Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

Perturabo tried his best to keep his breathing at a level that could supply blood circulation. Even so, he could not adjust his heart that was beating faster and faster.

He gripped the seat cushion, the tiny raised threads of the embroidered pattern sinking into the gaps between his pale fingernails, as if he couldn't resist the non-existent tremors and shaking if he didn't hold something tight.

He still didn't see Morse.

Perturabo put his hands back on his legs and looked around absently, listening to all kinds of noise.

There were some rumors, the buzzing words of many people, the whispers of the tyrant and his children, and more and more spectators gathered one after another. Noise occupied his mind, and he would occasionally close his eyes briefly to isolate his senses. However, this only brought about sharper hearing, and the noise and appreciation that anxiously grasped his nerves.

He knew he couldn't complain about the noise around him, it was his own fault. Although the number of people watching far exceeded his expectations, it was good for him to gain the respect of the Lokos people.

But he suddenly discovered that he no longer had absolute expectations about whether he could be liked by the people here.

"Perturabo?" A gentle male voice called his name in his ear, and he immediately responded: "What, Andos?"

"I would like to ask, what is the theme of your work?" Andos said slowly, in the same tone as he did a month ago. The prince tilted his head slightly towards the audience seats and added: "They are far away... I will not intentionally cheat."

"You'll find out later." Perturabo didn't want to say more. He stacked his two stiff hands together, and then realized that both hands were trembling.

Perturabo remembered every time Andos raised his eyebrows and thought during the meeting that day. At that time, he could tell that Andos had an unusual judgment on him. He could recall that face with a simple smile, all his hesitations, affirmations, appreciations and speculations, as well as his searching eyes and extra hidden mental activities.

From Andos's determination to avoid shortcomings and leave only prudent praise, what he gained was not the satisfaction of being praised, but a kind of nameless anger and frustration.

So he challenged him then and announced his decision. To this day, Perturabo still does not regret this choice.

Andos didn't mind his temper, and it seemed that nothing in the world could touch this prince's bottom line.

He said: "If you are willing, I would like to tell you the theme of my work."

"What?"

"The statue of the goddess Herphony, she symbolizes life and blessings." Andos said. There was a frightening calmness and sincerity in his ordinary face.

"Do you know that I don't like the religion?" Perturabo said uncomfortably. He subconsciously raised his tone and used an impatient refusal to end his trembling mood. Andos's kindness was almost annoying and annoying.

"Then forget the concept of God. She symbolizes blessing. I've been thinking that since you came to Lokos, we have never given you a gift. If you would accept..."

"No need!" Perturabo turned his head emotionally. When did he need the offerings of these people? Could it be that these gifts from the Lokos and the looks of the Lokos on the street could make him better?

His growth is his own priority, and his achievements will flow from himself.

Perhaps it was because the sound coming from his vocal cords was too loud, so Callifon shifted his gaze.

Perturabo suddenly stopped talking. When he knew that his face was reflected in Carrie's bright, dewy eyes, his swirling annoyance gradually calmed down.

He clasped his hands together and changed his sitting position on the cushion.

The words he had said hastily just now were turning over and over again in his mind, and he could think of a hundred reasons to regret and make the answer better.

Maybe he should adjust his tone, calm down his emotions, and speak clearly.

Perhaps he should be calm, thoughtful, and use a rigorous logical chain to convey his principles to those who listen to his preaching.

Maybe he can do better, be better, and show more of his own excellent qualities, just like he did in the trial a month ago.

Only he himself knew that he had even calculated several times in advance what posture he would use to throw the forged knife into the fire.

He earned the respect of everyone at the time, including, Perturabo believed, Morse's.

There is no time to relax today.

The chaotic mind was gradually gathered away by him, leaving only a little shining flame, maybe waiting for fuel, maybe waiting for wind and oxygen, to illuminate him brightly again.

He stretched his limbs, moved his shoulders, straightened his back upright, turned his head, and listened to the host in the light yellow robe read out the complicated words that started today.

Following the host's introduction, countless pairs of eyes moved towards him. He swallowed, and a hot sensation penetrated the muscles in his body. He couldn't hear clearly what the people in the audience were saying, and could only hope that they would give the compliments they deserved.

Just a few seconds later, Perturabo raised his chin, using his manner to avoid eye contact.

Surrounded by human voices from bottom to top, several people as judges began their evaluations in order.

Perturabo heard the variety of compliments, the repetition of words and the uniformity of tone, which was almost chilling. What they praised was not the work itself, but his identity.

He thought he would rejoice in the appreciation, but he didn't. His heart was shaking violently, not from anxiety, but this time from the anger of being humiliated.

In contrast, he realized how valuable Andos's sincerity just now was. What he opposed dozens of minutes ago is now what he wants to regain.

Then he saw the statue of Andros.

The statue had obviously been exposed to the sky for a long time, but he only really saw it now.

Whether it is the statue's flat forehead, light wavy long hair, plump figure, graceful figure, or the silk robe and skirt it is wearing, they are all areas that craftsmen can easily touch. Even if the statue's solemn and serene look and tenderness are taken into consideration, Perturabo dares to say that Andos's statue will never be better than his works.

But as he stared at the statue, what he heard was the echo of Andros's words. His rich imagination helped him imagine the various moods of the craftsman himself when Andos was carving.

He saw a person full of care and thought, pouring his careful and focused thinking into every fallen mark. This concentration looked at him through the eyes of the statue, like a melody drumming in the limbs, and music vibrating in the intoxicated heart. In the blood.

In this realization and testimony, he felt that he was constantly dissolving.

"How?" Andos asked.

"You're no less skilled than I am," said Perturabo, "and... no, it's nothing."

He stood up. "I'm going to put an end to this despicable show."

Because he saw a blessing.

And these people who were talking and playing flattery tricks they had arranged shamelessly insulted his works and blessings dedicated to him, that is, they maliciously insulted him.

This was the only way to soothe the anxious thoughts in his heart.