Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Perturabo didn't like his tone.

The boy thought he was experiencing a great humiliation. If the sharp awl in his hand could pierce Morse's throat, then Morse's throat should have been torn out by it quickly, just like a wild dog tearing apart its prey, breaking the neck bones and dissecting the internal organs.

Morse had no doubt of this; he only thought that perhaps Perturabo would have acted more civilly. A person who is proud of his level of knowledge is often constrained in his actions.

Perturabo's shoulders rose nervously, the dark pupils of his blue eyes dilated slightly, and his brows furrowed in an undisguised frown.

He glanced at the rough-forged sharp awl in his hand, then looked around at the surrounding living circle made of stone and soil, and suddenly relaxed.

"You're jealous of me, Morse." The boy said triumphantly, throwing the pointed cone to the ground. "You are jealous of my knowledge and my ability. Look at your primitive way of life and your failed crafts. Your mud house is far inferior to the high walls and castles I will build; in front of me, you are a backward barbarian, wearing a Ridiculous fabric, messy hair, torn clothes, you are nothing but your inexplicable strength."

Perturabo raised his hand and raised his voice without permission: "Where is your manor? Where is your workshop? Don't tell me that you are still beating branches and trunks with sticks to get fallen olives, and don't tell me You only use your feet to crush the grapes into the basin. Is that why you use black cloth for shoes? Where are your books and scrolls? Are you still using papyrus? Long stems cut into thin slices, laid out flat on boards, and the thin strips laboriously pressed into paper with a hammer? Morse, you can't even build a perfect sewer."

Morse lowered his head, covered the lower half of his face with his palms, and breathed out gently.

Perturabo interpreted his small gesture as hitting a sore spot. His fighting spirit became stronger, and this expression made his demeanor finally unified with the childishness of his body.

"You humiliate me like this, don't you want to successfully take advantage of me by suppressing my self-confidence? This is everything an ignorant person like you can do to me.

Morse wasn't sure how long he could keep his shoulders from shaking.

"You ask me what I'm afraid of, are you trying to manipulate my fear? Then I'm going to tell you that what I know is a higher thing that you can't see."

Morse saw a proud and cold head rising continuously. Perhaps in Perturabo's eyes, the vortex of stars deep in the clouds were converging and gathering.

"It is a whirlpool of stars, a bruise and scar in the sky. My great destiny awaits in the stars, and my power and potential are certain. I was born for a realm far greater than Olympia. You can never touch it. to my height."

Perturabo became calm and proud. "I know all this," he said.

Morse raised his head, repeated a fixed breathing rhythm, and waited for the smile to disappear from his face.

Perturabo's counterattacks were filled with attacks on nonexistent weaknesses, sounding as if the child couldn't live without contempt for others.

He was so afraid of the whirlpool of stars in his mouth that he had to overwhelm it with false self-comfort.

But Morse would not ignore the praise he felt for Perturabo—not for Perturabo himself, but for his creator.

How did the craftsman create such a work of art that combined human and inhuman features?

Morse didn't know.

At the same time, he was sure that he would keep Perturabo.

"It's different from what I imagined." He didn't hide the teasing in his tone.

Perturabo was close enough to him that he could put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

Then, press down.

"you!"

Perturabo's exclamation was blocked by psychic energy, but he had no time to care. All the boy's strength was used to fight against the heavy pressure on his shoulders. His feet were spread apart to bear the weight, and the frost that had condensed on the land that had not seen rain for a long time was melted by the heat of his skin. He tried his best to raise his head and look directly at Morse, his face turned red from the force.

"Do you know what you remind me of?" Morse shook his head slightly, stretched out his left hand, and the pointed cone flew into his palm.

He pressed the awl against one side of Perturabo's maxilla, exactly where he had shattered the face of the statue of Perseus.

His control is precise enough, and he knows the shortest distance without hurting anyone. If Perturabo had the guts to rush forward, he wouldn't mind repairing it afterwards.

"Reminds me of kids from the age of four to twelve. They develop their first value system in their families, where they say, 'You are one of a kind,' and they believe it. And when they come into contact with each other, they Try to keep that thought."

"The first child said: I know more than you all. I know that fruits can be grown on trees, clay pots can be made in handicraft workshops, and salt comes from sea water."

"The second child said disdainfully: What do you know! I also know that those who disobey the prophets of God's religion will be thrust into the spiral by dark judgment, and slaves will grow from the opposite city-state."

"The third child laughed loudly: There is one thing you can't do with me. My parents were all executed by the tyrants. How about you!"

He put away his smile and said coldly: "Which one do you think you are, Perturabo?"

Suddenly, Perturabo raised his hands and wrapped his fingers tightly around Morse's forearm, like a tightening iron ring. The boy's strength was amazing. After Morse removed his guard, the crisp sound of bone cracking immediately sounded. A hot burning sensation rose from the inside of his arm, and the black cloth became damp.

The energy crackled at Morse's fingertips, and part of it was directed at Perturabo. The boy let out a painful groan, and the strength of the iron ring-like palm relaxed. The other part circled upwards along Morse's arm, repairing the break. skeleton.

"You are a combination of all of the above," Morse said lowly. "You think you know more, you understand more."

At the top of the pointed cone, a drop of blood seeped out and flowed down the edge.

"You think you are above mortals, so you despise mortals."

"When you find that the first two are not necessarily true, you have to say: Look, I am a complex of tragedy and sublimity! How great I am!"

Perturabo's stoic expression cracked, unsustainable like a hero's statue shattering. A sound more like a scream than a roar came from his mouth.

"You don't know me at all!" he shouted, "You don't know anything!"

Morse's palm on his shoulder spread out more gently, and he rubbed the side of the boy's neck soothingly, signaling him to relax.

"Next, I hope you stay awake, Perturabo. Although I won't hurt you." The sharp cone flew away from his hand, and he did not answer Perturabo's question.

Morse put his hands on the side of Perturabo's neck, forcing him to look him in the eyes.

Perturabo was right about one thing, he didn't know the boy before him yet; but that didn't matter.

"I will reforge you," Morse said.

Spiritual energy gathered in his body. It was the first time in countless years that he mobilized such a huge power. Electric shock-like tremors surged and burned. Dark blue and golden light spots alternated in front of his eyes. Non-existent flames and snow-covered ashes. Burn together.

He dived into the depths of his soul, mobilizing the echoes of power and emotion from the bottomless whirlpool, and the multiple noises overwhelmed the beating of the pulse in his eardrums.

Morse could vaguely hear the tearing howl of hunger and thirst in the storm more than a hundred years ago. As usual, he ignored it to avoid the invisible thing from accidentally casting a glance.

He vaguely guessed the truth about the whirlpool of stars mentioned by Perturabo. He pinches away concrete thoughts before they take shape.

The first lock was like a veil covering the eyes, separating Perturabo from what he feared. A golden silk thread was broken, and four filthy chains were rusted.

This is more difficult than Morse initially imagined, and if this is the handiwork of Perturabo's creator, then the field of candidates can be narrowed even further.

The second lock is like a horse wrapped around him, suppressing the boy's growth instinct and extraordinary body.

Morse had no intention of allowing Perturabo to completely return to mortal form, so he did not rashly touch the other party's genetic spiral. Within ten years, the growth rate of this magical creation will be back on track.

He took a hard breath, his skin cracking under the black cloth.

The third lock was shrouded in mist, blinding Perturabo's excessive knowledge in his mind. If the accumulation of knowledge precedes the maturity of the mind, it is no longer a gift, but a curse.

Likewise, this lock will be broken over time.

The more he understood the structure of Perturabo, the more surprised and delighted Mors was. Even with all his might, he was unable to touch even one iota of its essence.

If he didn't fight for more, his psychic powers could only change Perturabo's appearance.

Fortunately, this is enough.

Morse fell back until his back was against the wall. The mural on the wall bleeds.

"Your Creator has not finished his work. Perturabo, you are an unworthy tool."

He laughed genuinely.

"And how should a qualified craftsman deal with steel that has failed to be forged? I choose to melt it back into molten iron, quench, beat, cool, and repeat."

After being released by Morse, Perturabo stumbled to the ground, his palms scratching wounds among the sand and stones.

He stared in disbelief at the scratches on his palms that had not healed for a long time, and real fear easily captured him.