Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

"I am haunted by evil spirits." Fulgrim said with a smile.

He still held the iron head of Ferrus, sitting on the wheelchair that Perturabo had taken out from somewhere - a strange object, it was said that Perturabo had made it for him after knowing his situation, hiding the firepower system and engine energy. Although the design was strange, it was appropriate and mature. I am afraid that the Lord of Iron had made similar objects before.

His swordsman followed him, guarding his wheelchair. There were also three or four soldiers from the Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors nearby, helping to complete the records of the short meeting and other temporary tasks.

"I heard about the demon." Perturabo replied.

In Fulgrim's eyes, he looked no different from before, and there were no signs of corruption he had seen in Medusa. The Lord of Iron wore iron-gray thin armor, with steel skulls and yellow and black stripes on his shoulders, and his arms were wrapped around his broad chest.

Heavy chains hung from the ceiling, displaying prototypes of new armor and weapons. Their shadows fell against the cool colors of the Iron Wing's hall. His eyes darkened, making him look even darker.

"It's always there," Fulgrim sighed. "I've always heard its whispers. It's always been with me... I'm afraid we are indeed connected. Give it a chance, and I believe it will rush into our reality and take what's left of me."

"If it appears again, you will be powerless to resist it," Perturabo said, and his scrutiny made Fulgrim feel a little embarrassed, although the emotion came and went.

"Yes, I can hardly continue to fight," Fulgrim said sadly. "Give me prosthetics, and I can stand up. I am still a leader."

"But no longer a swordsman." The Iron Lord stood up and walked to his side, but did not touch him like a brother, or bring him some words of comfort. He has indeed changed, and abandoned some of the personality he once had - or the appearance of it.

"We don't always need the Primarchs to fight on the front lines," said Rogal Dorn, looking down at the holographic sand table and reaching out to adjust several parameters. "The existence of the Primarchs is an immeasurable encouragement to a Legion."

"The sacrifice of Lord Ferrus Manus did have a great impact." Kh'rn of the World Eaters occasionally spoke to prove his presence. Angron recently returned to Nuceria.

He noticed that Dorn had made comprehensive adjustments to the parameters of the Iron Hands Legion in the preset system. The various parameters in terms of technology were not adjusted much, including the random range of personnel damage and armor damage, which declined, while the organization and damage of the Legion were nearly halved.

Fulgrim's only remaining movable iron arm stroked the head in his arms. "Yeah - what are you calculating, Dorn?"

"Reset the parameters of the Emperor's Children." Dorn said, "You can't go to the battlefield, but the data in the Court of Narni is generated based on the Legion's heyday. The initial value of the calculation needs to be modified."

"It sounds like we really prepared for the rebellion more than a hundred years ago. Comprehensive data collection, huh? Maybe we should be grateful for our thoughts at the time..." Fulgrim raised his head with a smile and looked at Perturabo, trying to ease the atmosphere.

Everyone here is solemn and cold. He is an exception, and someone like him will be needed here.

"Yes." Perturabo said, "but there is no need. An era that has ended does not need to be remembered now. I have been moving forward all my life, and so have you."

He stepped away from Fulgrim, came to the sand table, and took over the control of the sand table from Rogal Dorn. Soon, a dangerous spot filled with boiling light rose above the simulated battlefield. The violent airflow raged in the thunderstorm and purple-red rainstorm. The lumpy solids inside gathered and dispersed madly in the blue-green glare, and a large amount of impermanent debris overflowed from it.

"The phenomenon above Medusa?" Dorn asked.

"I have seen it in Olympia. An eye watching the earth, a vortex of stars. Although I have only seen it for a while, it is still unforgettable enough."

Perturabo said that he had a premonition that one day he would go deep into it and make a conclusion with the first impression when his memory was born.

Maybe it will be in Cadia, he thought. If Cadia still exists after the angry iron hand cleansed the surface of the planet near the star vortex.

He will go deep into the vortex, deep into-

He paused, and to this day, he still doesn't know the name of that place.

The ignorant call it the Eye of Heaven, the Gate of Heaven, and all these emotionally charged words, mixed with blasphemy or piety, just like any ancient myth would do. The more pious, the more ordinary.

And currently, its official number within the human empire is Cygnus X-1.

It is also too ordinary. It cannot show its danger, cannot reflect its essence.

When he conquers it, he will rename it.

"Do you know what it is?" Fulgrim asked in a daze. "Even Ferrus doesn't know."

"I know he doesn't know. I asked him if he could see it, and the answer is no - it is an anomaly in space, a large warp rift. The concentration of warp energy inside it is higher than any area that has been explored in the real universe... but it should not be easily invaded in reality. It will invade Medusa, which is undoubtedly related to the environmental fluctuations caused by the recent warp storm."

Perturabo said calmly, his fingers continuing to slide gently on the control panel.

A new data structure is taking shape in real time, joining the surface of Isstvan III... as a third-party force.

"You will go to the battlefield, Fulgrim." He suddenly said, "You will appear on Isstvan III."

Fulgrim did not immediately refuse. He tried to lean forward to see the tactical arrangements made by Perturabo more clearly.

On the newly formed sand table, the wilderness was already covered with dark smoke, and a line of defense was cracked like a collapsed snow mountain. The arrows of the attack instructions were intertwined, and the scorch marks of blood spread on the defense line.

"I'm not very athletic right now, Warmaster," Fulgrim tilted his head, his voice as beautiful as ever, he watched Perturabo's calculations, saw the Luna Wolves' army retreating step by step, "Give me a pair of metal legs, so that I can control them with my mind. Also, I need someone to help me forge a new arm, even if I'm Fulgrim, I can't swing the forge hammer with just one arm."

"For what?" Rogal Dorn asked bluntly. "Fulgrim can't recover to the combat level of the Primarch for the time being, I don't want an important general who needs to be strictly protected to appear on the battlefield. This will affect our combat planning."

"You're merciless." Fulgrim snorted softly, lowered his head, and his long hair swept across the metal head in his arms.

He sometimes wondered if the living metal in Ferrus's hands was all transformed into this head.

But he wouldn't hang a skull around his waist like Rogal Dorn. He thought absentmindedly. Ferrus Manus is a pragmatic man... Iron Hands...

Perturabo continued: "Lorgar Aurelion has determined his own justice, and his love for his brothers is greater than ever before. So, you have to ask for help from the throne world, Fulgrim. Tell him that you are being hunted and you need a rescue. He will come to Isstvan III for you, for friendship and for faith, otherwise he will suffer."

On the sand table, the newly appeared demons are fighting fiercely with the Word Bearers.

"Perturabo." Dorn's face was serious, and he said sternly, "You want to take the initiative to lead out the demons?"

"No. We will get help in this regard." Perturabo was unmoved, just as there was no doubt or accusation in Rogal Dorn's tone just now.

A new indicator was added to the battlefield measurement elements, and the composition of demons and star vortexes was changed-mimicked and replaced by the psychic power of human think tanks.

"Thousand Sons?" Fulgrim raised his head to ask, the crimson light reflected on his white hair, "What is... what is their relationship with the Fifteenth Legion?"

"The Thousand Sons is the current Fifteenth Legion." Perturabo said without question, "Magnus is dead, and the remaining warriors of his legion will be led by Amon after they are repaired. Any other questions?"

He glanced around and his expression eased: "Then, follow me to the forge, Fulgrim. I will solve your operational problems for you. Rogal Dorn, the Iron Ring will share with you the current combat readiness of the Iron Warriors, and do not be stingy about incorporating weapons of mass destruction into strategic considerations. Continue the simulation if you like. Khârn, communicate with my warsmith, you are the leader of a legion, and I hope you don't need me to control all your plans."

"You should give me more trust, Perturabo, just as I give you." Dorn said.

"I gave it to you." Perturabo stood at the door and answered calmly, as if this was not a question worth arguing about.

Rogal Dorn nodded slightly, strangely accepting Perturabo's lack of evidence. He untied the golden skull from his waist and placed it on the table, next to him.

--

Fulgrim watched absentmindedly as the corridors around him receded around him.

Everything here inherited Perturabo's own style. He recognized the pillar-like supporting structures on both sides of the corridor, the simple and unredundant marble carvings, and the exquisite decorations with a cold metallic luster. Those geometric patterns - straight lines, spirals and intersecting lines, outlined that perfect sense of order...

Just like the opera house that Perturabo had designed for him in response to a request for friendship, it made people feel that ethereal and hazy familiarity...

The only thing that was not familiar was Perturabo himself.

When he met him again, he thought -

What? Did he think that he would be full of excitement and hesitation? Did he think that Perturabo's eyes would hold the ups and downs and memories of the friendship between brothers? Do you think his sturdy face would be sensitive to pain?

No, in fact, there was not a trace of it. Even Rogal Dorn hid more sadness than Perturabo.

"I feel sorry for Ferrus Manus." Perturabo suddenly spoke. He stood beside Fulgrim, his palm resting on the wheelchair, standing like a tall iron tower - a genius who was proficient in the art of architecture and war. In his space fortress, order and power were pushed to the extreme.

Was he aware of his mood? Fulgrim thought. Perhaps, because Perturabo was very sensitive to emotions.

Fulgrim caught his fleeting thoughts, but he didn't know whether it was good or bad.

"At least... he left in a way that he would be satisfied with, if he was still lucky enough to know." Fulgrim smiled sadly.

"He remains pure," answered Perturabo, "the lowest and highest luck and kindness in the universe. What about you?"

"I'm stuck, you know." Fulgrim leaned back.

"This is nothing. One day, this problem will be ended." Perturabo said flatly, "This is an inevitable victory. You will not let us down, Fulgrim."

"You are so confident."

"certainly."

Somehow Fulgrim found some comfort in Perturabo's words. He was in a good mood and patted the steel skull in his arms.

While Perturabo was lost in his own mind the rest of the way, Fulgrim used the time to make a new decision.

"I am pleased with your drawings, Perturabo, and I am grateful for your help and acceptance of our two legions, my brother."

Fulgrim praised the Iron Hands and Feet designed for him by the Warmaster who took time out of his busy schedule, and once again expressed his gratitude to the Iron Warriors for accepting two mutated legions. He was not as adept at this art as Ferrus, but could still see the perfection of figures and proportions.

"Make your request." Perturabo looked at him, seeing through what he had left unfinished.

Fulgrim lifted the steel head from his arms and carefully stared at the metal that solidified Ferus's painful face at the last moment. His thumb brushed its lower jaw and he looked at it with nostalgia.

"I have no time to delay," Perturabo reminded.

Fulgrim laughed and shrugged. "A very beautiful metal, isn't it? However, a metal that exists alone has neither a continuation of its function nor an immortal value... He should have life."

"You miss him."

"Of course I miss him," Fulgrim muttered, his voice suddenly hoarse, "Don't you think so? At least, you lost a complete legion that might have supported you..."

"Or against my Legion. Either way, it's a shame."

"I have never read this arrogance in you, Perturabo." Fulgrim chuckled softly, "Pretend to let him achieve nirvana in me, Lord of Iron, and make this raw material mine." Hands of Steel."

Perturabo gave him a long look. "This is the best choice, my brother."

"Go." Fulgrim urged, watching Perturabo silently take the piece of metal and step firmly into his forging workshop.

The breath of steel disappeared as the Lord of Iron left. Fulgrim watched in concentration and did not leave immediately.

The spicy scent of metallic ointment seemed to pass by the tip of his nose, and the walls were glowing with the luster of glass basalt... just like Ferus's private blacksmith shop.

Although it doesn't look like that.

He sighed and prepared to leave. As soon as the small vehicle carrying him moved a certain distance, he felt a gust of wind blowing past him.

Fulgrim paused for a moment, closed his eyes with trembling eyelids, and put his hands on his shoulders. "You're actually still watching me, aren't you, Ferus?"

In a daze, he felt his hand covering another hand. Fulgrim turned his head sideways, not daring to open his eyes.

"Come on," he whispered softly, "go back. I know you appreciate me."

His hair fell down and fell between the fingers of his steel hands.

Fulgrim tilted his head, and all his white hair reluctantly slid away from his shoulders.

"You're welcome, Ferus...thank you for not having to come between you and me."

The spicy aroma of the metal drifted away, blending into the sound of flames burning faintly through the walls of the forging hall.

Fulgrim opened his eyes again, looked at his metal hand, put it back on the armrest of the seat, and controlled the wheelchair to leave.

His Captain was waiting for him down the corridor, along with Rogal Dorn and the remnants of the Thousand Sons who might come to visit at any moment. It's time for him to go back.

When he was about to see the light refracted at the last corner, he seemed to feel the weight of his wheelchair for a moment. Then, he was gently pushed forward, allowing the bright light of the hall to completely catch him.

Fulgrim didn't look. He knew there was nothing around him.