Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

As the lock head of the iron lock deformed silently when it was crushed together with the key, the hammer made by Morse was completely locked in the iron cabinet in his office by Perturabo.

This earned Morse a slight smack of his lips in displeasure: "I spent a lot of effort building this hammer."

Perturabo used a dagger to carve the name "Holy Word of Truth" as the weapon on the flat iron lock, and said at the same time: "I know, otherwise it would have been thrown into the vast world by me through the window."

"Don't you think about the vacuum environment outside the window?"

Perturabo walked silently back to the table and sat down. He had just changed out of his armor, and now his attire was back to Olympian style. The Primarch closed his eyes briefly, then spoke: "The memories I sent from Terra contain information about the Seventh Legion."

"Tell me?"

"And you running back to Terra and eating fried cereal while Rogal Dorn and I were scheduled to fight. Another thing I'm curious about is why you heard the word 'hammer,'" his face twitched in embarrassment. "I immediately returned to Invite."

"Oh, I mainly went over to see what Magnus did to my models." Morse walked around the room casually, looking at the storage rack made of a dark wood that was as hard as steel. , and small mechanical toys on the shelf. "Magnus escaped from the paper tube?"

"I took him out of Terra."

Morse shook his head: "Okay. Let's talk about the Seventh Legion."

"Unlike the Fifteenth Legion, the Seventh Legion participated in the Unification War."

"I guess this is the normal state of the legion. Only a despised psyker legion has a reason to delay its establishment. However, the emperor does not seem to have much restraint and care for the fifteenth legion. I Hope it’s not something he forgot.”

"Isn't it because you're here, Morse?"

"I can't say for sure. Mors moved further away from Perturabo's desk to ensure that from the Primarch's perspective, the high tabletop would not cover most of his body. "Continue? "

"Their record in the Unification War was acceptable, although not as good as my Fourth Legion in comparison. They captured the Crystal Sea City, conquered the Fifth Ring Fortress, and defeated the Himalayas at the cost of losing three battalions. of a clan.”

The thin piece of paper Malcador gave him appeared in front of Perturabo's eyes. The prime minister did not let him see all the details of the unification war, but only wrote a brief chronology for him to browse. He can understand this consideration.

"In the first ten years since the establishment of the Seventh Legion, they built 600 fortresses in Terra. However, overall, this is still a newly established legion. Currently, 70% of the people are still qualified candidates. "Their first victorious battle was in Europe and was called the Battle of Rome."

Morse briefly put on a choked expression: "Okay, this is the Seventh Legion, I understand. It sounds very ordinary, and it is indeed not as good as the Iron Warriors' record before you returned."

"Oh, not bad." The corners of Perturabo's mouth rose and then were suppressed, "I hope Rogal Dorn can successfully connect with the Legion."

"Don't forget that Rogal Dorn is an emperor with his own small empire, even though he doesn't look like it." Morse did not shy away from his words, "Including surrendered legions and even small political bodies into his Under the banner of "

"I hope he goes well, just because it will help our project get back on track quickly." Perturabo gently moved away the dozen half-carved and unprimed miniature Astartes in the center of the table. The warrior model took out a newer document from the drawer, placed it on the table, aligned the corners and unfolded it.

"This is a formal cooperation document after discussion between me and Dorn," he said.

Morse let the papers fly into his hands and read them.

"I like the no-nonsense terms," ​​he said, "and the neat format and good organization. Speaking of formats, what's going on with the latest report file your Corps turned in?"

"The level of writing has suddenly improved." Perturabo snorted, "But it seems that everyone thinks that I don't pay attention to why the heirs sent by Magnus to communicate suddenly become busy from time to time."

"At least they found a practical way to accomplish their task," Morse said briskly. "What do you think Dorne would have named them?"

"I can't guess. I haven't seen any examples of his naming. Judging from his personality, he will give a legion name that is easy to understand and short."

Perturabo looked back out the window. In the depths of the universe where he had just threatened to throw away the Holy Hammer, a faint light representing the fleet seemed to appear, tiny but solidly cutting through the indestructible dark obstacle in front of them, opening up gaps for the Emperor's radiance, allowing the golden edge to touch everyone. A human heart that desires or does not desire unity.

——

"My legion." The demigod-like white-haired giant announced in the wind and snow. His resolute and cold face was paler than a stone and harder than an ice sculpture. The emotions that may exist in his heart were covered by the appearance of silence. However, , the cold oath he used to welcome the arrival of the Legion infinitely expanded his power and reliability, making him a great object of admiration and respect.

Perhaps compared to superficial joy and warmth, this is what a legion that longs for solid victory needs most.

Sigismund relaxed his breathing. The weapon was not in his hand, making him feel a little light and unstable.

His battle brothers surrounded him on the left and right. The bright yellow single-sided shoulder armor stood out like a mark on the iron-gray power armor. Some of them had ancient engravings as marks on their armor, as symbols of those who had fought hundreds of times in the Unification War. glory.

Rome, he saw the word engraved on the shoulder of the brother in front and knew that the other brother had participated in the first battle of the legion.

The clean air caressed the fine scars on Sigismund's face through the breathing grid. The ice and snow of Inwit cleansed the air, yet Sigismund still heard the smell of dust and cooking smoke.

After the Unification War, in the plateau camp where he was born, the static sound of the ropes of scrap metal bells and the insignificant sound of electric kites in the air whispered softly in his ears again.

He grew up in the shadow of the fortress of the burning wasteland and its wandering gangs, watching those with pale metal masks and ridiculous crowns of waste take away the orphans from the camp. His former companions died until he slew the mortals who kept legends alive in the lands with the title Lord of Corpses.

Then he was taken away by the recruiter - We're here for you, the recruiter said.

He was then sent to the moon to be transformed. He was evaluated, given his assertion, and then joined the Seventh Legion, joining more recruits under the banner of the Skyhawk.

Much later he learned that he had almost gone to the Eighth Legion. Sigismund felt that maybe there would be a place for him, but that the Seventh Legion would be better. He's already here.

His genetic father looked at them all, every battle brother. Sigismund was unfamiliar with the word father, companion, friend, brother, and even teacher. He accepted these words, only father was out of reach.

Quiet echoes spread through the air, and Sigismund saw Sela, the peaceful girl he shared in the camp with, who had been a puzzle piece of his orphaned life.

Serra looked extraordinarily peaceful somehow, and that dead shadow comforted Sigismund's heart to this day.

The girl placed an iron rod against her forehead, with a leather strap wrapped around the other end of the rod. This ritual of prayerful silence did not protect her life, but Sigismund remembered her ritual forever.

The remaining shadows of the war scraped across the door panel, forming a trembling hissing firelight. His feet were covered with sticky blood, stained with his combat boots.

He picked up the iron rod from the dead girl's hand and slowly placed the cold iron rod on his forehead. He then slew his foe, and he had slain an enemy before he became a soldier of the Emperor, when he became a warrior.

And he retained the habit of touching the cold iron with his distracted forehead.

Through the shadows of the past burning in the dust he saw Rogal Dorn, the father of genes, his blade sleeping at his waist, the ice and snow of Inwit lodged within him, through the pale irises and pure white short hair highlights. Silence emanated from him, like the vast snowfield on the eve of a snowstorm.

"Will you dedicate your lives to your brothers, your Legion, and your humanity? Will you dedicate your lives to me, to your oath?"

"We will dedicate ourselves to our brothers, the Legion and humanity," tens of thousands of voices penetrated the ice of the snowfield, and were more piercing than the cold wind.

A strange sense of purification was sinking into the depths of Sigismund's heart, and a place of peace gradually formed there, the shadows of his past gave way to the cold wind, as the eternal light of Wit fell upon him.

"We will dedicate our lives to you and to our oath."

"Will you swear again, in front of the brothers who share the oath?"

"We renew our vows."

The ice wind swept across the snowfield, and the broken ice ballast hit the iron armor. The cold froze the dust and blood, leaving only the unchanging determination.

Rogal Dorn was silent in the light reflected by the ice and snow.

Then the Father of the Legion said: "I accept you as my heirs. You are the Imperial Fists."

Sigismund closed his eyes. His mind rotates from the past to the present and into an expectation of the future. The wind of dust that once blew through the wandering camp was washed by the wind and snow of Invite and filtered into pure will.

He felt a quiet coolness from his forehead deep into his bones, as if he were pressing his forehead against the surface of Dorne's sword.

Father. he thinks. The father of genes.