Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

At the end of summer, when autumn is about to begin again, the night sky in Nuceria is dull and dark. The lighting near the ground bakes the bottom of the black sky into deep red from bottom to top.

Outside the city of Desia, which has not been renamed, in the sanatorium on the back of the hill provided for gladiators and more injured people, the sound of water flowed quietly outside the window.

Broken yellow lights reflected in the artificial stream, like fragments of brass or tinfoil dropped into the cold water, were blown out of the primarch's chamber.

Angron's fingers scratched across the surface of the data pad several times, the rough calluses scratching the center of the smooth screen that shone in the dark. The thin and broken sound should have been obscured by the gurgling water outside the sanatorium, but the original body's extraordinary The senses and chaotic heart sounds highlight the presence of the sound of writing.

It expanded in Angron's perception, became harsh, and gradually acquired a tearing sound close to that of a knife cutting through cloth. In the past, Angron had heard similar sounds when the gladiators cut each other's flesh-adhered clothing and used fire to dry the blood on the wounds. Then he heard a sigh, his own.

"I'm sorry for them..." The Lord of Red Sand wrote a line of words with his fingers, using a rare language brought by his Terran veterans from the world where humans originated. Then he erased the line and rewrote his reply to Donne: "I'm sorry for my mistake."

His consideration of words and sentences was by no means a matter of diction, and the difficult process of writing the entire reply was accompanied by his memories and reflections. When he received Dorn's letter, Angron could hardly believe the charges against him.

World Eaters, war hounds. Their acquaintance began on the ship Resolute.

Those who awkwardly packed themselves into the starched robes, the hands that grabbed the weapon but stopped midway when they mistakenly thought they were being attacked by the original body, and the expressions that were as stunned as a child when receiving his embrace, almost made Angron think that What he will lead is not a group of experienced warriors, but a group of children who have not been cared for and taught, eagerly surrounding their father, eagerly comparing who can show more trust and admiration.

Perturabo gave him an answer when he told him that these warriors indeed needed to undergo Astartes transformation surgery from their youth.

So Angron returned the same care and tolerance to them. Let them retain the original combat organization that they themselves disbanded - although this was also because he had no experience in commanding large legions.

He adopted the Legion's name, which Centurion Jaeger had so cheerfully come up with, imparting rather than forcing upon them his own ideals, encouraging them to be independent like true warriors and not to regard the Primarch as the sole center of all things except the Emperor. .

And World Eaters did it so well.

These warriors who traveled from the core of the Human Empire countless light-years away to the edge of the galaxy did not have the arrogance or coldness that Angron once worried about. They voluntarily merged with the people of Nuceria and moved closer to each other.

They lived together, learned from each other, treated each other as equals, and considered his gladiator brothers and sisters to be family.

Kahn was the first to ask Angron if he would allow some of Angron's mortal comrades to have a limited visit to the landing module and some ground vehicles. Children like Chuka and others were too young, so Captain Mago taught them what Skyhawks and Warhounds are. How to prepare to become a Space Marine. Apothecary Galan Sulak went deep into the red sand pits of many cities in Nuceria to personally investigate. He then brought back chains and improved gladiatorial pits to the legion.

"I thought that was enough," Angron wrote, the words leaving a slight burning pain on his fingertips. "I can feel their emotions. They love me and my companions, my home planet..."

He crossed out this paragraph again, realizing that he was blinded by emotion and immersed in false happiness.

"You showed me the truth I shunned, my brother. They were hounds, warriors, before they saw me."

The most common things that high-level riders put into the red sand gladiatorial arena are huge and ferocious beasts, sometimes hyenas, sometimes giant dogs. They are equally docile as they nestle under the golden stands.

"I pushed them too far." Angron wrote another line, watching the flashing light on the data pad slowly jump. "I don't pay enough attention to them."

The Twelfth Legion is the Emperor's Legion, the Nucerians are Angron's Legion.

Rogal Dorn and Perturabo were the brothers of the Twelfth Primarch, and Gladiator was the brother of Angron.

Perturabo had been disappointed by this, but Angron, the self-righteous Angron, the considerate Angron, the blind Angron, did not see through the hidden dangers behind this.

He slowed his breathing and heard the night outside the window starting to rain. The cold wind falling from the mountains and the early autumn rain rolled into his window sill, and his fingers were frozen stiff.

Angron put down the dataslate, unable to continue writing.

He closed his eyes, his eyelids blocking the light the world gave him, and the rich imagination in his soul immediately expanded these trivial sounds into a vivid image from the crimson fire at the end of the night.

In the message sent to him by his brother Rogal Dorn, this brother's calm and severe personality allowed him to only record very objectively the number of local humans who died in the recently attacked psychic system, the firepower consumed by the Legion, and Ammunition base. On the contrary, this gave Angron an even more immeasurable imagination space.

He saw phantoms of blood cascading from the fortress, human skulls, spines, and chests turning into vessels of scorched earth, and chained men falling to the tracks and steaming oil mist, the vehicles' Double-linked lasers destroyed the inhabited area, while his descendants in blue and white armor, with giant axes stained with blood, continued to kill.

This was all done by his World Eaters.

Angron wanted to open the window and let the rain pour in and wet him.

But when he took a break from the many affairs throughout Nuceria and occasionally returned to live in the city of Desia, mortals would insist on cleaning his room. He could not let the water brought by the heavy rain They add to the trouble.

He stood up from his seat, left the room with a noise that was befitting his size, walked through the corridors, stepped into the rainy night of Nuceria, and walked around the sanatorium called the hospital.

The sons and daughters of Nuceria live here, he thought. They are tough, united, enduring hardships and unyielding. They were broken in the red sand, and then stood up with difficulty relying on mutual support and involvement.

A gladiatorial battle was won, and a thin blood-red scar was added to the gladiator's waist. A battle was lost, and the black soil added to the scar discolored the long rope. His red rope has the same essence as the black ropes of his companions, a silent embrace of those who share the same fate in the same cave. The rope of triumph connects all to one another, and in this circle they are intimately connected.

But what about outside the circle of black and red? Can Nucerians and Terrans truly be one with each other?

The curtain of rain became denser, and water fell from the sky. Angron's sense of smell told him that there was a faint smell of blood lurking in the rain. Images of the carnage in his imagination continued to flash before his eyes.

Rogal Dorn, his golden white-haired brother, with his legendary and strange golden skull hanging on his waist, with anger hidden in his cold face, walking in a river of blood piled with corpses, the background and details are reflected in his powerful mind. The more you think about it, the clearer it becomes.

Angron closed his eyes, but the image and smell were still there.

He shook his head and backed up, retreating through the trees. The enlarged sanatorium, which almost filled half of the hill, shrunk in his eyes to a bright light, which was illuminated by the glow of the fireflies dotted in the windows.

Angron walked around the hill to the other side. It should be dark and quiet here. Because it is still late at night and the morning trumpet has not yet sounded.

Trainees who would join the Twelfth Legion in the future built training bases on the other side of the mountain, much like the War Hounds had independent bases in the galaxy given by the Emperor. The difference is that the location of the base here is at the foot of the mountain where the primarch's conservation capsule landed at that time, and also under the tomb of countless skeletons who escaped from the arena but died here.

This dual symbolic meaning allowed everyone to immediately agree on the location where the base would be built.

Angron was walking at first, and then he started running. His feet landed in the mud of the heavy rain, breaking branches and broken leaves, as if bones and flesh were wailing under his feet. He felt the coldness of this moment and wondered whether Roger Dorn was walking on the same ruins when he composed his letter.

Through the valley and over the ridge, darkness appeared before Angron's eyes. Their base was sleeping in the heavy rain. The metal and glass surfaces of some buildings vaguely reflected light that could not be ignored, passing through the layers of the rain curtain. Due to layer transition and refraction, the deep red warm light on Nuceria's surface also presents a weak red glow that is unified with each other.

This is the background of red sand, Angron thought. This is Nuceria. He knew enough about Nuceria, but not enough about the Imperium of Man.

He was still thinking about the World Eaters.

Of course he could finish his letter now and explicitly ask the Twelfth Legion to stop the massacre.

But this only solved a crisis where deep-seated contradictions spilled over. As for how to solve the root of everything, he still couldn't decide.

Angron didn't want to hurt his own legion, but he couldn't stand them continuing to hurt others.

He stood for a long time in the heavy rain, his blood and faint wail lingering in the torrent of rain.

Angron didn't calculate the time, he only knew that it was late at night. He decided to stand here for a while longer until he thought things through, at least clear enough for him to finish his reply to Donne.

If possible, he would also like to write a letter to Perturabo at the same time.

The recent mysterious and hidden busyness of the Lord of the Fourth Legion and the secretive commotion in his legion made Angron and Rogal Dorn consciously not to disturb Perturabo too much and try to solve the difficulties on their own. But sometimes, he thought he could trust his brother a little more.

A light flashed in the base.

Angron was wiping away the raindrops that made his eyelashes heavier, planning to pass through the thousands of tons of falling water to return to the sanatorium.

Then he reacted.

The second light came on, short, tense, fleeting, and closer to the edge of the base than the first light.

When the third flash occurred, through the heavy rainstorm curtain of the dark night, Angron saw clearly the essence of the cold-colored light - it was a portable electric lamp for lighting in the dark night, which accidentally penetrated among the overlapping buildings of the base. The pale light exposed through the gaps in the building.

The fourth flash of light was completely close to the edge of the dark base in the heavy rain. Judging from the trajectory, it was undoubtedly someone leaving the base during the late night heavy rain; and judging from the moving speed of the beam, this was not an exploration, but a close approach. A familiar set of actions.

Angron's heart clenched quietly. This was an event that was completely unexpected to him and no one had ever told him about it. If he hadn't happened to return to Desia City today and happened to be wandering silently on this side of the mountain, when would he have discovered such an anomaly? Should he wait for these people from nowhere to harm his brothers, sisters and his future heirs?

And his consciousness offered him another possibility. That is to say, it was no accident that this group of people moving out from the base acted like this. The base was large enough for them to encounter today's unknown events.

He took off his robe, which had become too heavy due to absorbing the rain, and felt that the robe had become a little sticky.

Angron threw down his robe and ran silently after the white light, feeling a little chilly all over.

The distant light had slipped silently from the base into the heavy rain, and the white light had become obvious and easy to follow. Lightning broke through the darkness, and in the ensuing roar, the primarch crossed the mountains as quickly as possible and approached the point of light. The heavy rain rumbled, blinding his sight and hearing, but it was unable to cause any hindrance to the Primarch.

As he and the white light approached, the white light also approached its destination. The direction it was heading towards was within the city of Desia, and Angron couldn't figure out why.

He gritted his teeth and shook away the rain that hit his face like a giant beast shaking his head. The white light entered the long gray road at the gate of Desia City, and Angron saw that it was a dozen figures who were moving collectively in a local transport vehicle. Since they did not use Space Marine equipment, their previous whereabouts could not be traced.

Nearing the outside of the city, Angron got close enough to them that he could name each of them.

Among them were no young aspirants who would become Space Marines in the future. The metal defects on these people's bodies proved that most of them were gladiators freed from the red sand. There were also two Nucerian civilians who volunteered to join the Angron mortal army. .

Angron relaxed slightly and advised himself to guess that they might have other matters that were not convenient to explain to others. He wished he knew the Nucerians, and he wished they would not hurt each other.

He followed him from a distance through the heavy rain, hoping to see the outcome of the matter.

The transport vehicles passed through the city gates, past the bazaars, past residential areas and passed through the streets. A piece of cloth that provided shade during the day was blown off during the heavy rain and fell into the mud. The white light did not stop.

Angron heard his own heartbeat in the rain. A chain wrapped around it, tightening and stinging.

He followed the white light until it stopped. The lights in the open-air building were bright, and the crimson light emitted was so close to the original red light in the town.

Bursts of laughter came from the rain curtain, a thicker smell of blood and wailing that lingered like a long wind.

These are not illusions. He was wrong.

Angron's nerves had never been so tense, like molten copper thrown into a rainstorm, solidifying in the most brutal way.

He is not angry, he does not roar, he cannot roar. He was just miserable. Just shocked. There is also clarity.

He walked towards the building, and the arc-shaped wall was so familiar to him. His life was here in bondage until he obtained his deliverance and deliverance. To this day, he still doesn't want to think about everything that happened here, the maggot eyes, the sulfuric acid, the chains, the cries of killing each other, the burnt tusks and broken throats, the enemies he had to strangle to death in the palm of his hand, Countless ironic and absurd flowers falling from the sky among flesh and earth...

The rain turned into sharp fragments, cutting his skin and making a harsh sound. He walked towards the building that was supposed to be sealed, and thought of the face of the Hozan gladiator who had lost half of his jaw, who was the first to persuade the place to be preserved.

This is a deep pit of red sand.

The moment he stepped through the main entrance, the audience burst into cheers, and a vague vengeful howl pierced out from the shadows, so sharp that it didn't look like a living person.

In the red sand soaked by heavy rain, a former high-level rider had his head chopped off. The head flew through the air, with a bunch of butcher's nails stuffed into it in the most brutal way.

Rain curtains fell from the clouds in all directions in the light. The color of the rain is light red.