Chapter 234 On the Other Side, the Battle of Machines
Perturabo didn't understand at first why when he crashed into the interior of the small church from the main entrance on a flying skateboard, these thin creatures that were supposed to show their unattainable racial characteristics did almost anything to the intrusion of a giant ape. react with indifference.
It wasn't until he walked into the church hall and was blocked by a broad blade flashing cold light at the door, and heard "Where is your master" coming from behind the Eldar's bone-white helmet, that he realized that he was nearly four meters away? Tall, with a body half made of bionic leather and half a body made of smooth metal, the strange shape looks very much like a flesh-and-blood mechanical creation belonging to a certain Gomo nobleman - or, in other words, how inhuman.
He lowered his head higher than the carved black gold stone door frame, and half of his face was sunk in the dark void of the mechanical skeleton. The dark green light flowing on its surface illuminated the top of the nightmare-like helmet.
"I am my own master." Perturabo said, saying this sentence made him feel a little subtle. On the one hand, it was because he adopted a surprisingly plain and empty tone, and on the other hand, he was speaking to the soul. The strangeness of his ethnic language is inevitably giving him a mechanical tranquility.
There was deep suspicion in the slightly raised blades of the Eldar, their actions telling Perturabo that he was being recognized as a machine out of control. It made him smile indescribably, at the misestimation of the power of a Primarch by these races who believed themselves to be clever, even if he was now only a small part of the complete him.
"So, machine, where do you come from?" the Eldar gatekeeper whispered dully, his movements of lifting the knife subtler than the trembling of an insect's wings. "Who made you? Allowed you to come here -"
"I am my own master, that has been said," said Perturabo, the second repetition making his pronunciation smoother. He took a step forward, assessing the circumstances under which the two-meter-long blade would be unbearably swung. "I am here for your faith."
His determination gradually became clear. Yes, he needs to borrow their power to gain a foothold in this dark city.
After possessing the Iron Warrior long enough, solo action began to become too much for him. He is essentially a controller, and Perturabo realizes this.
"Yes, yes." The Eldar looked at him, and it sounded like he licked his lips to keep them moist. His voice became dangerous, and the long blade was moving slowly, "But you should know that out of control machines …”
Perturabo kicked the unknown Eldar in the wrist. The Eldar barely held the handle of the knife and tried to retreat quickly. Perturabo immediately chased after him and used the long knife with his iron palm. Forcibly holding the blade, he pulled it out of its owner's hand and threw it onto the ground, which was shaped into a bone-white surface by bricks.
The next moment, the Eldar was picked up by the Primarch, his armor pressed against the brick wall, and broken stones fell from the back of the Eldar.
The Primarch's vocal apparatus began to simulate the speech of the Eldar, emanating from the surviving grid and face half-covered with bionic skin.
"Don't even think about lecturing me, Shrine of Cairn. You may think you've wandered far enough on your broken path, but you don't know what's truly worth fearing. Do you understand?"
He was not prepared to give a more specific explanation of his existence. He did not really understand this race immersed in the psychedelic blood wine of darkness and depravity, so he hoped that they would find their own fantasies and put this into practice. Fantasy rests on his existence.
After he easily won a quick victory relying on preemptive tactics and the warrior's unfamiliarity with an iron ring machine, more enemies poured out of the church, black armor emerging from the cold night of the deep darkness of Gomor itself.
What happens next is efficient and lengthy, beginning with a series of occasional howls of excruciating physical pain and the shattering of armor and skin. Glass and broken iron are piercing into more living bodies, and this is only the first in a series of battles.
Division and violence immediately broke out wherever the black armor was, and the colors of silver, green, and gold swept out a storm that was so precise that it was silent. In the constant movement, running and jumping, the fragments were tumbling in the air chasing each other. Several flying figures with wings passed by nearby. Perturabo grabbed one of them and borrowed a broad-bladed long knife to let its arterial blood flow. It splashed out from its body, its wings flapping continuously.
In this battle, a subtle and regular rhythm can be observed in the metallic flash that follows each of the Man of Steel's unarmed attacks.
The battle gradually reduced from a multi-person chaotic battle that was as turbid and blurry as the sulfur smoke of a volcano, to a clear and dangerous simple situation.
Life survived under Perturabo's hand. On the other hand, he had heard about the resurrection technology of the Haemonculi, and the church he belonged to happened to be a family that cooperated with the Haemonculi scattered at the bottom of Gomorr.
"Stop..."
Perturabo heard a voice say. He paused his fighting to check the condition of his mechanical body.
The Emperor's modified skeleton showed excellent resistance to cuts and blows when faced with damage less than the erosion of the warp, and these aliens as opponents seemed unfamiliar enough to defeat a metal powered by C'tan shards. creation. Simply put, he gets very little real damage.
An Eldar woman stood inside the church door, the folding fan folded away and held in her slender, modified hands. Her dress and the embroidered patterns on her finery were proof of her status, and it was her narrow lips that issued the request for an armistice.
"Yes, it's you." The Eldar snapped, "Stop fighting! I recognize your power, Machine, but there is no need for this dispute to break out, why can't we talk about what you are asking of us, and then provide it to you The path to a higher power you need?"
Perturabo's eyes focused on the exaggerated collar decorations of the Eldar, and then his inspection moved to the faces of the Eldar that were different from humans. She is more slender, her lines are sharp and elongated, and her powerful and highly efficient muscles are tightly attached to the surface of her bones, like a precision-designed creation, but with more autonomy.
He picked up a broken sharp blade from the ground, looked at it in his hand, and before causing more tension among the Eldar, he dropped the sharp blade and let it clang to the ground.
Then, he took out the gift from the church today to the Wyatt family that he had destroyed from the package he carried. Well, this unique handicraft gun was not damaged in the battle.
"This is not a weapon," said Perturabo.
"Of course," the Eldar became a little impatient, "This is a gift, the bullet cannot be fired——"
Perturabo raised his hand, and a thin chip came out of the gun, followed by the next one. Four shots later, the Eldar fell to the ground, bleeding, the first casualty of the battle.
"It's over." Perturabo said calmly, walking into the church.
Behind him, mercenaries and church members struggled to stand up among the collapsed masonry and broken stone slabs, leaning their bodies at various angles, barely approaching the steel giant in the center.
They enter the church.
Perturabo looked at the rich interior decoration of broken stonework, exotic metalwork, and decorative colonnades that kept the ornate exterior of the church from becoming a mockery of its interior. He carefully looked at the crystal cups, ceramic bottles and other works of various crafts placed on the gallery shelf, showing his unique attention to these works without any explanation for his behavior.
When he stepped on the creaking ground to the inner courtyard of the church and stopped next to the statue of the blacksmith god Val in the center, he finally said his next words.
"It was not damaged by the followers of the Dark Muses in the iconoclasm," Perturabo said.
Beside him, the Eldar whispered, their spirits intertwined in a noisy and trivial web, until the xenos determined how they would obey their new power.
"I can introduce you to the next affairs of our church, such as the dance invitation of the Church of the Sun - this is an urgent matter. After all, we are just a humble and insignificant small sect. This..."
An Eldar stood up, clad in rich robes with strategically designed slits at the chest and wrists, his eyes brimming with venom hidden in his temporary surrender to a higher power.
His guess about Perturabo's identity is difficult for outsiders to know. Perhaps only people like Morse who have the ability to read minds can get a glimpse of it. But he acted with enough respect, and that was enough.
"Perturabo," said the Mechanic Primarch.
"Okay, Lord Perturabo." The final sound of the word "Lord" was deliberately prolonged by the Eldar, and the Eldar's observations were everywhere. Life here has tempered them, giving these cruel and bloodthirsty creatures the caution and meticulousness that matches their brutality.
Perhaps their spirits will only lose control when they over-ingest hallucinogenic substances, or when they are immersed in the momentary bloody enjoyment. It is difficult to comment on whether eternal death in such a state is a kind of relief from the consciousness while the soul is still alive. , and the torture after death already belongs to another consciousness.
Perturabo turned his neck and aimed his cybernetic face at the Eldar.
"I give you permission to talk to me," he said, his mastery of the native Eldar accent slowly rising. "What is the Church of the Sun?"
——
"Welcome, my friends!" Ahmed shouted through a loudspeaker to the crowd who continued to enter the hall, allowing a slave to offer him a glass of purple wine. "Find your seats, friends! Tonight's entertainment is about to begin!"
In this vast hall, musicians and dancers wait under gilded curtains, orators and mimes converse, and restrained slaves become part of the display of their masters' mastery of sadism to visitors. A living carrier.
Invited visitors enter the hall wearing clothes with various colors of strange luster, but the main body is black fabric and smooth leather, and admire the lighting installation of the Church of the Sun above their heads that imitates Comoros, that is, the spiritual lights that stand above several metal spiers. During the heyday of the clan empire, the stars plundered from various star fields by this proud race created a series of coldly shining light ball linkage systems.
Whether real or fake, the visitors expressed their admiration and respect for the host of the banquet through their exaggerated expressions of words and actions. Only those large families who are also at the top of Gemo's power have the right to cast an ironic glance at the crude show off of the Church of the Sun.
The arrival of Conrad Coates caused a rapid stir that spread throughout the ballroom.
Living at the bottom of the Dark City, lower than the deserted ports and dilapidated ruins, deeper than the labyrinth cracks, catacombs, heavily polluted toxic waterways, and streets paved with fragments of poisonous crystal guns, the Haemonculi who coexist with a large number of dangerous and twisted spires and caves have long announced openly or secretly that these twisted and ancient flesh monsters will not abandon their crazy experiments and waste their time on the noisy power struggles of other residents of Gomor.
They watch coldly, sitting around a table, enjoying the pain diffused from the war in the upper level like high-quality gourmets, waiting for the situation to rotate between division and stability again and again, knowing that no matter who wins or loses, no one will dare to annoy the flesh artist who truly controls the life and death cycle of important figures in the upper level.
It is for this reason that the Blood Lord Conrad Curze, who killed his old master and declared his identity as a Haemonculi, has recently cooperated with a little slave, making Curze's actions particularly concerned.
There are always bold and greedy people who go deep into the deepest spiral nest of Gomor to test the movements and intentions of other Haemonculi. Of course, they gain nothing and lose more.
In short, the still sober Church of the Sun is not willing to invite a Haemonculi to attend the meeting, not to mention that this Haemonculi is an outlier among outliers: except for his oversized body, he has not even undergone more biological transformation.
"You have been looking at me for a long time, friend. Is there anything you want to share with me?" The uninvited guest Konrad Curze whispered as he bowed and passed by a family member. There was no peculiar smell in his soft and extremely clean black hair - this has become a symbol of him, a unique form of nothingness and existence.
"For you, I think not." The Eldar answered cautiously, worried that the moody Haemonculi would include him in the category of experimental materials on the spot. His family would not provoke the entire Haemonculi system for this.
"Really?" Konrad Curze chuckled softly, sat down next to the Eldar, turned his fingers, and suddenly a card with a double-sided mask of sorrow and joy appeared in his hand. "Didn't you receive it? Didn't you feel the pulse in it? Can't you understand the beginning of the legend that will be born tonight, and the fantasy night that you will recall repeatedly in the next few hundred years?"
He suddenly fell silent, looking suspiciously at the door of the banquet hall.
There, a strange giant made of steel stepped in.
I recommend a very interesting foreign network fan fiction, translated by lof, the translator is very good, called "Twenty Primarch Sisters and a Desperate Guilliman"