Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 492: Tower of Babel (Part )
The glowing platform, which they might have called a flying carpet, traveled for a while longer in the direction of the light source, a distance that in Perturabo's precise and steady mind felt like two hours and ten minutes. Most of the time he was in conversation with Morse's voice, while observing the world in the positive time stream through the blurry waves.

After entering the door, Perturabo realized that they were not following the Emperor's life upstream, but were going upstream in the rapid torrent of history, looking for some strange moments that happened to intersect with the Emperor's life trajectory.

In the beginning, and nearest the thirty-first millennium, their encounters were more frequent, but as they approached the fifteenth millennium of the Emperor's visit to Moro, the frequency with which the two lines happened to intersect had decreased.

"What will I say next?" Perturabo asked. The flow of time blew on his face in a form that humans could understand. The fragments of time beside him passed through his vision like small islands, flashing mother-of-pearl colors that changed with the light source. The shadows of the fragments of varying depths cast a shimmering luster of light and dark on his body.

"How should I know? I am not a prophet, Perturabo," Morse said, his voice coming quietly on the wind. "I walk on the same side of time as you."

"You know more than I do, Morse, and I want you to tell me. If I had not done something earlier, why would the Emperor tell you at a relatively late stage that there was no room for retreat?"

He still had many questions to ask the craftsman far away at the other end of Morro's Gate, such as why the color of the luminous platform he was standing on kept changing from dark green to gold, and about the many seemingly very targeted information that the Emperor told them later...

However, new fragments soon flew towards his face, expanding like a spider web to form a wide veil that enveloped him.

…This radiance, like the light of the Astronomican itself, was bright and transparent, with the edges rolling up with white like coral in the sea. And the scene inside the time point quickly became more concrete…

Ripples like molten metal kept rolling up in the vast world... On the surface of the vast ocean... A turbulent wooden ship, defending itself to the side with a longbow that floated and shot arrows automatically, the sails fluttering on the long poles, a huge real spine embedded in the center of the deck, strings of bone pieces and bells hanging on the outer frame around the central iron brazier, an old man sitting by the brazier warming himself...

In addition, there was a young man in a white robe standing by the side, looking out, observing the turbulent and trembling lightning in the warp space, as well as the hazy halos...

Perturabo looked at the man standing there, pausing only for a moment before returning his attention to the old man sitting on the floor.

"You're here," the old man said, the firelight covering his dark skin. "You guys."

It was not until Morse stepped forward to the fire and smiled coldly at another stunned young man whose face was almost identical to his own that Perturabo was sure that the old man was talking about "you".

He still didn't quite understand why Morse could only really appear by his side here. Perhaps it was determined by some characteristics of psychic power.

Morse now looked like a translucent ghost, his misty skin appearing light and dark under the light of the warp, and the missing part of his arm was clearly visible.

"It was us," said Morse. "Did you guess that, Neos?"

"Hardly," the old man raised his head, looked at Morse, and raised his hand for him to sit down. "So, now that we meet, what do you have to say?"

"Is this Morro?" Morse asked, shrugging. "I remember your speaking style was really unpleasant recently, but I didn't know I was here... I really should be here."

He sat down, invited Perturabo to come over, raised his hand and patted him on the back in a rare friendly gesture, then spoke again to the old man.

"Who do you think this is?" he said, sounding playful. "Can you guess, Neos?"

"My son." The old man answered without even thinking, and his directness made Perturabo's lungs tighten slightly. He relaxed a little and sat down in the empty space around the fire in silence. The heat of the fire covered and fixed his face like a mask after the glue solidified.

"No feelings?" Morse asked.

"This proves that I have succeeded here," the old man said. "How did I do it?"

"you ask me?"

"You have arrived from the future, and I lack a solution for the present. If the one who can give the answer is not among us, my son will not be born."

The old man stood up, and in an instant his existence seemed to become extremely distant. The waves outside their sailboat expanded and hit the outside of the boat.

The young man at the side finally reacted. Half of his mind was still paying attention to Morse's missing arm: "So, you are my future self?"

"You in the thirty-first millennium," Morse replied, avoiding his own gaze. "Don't look at me. I won't make predictions for you."

The young man turned his gaze away from Morse and leaned against the side of the ship, gazing at the flow of energy in the vast ocean. His hand, which would be missing in the future, was tapping on the dark wooden board stained with salt.

"The Emperor," Perturabo said, using the only title he was accustomed to.

The old man accepted his address as if it was normal, staring at him intently, examining his body structure, and then nodded with satisfaction. "What's your number?" he asked.

"You're so hard on your kid," Morse half-complained. "Ask his name, he's a very nice guy. After all, I think he's seen you quite a few times in your previous life."

The old man was silent for a moment, but did not refuse: "Okay. Tell me your name, Wuzi."

"I am Perturabo," Perturabo said, feeling an urgent buzzing in his ears. He let his heartbeat calm down. "Hello."

"Hello," the old man said, and his expression seemed to soften for a moment. "Hello, Perturabo. Come and solve our problem. I need children, and I cannot bring them to being..."

He waved his hand, and the vast ocean was filled with a corresponding whimpering sound. "Their essence will be taken out of this vast ocean, but I still lack some containers and bait."

"What if not?" Perturabo asked. "What if we don't get here?"

"You will come, children." He said firmly, and paused. "If you don't come... you will still be born, but your shell will be more easily damaged, and your essence will not be as indestructible as I hope."

Perturabo paid no attention to the plural the Emperor added after "children". For an old man who was old enough, almost everyone in human history was his junior.

His mind was more focused on something else. This was Morro, this was where the Emperor would re-select the role of the Primarch, and truly understand the changes he could make to the Webway... They would have to make a decision, whether to show the Emperor another way... or reject the future of the birth of the Dark Lord, reject another possibility of the Webway, reject the many deaths that had already occurred...

"Verify my idea," the old man turned to Morse, "and tell me whether my guess is correct or not."

Morse sighed, "Correct, I guess."

"Well," the old man said, "Remus, I will need your power to bind the warp."

"Oh, how?" "A harpoon is enough."

The young man smiled. He just raised his arm and formed the outline of a harpoon in his palm when he was interrupted.

"No," Perturabo said. "Is that enough?"

Morse's eyes flickered and his armless shoulder moved.

"You decide," he said.

Perturabo stood up, his great figure towering over them all. The information began to make sense in his mind, including the many hints the Emperor would give him later in time.

If they had given up the idea of ​​interfering with the Emperor here, then the true Webway Project would never have been born... The Dark Lord would not have come at the end of the Great Crusade, and correspondingly, Erda would not have formed the Illuminati, Magnus would not have died, and the destruction they were facing now, but they did not know it yet, would have been stopped...

"Father," he said to the Emperor, savoring the taste behind the word, "Do you understand the Webway?"

"Tell me what you have to say." The Emperor stared at him.

"A greater plan," Perturabo said, "a plan from which there is no retreat. As you have informed me, there should be no room for retreat."

"Go ahead."

"first……"

His words were interrupted by a scream.

Morse reached out his hand to him. The young man was confused and chose to respond. The next moment, he screamed in pain. Half of his arm was rapidly disintegrating, emitting thousands of broken runes and bright lights. He glared at Morse in shock and fell to his knees in pain.

The black-robed craftsman knelt down face to face with him, his expression grim, and their eyes met, as if they were a single individual.

Runes spread outward, and huge waves were raised in the vast ocean currents. Some huge energies gathered into tangible masses, like giant sharks or flying birds, swooping down on them from the sky. The bodies emitting a strange luster rolled up an irresistible power like nature itself, but were tightly bound by the opened net of spells. A vast wailing roar like a wail surged in the ocean, and waves and high-frequency screams beyond the range of human hearing gathered into a vortex around them.

"First, more effort - the Primarchs you originally envisioned are perfect, but not enough to fulfill the duties they will perform. As vessels, they must be more - indestructible, extraordinary."

As Morse spoke, his components began to boil, and threads spread out from his body and disintegrated in all directions, each string plucked out a rapid, repetitive, low tremolo.

"Second, you must realize that what you will create is not your offspring." He said, a vague smile raised on his cold face, and his voice was raised very high in the pain of decomposition.

"Before that, they were tools, weapons, and containers. My Lord, do not treat them as children."

The black cloth strips wrapped around his body all opened up, and everything contained within poured out from the cracks, like golden blood, completely spreading in all directions.

The arm he had snatched from his younger self was twisted into the final vehicle for his connection to the world; the young man's face turned pale, and he fell unconscious in the process, falling forward, where Morse caught him.

"He will not remember this memory, my Lord," he said softly. "This memory is mine now... After this, you only need to let him go."

The old man witnessed all this, the storm around him blew up his clothes and his half-white hair flew behind his head.

He said: "Therefore, in the plan you mentioned, from now on, Remus, you will live on the only remaining strength.

"Besides that, my son will no longer be my son, but my tool - and what will I give?"

Neos said, his dark eyes reflecting the sharp edge of the fire. Was there a sense of loss or loss? Perhaps Perturabo expected and feared to see such emotions on his face. He found none.

Morse's voice echoed without a source, and his body had turned into a dense golden net:

+Give me your future, Neos. You will sit on the throne in the thirty-first millennium. And many deaths, many destructions, and an uncertain final outcome...+
Then Perturabo spoke. For a moment he wanted to shout, but his voice was dark and stubborn as a tomb.

"We have come a long way to get here - and there is not one single thing, not one single death, that we would regret, that would make us stop and start over, and throw away any chance of future success."

The old man nodded, his thin finger pointing toward the obsidian blade that protruded from his robe.

"Then you can tell me about the plan," he said, his face gradually becoming fuller, and a cold golden crown held back his flying black hair. Standing here was almost the emperor that Perturabo remembered.

-

"No sacrifice that has been made is worth denying, no history that has been written can be dishonored, no hesitation out of regret can determine the path, and no broader future can end because of reluctance..."

"We have indeed chosen this sin for each other, and we are willing to choose it with our own hands..."

Batusa Narek woke up from his sleep, half of his brain was still immersed in the echoes of strong winds and huge waves, and it was still very early. On his planet, the sun had not yet risen from the sky, and the weather vane on the wooden roof was still creaking rhythmically in the night wind.

His stiff body gradually relaxed, and a warmth slid up his arms, making his heart feel at ease. He immediately found his paper and pen, and tried his best to write down the fragments he could still save - this was not something a priest could know, but the Emperor gave it to him, and he had to write down this story in person.

This is something that someone should know... he thought... but it cannot be told in its original form. This is a vast secret that is incomprehensible, mysterious, incomprehensible and cruel. This is... the story of the Emperor, the origin of the Imperium, and the Iron Lord...

Yet, the Emperor's thoughts are to be conveyed in a way that He needs...ah, a parable. A parable that can be understood, but not read too much into it, leading to loss and panic.

Besides, Narek had a premonition that this history that he had witnessed over and over again would come to an end in his dream the next day. Or rather, the end was clear from the beginning, and he would follow the river of time and return to the present...

After that, he will do what he should do.

(End of this chapter)