Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

The main entrance of the arena was once open directly to the civilian audience, so Angron entered the audience seats. These long rows of wooden benches extended to the deep pit below like dark stairs that were not strong enough to bear his weight.

His arrival caused the people around him to suddenly fall from the revelry into the abyss of fear. The wooden benches rubbed violently against the ground, making an unpleasant noise. The smell of chemicals secreted by the brain due to fear spread in the rain. Angron never thought that people would be afraid of him, but at this moment he had no energy to comfort any panicked souls.

The excessive cheers, hatred and panic mixed in the venue washed his heart and impacted his spirit with the heavy rain. Indistinguishable crimson shadows appeared and disappeared in the rain, some shadows became more and more blurred, like ghosts made of bones, accompanying every living person; some became clear and identifiable.

They took shape, opened their mouths, and stepped into the overlapping area of ​​reality and memory.

The memory of the Lord of Red Sand was shattered, and then some fragments of memories that were broken enough to be extracted jumped out.

"The construction of the Wall of Tears did not go smoothly," a glowing tablet with a Gothic document on it fell into his hands from the rain, "the Nuceria nobles are very unfamiliar with basic manual labor. In addition, it is rumored that gladiators will return their suffering to slave owners through harsh treatment and deduction. This matter is still under investigation."

Angron loosened his hands and let the shadow of the data tablet fall from his palms. The light dissipated in the rain before falling to the ground.

What was he doing when he received the document?

"The construction of this wall is not urgent," he said at that time, spreading the map on the long table. Several red marks were the target points that the Nuceria army would divide and break next. "Let's continue the liberation first."

Angron walked through the crowd, from the top to the bottom of the audience. He saw many unfamiliar faces, with facial features from the two poles to the middle of Nuceria. Angron's movements became stiff, as if he was re-acquainting Nuceria and what he had done.

"It was only two months then," the phantom of Kleist said to him, sitting on top of the boulder, the blade on her leg gently pressing pale cracks on the outside of the rock, blood from the heavy rain flowing out of these cracks, "we had more than two thousand people, can you recognize all of them? It's amazing, I spent the whole night remembering, but I still can't remember all their names, and the tempers of these warriors." "Then, at the beginning of this spring, many guys who were also dissatisfied with the high-ranking riders also ran to our army, and I couldn't remember them all. I'm still learning to read! This is enough to take a lot of effort. So, I want to retreat from this adjutant position to the rear, let me go to Mount Fedanmore, I can supervise them to expand the hospital." When there were only more than two thousand people in the team, Angron remembered everyone's name. Later, when the army stepped across the red sand and formed a powerful force of tens of thousands of people, he couldn't have time to truly communicate with everyone who joined the team. Angron believed that his army was united because he said that their fighting would not be rewarded. People fought together for freedom and the future, and shed their blood fearlessly on the enemy's defense line.

But they were not.

The phantom of the female gladiator dissipated. The rain in the sky was falling, and the lights of the arena illuminated the red rain. Beyond the red rain was an endless darkness, and the colors of the whole world gathered here. The blood wrapped around his legs, cold and sticky. The dry bones without palm prints left handprints on the rain curtain, and the voice of the ghost penetrated from the back of the world.

"Father, the red sand in the Nuceria gladiator pit is said to be still soaked with blood," his pharmacist Garland said to him after finishing his shift in Desia. His shadow looked at him dimly in the red ink rainstorm, and the mechanical arm stretched out behind him, blending with the dazzling light. "I think, instead of forcing Nuceria to forget this matter, it is better to turn it from bad to good. We can build a new gladiator pit for ourselves." "Do it, child, if you all think it's okay." The Lord of Red Sand said thoughtfully, patting the pharmacist's shoulder encouragingly. The mechanical arm was attached to his arm, conveying the joy of his offspring to him, "But don't let there be casualties." This joy blinded him, he ignored the truth that was close at hand, let all the signs pass through his fingers like rain, and the smell of blood left was recognized as an illusion born from suspicion and the shadow of the past. Step by step, in his blindness that was equivalent to acquiescence, his two armies simultaneously slid towards a possibility that was almost inevitable. He had made so many mistakes, and the cumulative consequences were so great. Since he jumped out of the pit, he thought everything was going for the best.

He was wrong. His expectations were scattered like red sand.

Angron stood on the edge of the golden platform, and the route in the rain became clear. A year ago, he had climbed from the pit of red sand, climbed along the spike, grabbed the pipe that carried the acid, and jumped onto the platform. He came here, right where he stood now, tore apart the nobles and their announcers, and then his brothers fell from the sky and everything turned upside down.

He took a step forward, and then he jumped into the pit.

Gravity couldn't wait to take him back to the beginning of everything. The red sand covered his feet again, and the flying sand crashed into his eyes. A drop of rain fell into his eyes, carrying away the gravel and sending pain.

Some deep red shadows gradually surrounded him in the blood rain, wrapping around him, whispering, like crying or roaring. He couldn't hear the words of the shadows clearly, and could barely make out their outlines. The heavy rain caused these awakened dead souls to twist and shape in the fractured and changing light and shadow, and the huge emotional torrent made him drown in the rain.

There is no skin or flesh on the faces of these shadows, and even the skeletons are made up of countless mismatched bone fragments, like the remnants of a cluster of the dead born from a certain barren grave.

Those hand bones and thoracic vertebrae seemed to have been broken several times during their lifetime, while the blurred eye sockets and scattered facial bones seemed to have experienced hundreds of thousands of years of wind and snow erosion. From the faceless bones themselves, you can see Countless pain and too far away stories.

Where do these wandering souls come from? Are they the remnants of high-ranking riders, or the will of gladiators? Are they born bound to this pit of red sand, or have they gathered here from afar?

The appearance of the wandering spirit reawakened the red sand arena, the shouts from the audience began to appear again, and Angron's spirit was torn apart by double pain and abnormal joy.

He walked forward, his deep footprints filled with rain of blood.

In the center of the field, the headless corpse of the high-ranking rider lay there, while the gladiator holding a long ax turned towards him, the rope of triumph around his waist spinning accordingly. The contemptuous face stared at him, and its skin was as chapped as weathered stones. The gladiator threw down his long ax and looked up at Angron. This allowed the Primarch to recognize him.

When two gladiators from Hozan committed suicide, it was this warrior who told the story of the deceased.

"Why?" Angron said, "Why restart the gladiatorial arena? You don't like my verdict on these slave owners, but why don't you tell me?"

"Why?" the gladiator asked, his voice hoarse, slow and clear, low and violent, cutting through the rumbling rain of blood, "Why did you betray us, Angron?"

His voice gradually ceased to be that of a human being. Several, dozens, hundreds of equally hoarse and painful voices overlapped with his. His voice was the voice of countless souls at the same time: "Why betray us, Angron!"

When the gladiator finished speaking, the smell of blood suddenly rose.

The shadows around him began to howl, their fury rippling through his mind like nails across his scalp. Those animalistic resentments, hot dust, breath, heavy rain, and sulfuric acid merged into the wild cries of table tennis and the unbearable emotional whirlpool, impacting the dam outside Angron's heart, and pouring into Angrun from the surrounding world. Gronn's dizzy senses tried to pull him into this huge trembling passion and endless hot swirl.

Angron took a step back uncontrollably, pulling away from the boiling rain of blood. Suddenly he understood what the ghosts were saying.

"I can't escape," a shadow wailed behind him, "It's so cold here, so cold, I'm so hungry, I have nothing to eat..."

He turned back suddenly and heard the sound of blood gushing from the scars and bones breaking on the rocks. The howling of the mountain wind blended with the rain of blood.

"I'm going to kill them, kill them all!" Another voice roared, and the burning desire for revenge hit Angron's temple. "I want to eat their blood and flesh!"

"Their hot blood, hot souls, they are alive..."

The wails of ghosts are everywhere, like the overlapping of thousands of sounds, or like the words of the same person. From the words of these souls, Angron finally understood a truth that shocked him.

They come from high mountains.

Nuceria's lonely souls who have fled from the gladiatorial arena to the mountains for thousands of years have gathered in the tomb of bones. When the remains of countless similar people have been scattered in the wind, their souls have become a unified consciousness forever. The ground wanders and mourns.

Angron realized that it was on that mountain that he first heard the hateful words of the gladiator's ghost, and that it was on that mountain that his cooling rage was ignited. The image of the dead soul's revenge is not an illusion stirred in the wind.

The red-skinned brother he had never met was right. The aggregation of negative emotional projections in the unprocessed soul after death will lead to unknown consequences.

They had dealt with the foundation of the Wall of Tears to prevent the wall from causing a vicious accident in the future. But the Tomb of Unknown Bones on Feydenmore has been forgotten.

The noisy emotions were like a furnace that had been fanned over fire, all the flames dancing in the blood rain releasing huge pressure. People's fingers trembled, their pulses jumped rapidly, their throats became dry, hot blood surged to their heads, and the rain boiled into a sea of ​​fire. They are no longer just themselves, with multiple souls and multiple hatreds overlapping and erupting.

"I have not betrayed you, my brothers and sisters," Angron walked backwards, "I have never betrayed you."

"Our blood is cold, we are hungry, they don't give us food, those hounds eat our dead flesh and drink our dead blood that has not yet cooled down... You hound of war, your master's dog! "The ghost shattered the rain curtain with a deafening roar. This was not a sound that a mortal throat could make. Apparitions of bones and corpses fell from the stands.

Angron responded with silence.

"You are loyal to another emperor..." the ghost said, "you are the slave of another emperor! You left us, you are no longer one of us, you slave! You despicable traitor and coward! You A slave owner's dog! Do you know what they did?"

The blood rain became icy cold, freezing his legs and feet. This is a kind of anger that has been accumulated in the mountains for thousands of years. The ether is twisted here, and the hot air is filling Angron's lungs.

The ghost rushed toward Angron. This was the ghost of Nuceria, a huge mad spirit formed by unresolved resentment, fear of being ignored, ideal selfishness and unknown revenge, mixed with A fleeting breath of blood casts a fleeting glance at this place.

"Lead us again, Angron, lead us to kill, lead us to eat, lead us to revenge...you dog! Come back, come back to us, you are one of us..."

Reveal yourself, express yourself, abandon yourself, dedicate yourself, liberate yourself, escape from the shell you have been built by that emperor, join our passion, vitality, surging blood, feed us, raise us, let We escape from the cold winter and escape from the mountains.

We need you, you tumbling among thousands of us. Our warmth is all around us and our veins grow from your heart. Do not betray us, Angron, Lord of the Red Sands. We have nowhere to go.

ah! You killed one of our souls! How innocent she was, she was only eleven years old when she died on the mountain, and you tore her apart like wild beasts tore her arms. Angron! You traitor! We can't stop you, hey, another companion dies at the cost of our lives! Save him!

No, you killed him, you were convulsing, you coward, you broke him so easily, his cold soul is still hungry, hear us! Listen to us! If you kill him, he will not be freed yet, and he will never be freed! What are you afraid of? You are crying, haha. His pain is on you, why are you still calm? Angron!

Oh, we can't stop you, you are a beast, you are going to run away, you are going to escape from us, no! Can't! We are so cold, we are dying, come back, come back, our blood, our brother, Angron, please! You can hear it!

You turned, Angron, you turned to us, thank you, we were hungry.

Angron stopped in the rain, his vision blurred by pain and broken capillaries in his eyes. He paused panting. Among the emotions of these dead souls, it was not anger or hatred that really pulled him. On the contrary, he almost drowned in the endless sorrow of these souls who once sought liberation.

He saw countless emaciated dead people hugging him and lying on his body.

As long as he waves his hand, these ghosts who are not powerful even after death will be broken into smoke that will never be released. They will die for the second time under his hands, and bring along the living people who are already involved with them. Buried in this deep pit of red sand. They are not free, they are not free. The original body can rise to the top of the fighting pit with the blood, and leave through the high platform stepping on the bones.

"You are cold..." Angron said, with a mournful calm, "and hungry."

He stretched out his hand, and a skeletal ghost with an unrecognizable face bit his finger. A cold sting pierced the finger bone, hot blood flowed out, and a small piece of flesh was torn off.

The ghost was stunned. The resentful face raised and looked at Angron carefully. Then, he became lighter, and his soul escaped lightly from the hunger and torture that gave birth to him.

Angron felt the wounds clot, the muscles reweave, he became whole again, and the ghost was freed.

"Eat." Angron sat on the floor with his eyes lowered, "My blood is shed for the victims."