooses the better course, it never will be again.

No, what's wrong with that? He has never been one to dwell on the past.

Perturabo was proud of his achievements.

He turned from the window. Many familiar faces were gathered in Perturabo's office.

Konrad Curze, who was as silent as if he didn't exist; Magnus sitting on the pile of documents; the data tablet that symbolized Horus Luperkar - at this time, the center of the plate screen was empty, with only A map full of military markings was hung on the wall behind the desk; Fulgrim and Ferrus Manus each occupied a single sofa; An, who ran to the corridor to chat because the room was too crowded, Gronn and Vulcan...

And, of course, there was Perturabo himself, back in his Olympian toga, holding another dataslate and sitting in his steel chair.

"Morse," Perturabo said, putting down the tablet and pointing out the window, "The Iron Blood is about to reach the half of the planet where my space fortress can be seen."

"Your space fortress..." Morse raised an eyebrow and spoke in his usual carefree and brisk manner, "How does it compare with the Phalanx?"

"From what point of comparison?" Perturabo asked, "From what point of view should I begin to state the advantages of the Cheorwon?"

Behind him, Fulgrim let out a soft laugh.

"Rogal Dorn brought his Mountain Formation. If we can compare it directly, it is Ferrus' favorite competitive mode," Phoenix said. "This is the first time I have seen two space fortresses. Located in the same star system."

"It's coming," Curze said, in his characteristic sleepy and cold tone, but this time it was used to describe reality rather than fantasy, "Cheorwon?"

"Cheorwon." Perturabo confirmed.

He stood up from the iron chair, went to the window, and stared at the outline of its creation gradually revealed on the hazy edge of Olympia.

First, an iron-gray line segment about one-third of the diameter of Olympia appeared on the side of the planet. Then, the line segment expanded to one side, turned into a curved arc, and then expanded into a crescent-like edge. Finally, an iron-gray ring stopped steadily facing the window of the Iron Blood.

On the outside of this steel hollow ring frame with a diameter of about two thousand kilometers, hidden behind the well-sealed iron gaps, are undoubtedly numerous detection instruments, remote turrets and void shield generating devices. Any arc can be supplemented. The firepower output of a fleet - and the standard of firepower is naturally the fully equipped offensive fleet of the Iron Warriors.

Ferrus Manus turned sideways in his seat, his silver-mirror eyes filled with the structure of the Cheorwon. He was the Primarch who best understood the design of Perturabo's fortress. Because of this, he was particularly surprised by the effort and technology the Lord of the Fourth Legion put into this fortress.

Within the hollow ring, three levels of concentric circles are nested. The central circle forms a cohesive and towering shape, like a double-sided tower. This is undoubtedly the core hall of the Cheorwon, as well as the control center of complex mechanical devices such as energy supply and transmission.

In the outer two floors, each round of concentric circles is divided into regular large sections, which serve as different functional zones. Different segments and different rings have gaps visible to the naked eye in the middle; segments are fixed by silver-white annular rings that they rely on together; rings and rings extend outward from the center of the circle to three straight steel bars on the frame. locking.

These structures nested in circles form the main structure of the space fortress. They are like a segmented rotating sundial, reflected in the light of stars, floating over the Taylorfus Snow Mountain. No matter which side it is on, it is covered by Surrounded and set off by the pure sheen of light and reflection, it almost seems to emanate light of its own accord.

...or a city, a water city floating in the sea of ​​stars, an ideal city that shines brightly in waking dreams.

On the outside of the closed hull, it was difficult to tell what each specific block was used for, but Morse never doubted Perturabo's planning abilities. Whether it is the bridges and tunnels connecting the blocks, or the different sizes and layouts of the blocks themselves, they were all carefully designed by a Primarch.

The resources consumed in the construction of this space fortress are completely unimaginable for any single planet, or even smaller galaxies.

"How does it feel?" Perturabo lowered his head and asked, "Is there anything... worth criticizing? I designed it as a city, a fortress and a ship at the same time."

"How did I criticize the Iron Blood?" Morse said. "I remember I gave you at least a hundred thorns, Perturabo. Are you sure you want to do it in front of..."

He looked around at the Primarchs in the office with meaning.

Fulgrim was listening intently to the conversation between Perturabo and Morse: The Purple Phoenix's curiosity about the mentor who could teach a Primarch like Perturabo was growing day by day.

Although he regretted that he could not continue to observe the two people getting along, he still said consciously: "Let's go find Angron and Vulkan outside first? I don't know what common topic they are talking about... Ferus , Stop staring at the Cheorwon, your home planet can’t dig out stones and build one for you.”

"Forget it," Mors rarely gave in. He patted Perturabo's wide sleeves, "Let's change the window... No, okay, I'll let you be proud for a while. Look at it here. I can't find any obvious weak points or flaws in the appearance. How much can be adjusted with such a simple graphic design? So, if you ask, I can only say..."

He smiled, "Nothing to criticize, Perturabo. Very creative. Considering that Rogal Dorn is not here, I will say that at least from a styling point of view, I like this fortress better. Not to mention that you finally don't No more abuse of the yellow and black stripes.”

"...I'm here." Rogal Dorn's voice came from the tablet that Perturabo had put down.

"Oh, okay, Rogal Dorn." Morse didn't care. "I didn't criticize you behind your back. My intention was to praise Perturabo behind your back."

"Exactly so," said Perturabo, turning back from the window. After receiving the approval, his behavior remained within the limits of composure, as steady and controlled as ever.

"Thank you, Morse," he said quietly.

Conrad Curze laughed silently. "Let me use the bathroom, Perturabo. Call me when whatever equipment is ready for landing is ready. I thank you."

"I never thought there would be a Primarch who cares more about cleanliness than I do," Fulgrim said mockingly, lifting his long platinum hair and letting it fall from his fingers. "I think these hairs are enough. It’s smooth, what do you think?”

"Hmm." Ferus said, still looking at the appearance of the Cheelwon attentively, his lips moving slightly, as if he was making some secret calculations.

"Ferrus!"

"Oh, your hair is nice, Fulgrim," Ferrus said, then paused, "Really."

"Then, when Conrad comes back, we can set off." Perturabo nodded, and Conrad Curze quietly slipped out of the door. His speed and erratic movements made Vulcan who happened to pass by the door. A little scared for a moment.

"Should we visit my space fortress first, or should we return to the ground first?" Perturabo returned to his seat and looked at Morse and said.

"Ground?" Morse picked an option.

"good."

——

"I thought you would accompany them to visit your main city, Perturabo." Morse pulled the magnetic buckle inside the aircraft cabin and fixed himself like a normal person, even though he didn't need it. "That is your guest, the Lord of Olympia."

"They are Primarchs," Perturabo replied, sitting on the seat next to the hatch and issuing temporary Olympian Pass IDs to Rogal Dorn's Phalanx.

"My brothers all have different personalities and different preferences. Instead of tying them all together and walking with me, I want them to be free to watch and play as they wish. Olympia is ready for today. Finally, we are in Los Angeles Just meet in the palace hall of Kos.”

"It makes some sense." Morse agreed with his reasoning. He waited for a while and asked, "Has Lokos changed much?"

"It's okay." Perturabo replied, "I followed the urban framework I designed thirty years ago, that is, the design pattern of the city rebuilt after the Chang Prince's coup. The current construction is mainly to add buildings and non-residential areas. Mainly local rearrangement, it won’t change to the point where you can’t recognize it.”

Morse smiled and said: "I almost don't recognize Olympia, Perturabo. She is now a shining pearl in the vast universe, unique and important. She is your planet and belongs completely to you. You Take the greatest credit."

Perturabo glanced at him, then lowered his eyes. "I kept some things," he said. "You can't fail to recognize Olympia."

The aircraft landed smoothly, and the wind pressure flattened the surrounding grass. The hatch opened in the airflow. Perturabo took off the telescopic cable used for driving and left first, waiting for Morse to follow him out.

This is a jungle below a cliff, with lush vegetation, branches and leaves covering the sky, and birds singing in the trees. Animal hoof prints and traces of wild beasts are densely distributed, and they are everywhere in the dark green leaves and the blue sky.

Standing here, looking up, except for the thin silver threads drawn by the orbital space station around the entire planet in the sky, there is no evidence of rapid technological progress.

Everything is sealed in a slow and peaceful primitive, supported by shorter ferns and capped by dense forest leaves in the air.

Morse noticed some narrow marks on the tree trunks that were cut by hot blades.

He stretched out his palm wrapped in black cloth, and then, thinking that he had actually made the inner shell, he hesitated, let the black cloth fall off his palm, and directly touched the burn marks with his fingers.

"Locos deer..." he said, looking into the depths of the dense forest along the direction of the marks.

"Your hunting style is really unrefined," Perturabo said, "You're simply abusing your psychic powers. And the land ahead, which you have completely turned over, has been thrashed out by you. The trees there, whose roots have been twisted and then frozen, have only gradually recovered after many years."

"What years is considered a long time to recover in about fifty years? It's just a blink of an eye," Morse retorted.

"Well, you're right." Perturabo sighed, "It's just a blink of an eye. But your blink is a bit long."

"Oh, have you finally degenerated to the point of using figurative words as expressions for literal understanding?"

"Who knows?" Perturabo asked, carefully pushing aside the branches blocking the road ahead to prevent the trees from being overturned by him.

"Okay." Morse sighed and snapped his fingers towards the dense forest. The trees that had just grown for several years were torn apart again, rolling out a wet black land, and then the clear ice crystals once again covered the straight road guarded by the trees, the frost was crystal clear and gorgeous.

"I believe they will be ready in the next blink of an eye," Morse said. "Now, let's move faster, not as slowly as a mollusk sliding on slime." Perturabo smiled. "If I let go, you can't keep up with me. After all, the height difference between us is now..." "Go on your way, Perturabo!" Morse floated up. "I don't think you can keep up with me." His voice rippled far away with the wind, echoing and dissipating in the dense forest. They moved forward on the frost road, sometimes Morse was in front, sometimes Perturabo was in front, like an inexplicable little game, which gradually overflowed with a meaningless joy. The wind blowing down the cliff from the center surrounded by trees blew towards them, and they chatted about some trivial things, talking about how much trouble they had been, and how many miscellaneous mistakes Perturabo had made, until the small three-story house appeared in front of them. The hut was built of stone slabs and wooden boards, fixed with a glue made of local clay and plant juice. The entwined ivy and buds grew denser and denser, almost blocking the paintings on the outer walls, and wrapped many half-finished hand-carved statues in the vines, as if protecting and treasuring them.

The awls, stone hammers, rulers, scrapers, were all still scattered on the low table.

Morse pulled a recliner out of thin air. There was no additional decoration, no mark from Macragge, Nostramo, or Gomorro. It was just a handmade rattan chair, woven by a soul that had lived alone for fifteen thousand years.

He placed the rattan chair in the middle of the courtyard, letting the sun and breeze blow through it, then lay down and let his hair fall.

"Why don't you come to sweep the dust for me, weed, and pull some wild flowers," Morse smiled, closing his eyes and letting the rattan chair rock gently.

"Do I dare to touch your things?" Perturabo said, his voice full of pure laughter. "You talk as if this house is your tombstone."

"What are you afraid to do, Perturabo?" Morse said, tilting his head in Perturabo's direction.

He heard the rustle of cloth robes, and Perturabo bent down to pick up a pointed chisel that was too small for him to use, and fiddled with it in his palm.

"What am I not allowing you to do?"

"I dare not try," Perturabo replied, walking to the side of the house and dragging out a cart.

Morse opened his eyes and propped up his upper body. On the cart was a group of stone statues covered with black cloth. He did not use extraordinary means to peek.

"What is this?" he asked.

Perturabo tapped his fingers on the top of the stone statue. "I remember there was a little thing I didn't learn to do at the time."

"Carve a good enough stone double statue, and vividly depict the scene of how you knocked my head off?"

"Not that," Perturabo removed the black cloth, revealing the marble statue in front of Morse.

The main body of the carving is still Morse and the young Perturabo, but with just one glance, Morse knows that this scene has never appeared in reality.

Because they are sitting opposite each other by the fire, each holding a roasted fish. Morse's fish is burnt to the bone, while the roasted fish in the boy Perturabo's hand is full and shiny, and he is a master of roasted fish.

"Why do you need to defeat me in this way?" Morse shrugged, pinching his cheeks with both hands, and pressing the corners of his mouth down, "Is this how you use the wisdom and intelligence given to you by the Emperor?"

"You just said that there is nothing I can't do." Perturabo pretended to shake his head and frowned.

"How can you, a four-meter-tall Primarch, be so hypocritical one day?" Morse said, flipping down from the chair, "The stone is delivered, but it is not edible. Take it away quickly. I have preserved your original small stone and the statue that competed with Prince Andos later. If you like, you can put it together as a series for exhibition."

Perturabo stretched his eyebrows and covered the black cloth again: "I am indeed willing to make a few more groups of stone statues in my spare time to prevent my skills from being rusty and my carving level from not being as good as my descendants in the stonemason club one day. But as an exhibition... it is still under discussion."

"Okay, Perturabo," Morse Ers put away the recliner. "Anything else you want to show me, Lord of Iron?"

"A lot of things." Perturabo said. "We climbed the path from the bottom of the cliff to Rokos. I didn't move, but I heard there were some landslides recently... I don't think it will affect our climb. The stone statue at the entrance of Rokos was replaced by my statue. You know that. The theater I designed at the beginning was almost closed down due to poor management by the merchant who contracted it. Fortunately, Kaliphon took it over and turned it into a public art park. The shops on the street are doing good business, and the Space Marines are allowed to eat for free, but each person is limited to a certain amount..."

He paused. "These are the parts of Olympia that belong to you, Morse."

"I don't know why you are laughing more exaggeratedly now than when I praised your Iron Won."

"I don't know why you didn't forget to mock me when you laughed."

"Now the Emperor will be shocked, because we don't know anything." Morse snorted, clapped his hands, and rewrapped the black cloth. "You have introduced it to me like this, why don't you take me to see it directly?"

"Of course, you haven't been back here for so many years." Perturabo nodded, and walked side by side with Morse towards the cliff. The road that the deceased guard Miltiades took them through many years ago still exists now.

"Where to go back? Olympia?"

"If you want..." Perturabo said, and walked with Morse on the cliff path that he needed someone to help him climb when he was a child. Now, what he has to worry about is not to accidentally collapse this road. "You can also call it something else. At least... I will call Olympia my home planet."

"My home planet is definitely not Olympia, I remember I told you..."

"You pointed to the night sky, I remember. You actually meant Terra at that time."

"You have a good memory."

"So what do you want to call this place?"

"Oh, what did you think I would say? Home? Haha, don't think about it."

They chatted tirelessly, walking across the plains, talking about the battle between the Axes and the Rokos Guards at that time, and thinking about Perturabo's sword; passing through the city gate, there was a fire here, but that was many years ago.

On the street, people knew very well how to welcome Perturabo, and knew how to approach the true master of Olympia, or how to keep a proper distance; when Perturabo, who was more than ten years old, passed the street with the results of his reforms, people also greeted the young man with a serious face forever.

They passed by shops and workshops. Some of the workshops that Perturabo had studied with at that time were still open, but the main force had changed from masters to apprentices, or apprentices of apprentices. A parchment shop switched to making fruit cakes, but the cakes seemed to have a smell of ink.

Some of the trees that Morse had pointed out to be planted when he watched Perturabo plan the city were now grown up, and the shadows of the trees were swaying on the windows. The tall, thick branches supported the green shade, staring blankly at the streets, and there were still a few leaves scattered on the ground.

They found the workshop used by Morse and Perturabo outside the palace. The place was still preserved, no one disturbed it, and it was only one step away from collapsing because no one repaired it. Now their porches were crooked, the corners of the walls were gray, and the sunlight shone through the diamond-lattice windows into the flying dust in the room, reflecting it like gray snow, falling down.

"This is really enough to look like a tombstone," Morse said, pausing at the door, "but the geometric pattern you painted on the door was really ugly. I swear."

"Where are my yellow and black stripes?"

"It's barely visible," Morse smiled. "When we return to Olympia, should we clean up first?"

"You can... do it like your favorite set..." Perturabo suggested.

Morse snapped his fingers with the rune between his fingers that vibrated the air, and the whole house seemed to have turned back time, the dust was gone, the doors and walls were clean, and the erosion caused by the leaking water was supplemented and restored by a force. In the blink of an eye, everything returned to thirty years ago - yes, the time that flies is indeed not as fast as a blink of an eye.

"It's exactly the same." Morse gently raised his foot and pushed the door open.

"There are still a full shelf of works missing, you took them away at that time." Perturabo accompanied Morse into the house and touched the clean countertop with his fingers, "There are two more people."

"Andos, Kaliphon." Morse turned around, "How is Kaliphon recently?"

"I agreed with her to come here..."

"Come in." Morse interrupted him. Just like the beginning.

Without knocking on the door, there was a slight push at the door. The wooden door opened and a figure appeared outside.

It was a woman, her guards were far away from her surroundings, and only a close maid was looking after her. Wearing a loose golden and white robe, she held an iron-plated wooden staff with slight force, and wore her iron crown on the top of her neatly combed hair.

Even with the support of a wooden staff, her figure still reveals her inner strength and firmness, while at the same time never abandoning the soft beauty she had in her youth.

Although her face has the traces of time, wrinkles are fine, her skin has become darker, and her eyes are not as clear as they were thirty years ago, she still maintains a dew-like brilliance, a kind that only time can give. Deep and bright.

"Is my hair too curly?" Callifon noticed the two people looking at her.

She smiled slightly, her voice gentle, and used her free hand to smooth the end of her curly hair mixed with silver threads.

"I've been wearing the hair tie you gave me for too long, Abo. Alas, my hair isn't straight now - you're back now, so give me a new one."