Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

In the dim fog of Barbarus, everything became slow and stagnant. The pain becomes a dull sensation rather than a sudden spark of magic.

Pain is like a carrion sinking in the depths of the river of death. Its decay is slow and unstoppable.

Sometimes, the speed of decay even made Mortarion mistakenly believe that he could endure it.

When this kind of error lasts long enough, even long enough to be difficult to remember and cannot be counted, it becomes the truth.

The intolerable torture itself seemed to become a tolerable disaster, with two different additional ingredients at once.

One is revenge. Mortarion thought.

Some time has passed since he escaped from the prison of the sorcery overlord Nacre.

At first, he stumbled forward in the desolate thick fog, breathing in the vicious and rotten breath, letting the poisonous gas dig out bloody holes in his lungs, and the flocculent white sediment made him feel that he was changing. Into a pale gray.

He was not sure what was supporting him as he walked down. After falling into the river or under the cliff, he climbed up with difficulty. His arms, which had become extremely thin due to years of cruel experiments, still had the power to save himself.

There were times when he hated his own uniqueness.

Under the crazy and cruel teachings of the overlord of sorcery, the alien N'aklay, Mortarion soon understood that the experiments he underwent and the torture he suffered were because he was the only specimen who could endure it all.

It was Nak'rai who gave Mortarion his name. His name means son of death.

He would give death back to Nacre. Mortarion thought angrily. His pale hatred must be put to an end by his own hand.

Otherwise, this will become a mark that he will never forget, a scar that will continue to fester every night.

Mortarion would not succumb to a tyrant who ruled Barbarus, who punished the world in the name of death.

never.

Because...he has endured so much pain.

This is the second one. Mortarion admitted to himself. It was only in the depths of the unknown fog, in an accidental moment, that he was reluctantly willing to admit this with deep shame.

Second, he was proud of himself for being able to withstand so much torture. He won. He achieved his victory. His will to resist reaped the fruits it deserved.

He proved to be very patient.

Mortarion shook his head violently and pressed the end of the scythe's handle against the soft soil on the ground to help him continue to move forward.

The gaps in his gas mask were exposed due to his movements, thick smoke invaded his mouth and nose, and the corrosive pain burned his esophagus, which had not eaten for a long time. Mortarion repositioned it.

Fortunately, he was already close to the residential area where the fog was thin. Walking a little further, he could see the vague outline of the mud roof emerging in the dusk-like mist.

It was here that the people took him in after he escaped his reign in the dark foothills of Nak'rai, even though they harbored an unquenchable fear of Mortarion's towering frame.

Their simple and kind hearts gave him a stable tolerance. Mortarion took the simple farm tools they handed him and accompanied them in farming.

It was here that Mortarion first learned that in the deadly and cruel environment of Barbarus, there were still crops that had withstood the harsh acid rain and poor soil environment, growing hard and stubbornly.

Mortarion paused, coughing violently. Because he stayed in the poisonous place for too long, his eyes hurt so much that he couldn't open them at all.

At this time, you cannot help but rub your eyes, otherwise the particles contained in the toxic substances will quickly tear the cornea.

If he does that, he will become unable to see over a period of time. He didn't want to cause trouble to the villagers who took him in.

After a short wait, he closed his eyes, endured the burning pain, used his sickle to explore the path, and slowly moved forward in the direction he wanted to go.

He went out this time because he wanted to explore whether there were any edible animals or plants described in Nacre's book collection around this place.

This season, the crops were terrible.

Mortarion found that the woman who took him to drink the first bowl of porridge in his life, while everyone was enduring the pain of famine, secretly ran outside the house in the early morning, grabbed something and stuffed it into her mouth.

She didn't even have time to chew, all she wanted to do was make her stomach, which ached from hunger, feel full again.

He followed her quietly, then walked around to her side, trying to see what she was eating.

It was loose and barren loess on the ground.

He squatted down in front of her. The woman raised her head and looked at him in confusion. She was stunned for a moment and then began to helplessly dust off the dirt on her hands. She seemed to be embarrassed to comfort him: "It's okay, kid..."

Some particles of soil were still stuck between her pitted nails.

"I went hunting," Mortarion said.

Therefore, Mortarion now carries a string of thick cuticles on his shoulders. In order to protect himself, the soft, high-water content photoreceptors that once existed on the body surface have degenerated. All by groping deep in the dense fog. Creeping animals.

After peeling away their tough skin, the flesh underneath appears sour and bitter, with little to no oil.

But they are enough to satisfy their hunger.

Back in the village, Mortarion will teach the young and middle-aged labor force the successful experience of this hunting, telling them which direction has thin fog, which direction has no terrifying beasts that can kill them with one claw, and which direction has Easy prey.

During the next season while waiting for crops to mature, his scythe will be used to harvest the lives of animals rather than plants.

He heard some faint wailing, mixed with howls of pain.

Mortarion snorted. He recognized this abominable witchcraft trick, the whispers that always came out of the mist to lure travelers, trying to lure them deep into the thickest swamps, never to return.

The burning in his eyeballs degenerated into soreness hovering on his retinas. Mortarion closed his eyes patiently, waiting for physiological tears to flow from the lacrimal glands located above the outer orbits of the eyes to wash away the remaining toxins. This is one of Barbarus’ essential survival skills.

Soon, a smell wafted from the front, penetrated his gas mask, and entered his nasal cavity. It seemed to be the smell of burning straw mixed with some kind of fuel.

Mortarion was confused. Maybe within seven days of his departure, the villagers found the straw they had hoarded in previous years in the warehouse to satisfy their hunger? So why burn it?

The air started to get hot. Mortarion tightened his grip on his scythe, futilely rejecting all the information his superior senses were bringing him.

Then something kicked under his feet. It's not the softness of the soil, nor the hardness of the rocks. It's a little stretchy, giving it some soft, pale kickback. It rested on his feet, still retaining a little enough warmth to be felt.

Horrified, Mortarion forced himself to open his uncomfortable eyes.

Upon entering the scene, golden flames burned away the mist and illuminated countless broken corpses lying on the ground. In the center of the flames, two figures, one tall and one low, stood grimly.

When he saw clearly the face of the woman who fell at his feet, and her belly that was swollen from eating dirt, belated tears finally flowed out from the tear ducts, washing away Mortarion's pale face that was distorted by the unbearable pain. face.