Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 481 Meaning
Azak Ahriman watched as Prospero's soul was siphoned away by the Crossroads of the Webway.

Looking out, this passage is extremely long, flowing through it are every minute and second that countless lives have had, every moment of the clock's swing that once marked the nodes of a person's life.

He heard the Grand Tizca hourglass tapping gently on the tabletop, and a vast world opened up before him. Was there any meaning to all this? Was there a purpose?
He saw: eleven-year-old children running under the blue sky in front of him, a gunshot shattering the head of a soldier of the Planetary Guard and his brain blooming with blood and white flowers, tanned brothers and sisters sitting on a bench shaking maracas and singing songs without tunes, they were only seven years old and they died under a fallen burning tree when they were still not grown up, archaeologists lovingly brushed away the dust on the Baroque statues with a small brush, and the gilded ancient paintings that had been restored for thirty years were burned to ashes by the flames of a flamethrower...

Was this destruction the will of the gods or the sacrifice of fate? Prospero shed his last drop of blood for the Emperor, and their death was not even wasted. No... their death was valuable, their value was only in their death.

Was this a comfort to his soul, or was it a sharp, cruel and uncomforting monomolecular blade that cut into his heart and continued to stir mercilessly to one side?

Azak Ahriman had perhaps never been more afraid than he was now - more terrified, even rebellious, about the Imperium, about the Emperor... not the stolen thing on the throne, but the true Emperor, the one who, in death, claimed all that was theirs.

That--that real insatiable snatcher.

He saw: the 39-year-old mother began to worry that her child would never come back to see her after leaving with the fleet. She anxiously used the spoon in her hand to chop a piece of turnip and mix it with lemon vinegar. Waste paper with lyrics written on it fell on the road, with twenty footprints with traces of magnetic buckles on it. People carrying waist bags on the street were chased by children holding small insects bent after rain. Soon...

Soon, Prospero's death was also taken. These souls were taken away by the existence at the end of the Radiant Path, and the moments they had lived were tarnished in the painful death, and all the colors were squeezed out bit by bit, and soon there was no last trace left in the world.

Ahriman had no right to even ask for a fraction of it, because the true Emperor was demanding these cruel deaths from the universe. After he took away Magnus' life, he would take away more of what humans had from this world, because...

Why?

Ahriman opened his mouth slightly, biting his lip to hold back any more noise into his throat. His lips twisted and closed, forcing out an expression that might have been a smile.

Because the Emperor protects humanity, his request is absolutely correct. Because only this dedication can be exchanged for his awakening, so he cannot refuse.

The moment the light of the Path of Radiance fell on him, he understood everything, as did the other lecturers in the temple.

He heard: a star was about to be born, but the condition of his birth was death. He was the giant spider in the middle of the galaxy's web, the only ruler of countless hives, and the death vibration on each string would feed his growth. There was so much information contained in a beam of light, and he was told all this so clearly, told of the nutrients that the unawakened stars ruthlessly demanded from them. He was told of the existence of the crossroads. He was told of the last bit of Magnus' will...

Did their father, Magnus, foresee the destruction of Prospero when he led the Emperor to the Crossroads? Did the Red King know that the Emperor's rebirth would demand the nourishment of Prospero, his own home, everything he had devoted half his life to? Did he foresee that? Did he foresee that the City of Light would be one of the first sacrifices to the true Emperor?

Azak Ahriman gasped for air, forcing a desperate but futile roar from his lungs.

"Azak..." he heard a voice. Ahriman turned his head, his eyes searching for the voice in the torrent of his soul. He saw him, hanging on him a scarab that looked exactly like him, only the color was different, his outline was similar to his, and his eyes met his.

"Olmuz," Azak said, witnessing his own brother walking toward him in a flood of souls, he could hear his power armor still humming, the blood spatter on his face fading to a thick white veil like spiderwebs.

Yes, a brother, they were born together in the Achaemenides of Terra, and followed Magnus to the stars. They were a pair of dim stars that seldom met, and Azak Ahriman did not bid him farewell before he left Prospero for the last time.

"I'm sorry," Olmuz said. "My fake death didn't save me. I said it wasn't that useful."

He smiled.

The cold surged through Ahriman's body, and his trembling stopped, silenced along with his panic. His hands ached with cold.

"What happened?" Ahriman asked softly, slowly catching his breath.

"Many have died. The Luna Wolves are destroying Prospero," Ormuzi replied, looking confused at the flood he was in. "Is this the way to the Golden Throne? Why are you here too?"

"No, Ormuz. This leads to a crossroads. A millstone of souls. You will lose the last traces of your existence there. Nothing will remain of you, Ormuz. You are the sustenance of the Emperor's resurrection."

Waves of light spread from the distant crossroads, treating every soul as a lens, constantly refracting at the far end of the crossroads, gradually weaving thousands of souls into its huge spider web. It kept spreading, extending, piercing, and tearing apart everything it passed by.

"And... what about Prospero?" Ormuz asked. "We did our best to protect it, Azak. Did we succeed?"

"Looking back, Ormuz, it's getting more and more. There are more and more deaths."

Olmuz was silent for a few seconds, his calmness accompanied by the flash of explosion and the powder splashing when the bricks and tiles broke. Everything was too trivial and too grand.

"Why didn't you stop Prospero from burning?" he asked.

"I'm too late." "You never say you're too late, Azak," said Olmuz, his face traversed by another wandering soul, alternating between blur and clarity.

"You could have followed the flow of souls to Prospero, even if it was indeed almost... a wreck, even if there were only a thousand of you, even if your greatest asset, psychic powers, were unusable on Prospero, even if you were indeed too late, Azak. You even had several spells to reverse time. Dangerous as they were. You didn't use them."

Azak Ahriman turned around and looked with Ormuz at the souls flowing toward the intersection of the crossroads. Like a mighty waterfall or a rushing river, this was the complete proof that every life had existed, and they had the cruel meaning of the last time in this life.

The Emperor protected everything, and they must return everything to the Emperor, voluntarily or unwillingly. Every penny they took must be given back. This is... the ideal praised by the Imperium of Man. Only the Emperor is supreme.

"But this is not what the Emperor needs. This is what humans need." Azak murmured to himself, his emotions gradually returning to calm, based on his powerlessness.

Olmuz nodded slightly. "It sounds like we are just transferring the souls and existence of some people through a transit point that has also exhausted the last bit of soul, and offering it to more people for their future survival. The two ends of the equation: death and survival."

Ahriman looked at his brother, but did not speak. The thoughts in his soul seemed to fade, and it was difficult to distinguish them one by one. Even his own existence was not as clear as usual.

His extension was expanded, almost merging into the waves of death. In the alternation between the light of the crossroads and the death of the soul, a part of him also went away, an invisible footprint fell in the bright mist, small and distant.

Ormuz continued speaking, untied his scarab, tossed it in his hand, and handed it to Azak.

"Just as we have been doing, Azak. Two hundred years ago, Achaemenids gave his son to the throne of the empire, gave a part of it to the expedition, and became a part of the whole of humanity. We silently recite honor, loyalty, brotherhood, and are no longer ourselves. We have been crushed once by the wheel of fate and reshaped into our current appearance. This time, the world under the axle is Prospero's turn..."

"I know."

Olmuz snorted, turned his head, and looked intently in the direction of the crossroads. "I don't want to die, Azak, and neither does our second home."

"It cannot be stopped, Ormuz," Ahriman said, tightening his grip on the scarab. "And feeding the stars with years of death is too slow, isn't it?"

"You already understand," Ormuz replied, his expression fluctuating again, becoming lighter in color, like the spider silk on his face spreading and covering his entire body.

"I have always known it," Ahriman shook his head, waving away the image of Ormuz he had constructed. The scarab in his hand turned into flying sand, glittering back into the torrent before him.

Ormuz did die in the burning of Prospero, Ahriman thought, or else his heart would have resisted as he spoke to his own avatar. The hearts of brothers must beat for each other. No, no, nothing.

Death is the final meaning.

Did Magnus think of this when he sacrificed himself? Did his father think about what decision his most beloved son would make?
Ahriman watched the events unfold, renewing his connection with his fellow teachers, and he called forth a new spell, causing it to rise from within him, the light spreading rapidly, following the direction of the beam. He closed his eyes.

+Tell me, my brothers,+ he said,+ this is a river, a passage with a beginning and an end. Shall we go upstream to find the remains of Prospero, or shall we go downstream to meet the true Emperor?+
+Have you given up Prospero, Azacha? + said Fusistaka, his tone was particularly complicated.

+I have no right to give it away. I am only an Astartes, I do not own it. +Ahriman muttered.

+Where is your arrogance? +Hasolmat asked incredulously, +Where is the pride you swore to protect Prospero, Azak? +
+So... I haven't given up on it. But not now, Hathor...+
We were thrown to the top by fate, and then fell down the cliff. For the future of most people, we can only close our eyes and fall into the wind, accepting the arrangement of fate. A good intention brings bad results, and a set of bad actions leads to a good ending. A seemingly cruel and ruthless joke, a vulgar story that satirizes human existence itself.

This is the path that everyone is unintentionally pushing forward: the human empire will be a coral reef built of layers of rocks. If it is to continue in the vast sea of ​​stars, it will be built with the bones of corpses.

It was so abominable in itself. The glory of the Great Crusade glorified it, softened its outline, made everything look prosperous, turned millions of Astartes and several times the number of warriors into angels of peace, covered up the essence of every gathering of generals, obscured the bloody battles and killings by expectations and dreams, and covered up the destruction, occupation, domination and plunder of world after world with the expectations and vows in the laughter.

It's not even a scam, a trap. It clearly puts blood and war on one side of the scale, nested with the possibility of hidden disasters, but the dreamlike future on the other side of the scale is too dazzling - too dazzling. And they just forget that no one cares about the dead.

Now, the truth is revealed. The exchange becomes even more naked. Irrevocable. Maybe... maybe.

A new idea was born in Ahriman's mind. He thought of an unfinished spell, engraved in the Book of Magnus, a set of secret scrolls that were different from the Holy Codex of Nicaea and truly recorded those taboo laws that could not be known to the public. He closed his lips tightly, not daring to speak it out, but a decision had already been made.

+What do you mean not now, Azak? +Balek asked.

+You will know. +Ahriman said, +There is always a choice, fate does not really write anything. But not now. As for now, to go to the Emperor? +
+Prospero will hate you. +Barak looked at Ahriman sadly.

+Will it? Then that makes sense. +Ahriman smiled. A new beacon was sent to the Radiant Light, and together they would travel to the end of the Glorious Crossroads.

(End of this chapter)