Chapter 178: After the Rain
A week later.
"I never thought the sun of Barbarus would be… purple."
Mortarion stood pensively upon the barren soil, gazing upward. For the first time, the sun that once loomed as nothing more than a hazy white disc now revealed itself in clarity.
Perhaps it was a trick of atmospheric refraction—its pale edges tinged with a soft lavender hue, streaked faintly with a rose-pink blush.
Strange, Mortarion mused.
Compared to the bleak, lifeless land of Barbarus, its sun seemed almost regal… romantic, even, in a way that felt oddly out of place. Unreal.
Calas can't see this anymore.
The thought sank into Mortarion like cold iron, heavy and unmoving. Just like the Emperor who had descended from the heavens, ripping apart the suffocating veil that once cloaked Barbarus… shifting the course of fate forever. And with Calas now entombed within a cold, fearless sarcophagus, their story—the original story—had shattered into fragments.
Still staring at the sky, Mortarion stood there, unflinching. He looked very much like a scarecrow watching over empty fields, unmoving beneath the weight of time.
There was nothing else he could do. It always ended up like this. He knew that well.
But there was one thing Mortarion could still offer.
Death.
That, he knew intimately. That, he could give without hesitation.
He could not let Calas die in some farcical tribunal.
He could not swing his own scythe down on an old friend.
His blade was meant for tyrants—not for friends.
Calas would die in a war grand enough to be remembered.
He would fall in a war of liberation.
He would perish in the fight against tyranny.
And Mortarion swore this to him.
That was the only promise he could keep.
When a war came that could tear through even a legion…
Then, and only then, would he awaken Calas.
But not now.
. . . . . . . .
Hades didn't spare the Primarch a glance. As a Techmarine, he had personally overseen the entire process of sealing Calas into the Dreadnought's shell, alongside Apothecary Leo. They had made sure to add more than one oversight mechanism… and several suicide protocols.
Typhon—Calas Typhon—watched all of this in silence.
Hades patted the Dreadnought beside him. It was a Contemptor-class, the standard during the Great Crusade, painted in the white-and-green livery of the Death Guard.
"I'm being generous, you know. We were friends once."
Hades said it flatly.
"This Dreadnought has a self-destruct protocol. If you're ever lucid enough to care, you can choose death at any time."
Calas looked at him. His voice was dry, hollow.
"…Thanks."
Hades scoffed and rolled his eyes.
"Not that I recommend dying now. I mean, what am I supposed to tell Mortarion? 'Oops, the implantation failed'? He'd rip me apart."
He paused.
"Pick another time. Maybe after your next nap."
Calas Typhon gave a faint, bitter smile.
How had it come to this?
If only he hadn't reached so far…
If only he hadn't wanted so much…
But here was where it ended.
He pressed his lips together. Just before slipping into the long slumber that awaited him, he chose to speak. There was no real reason to. Maybe it was just his twisted sense of humor. Maybe he simply wanted to see Hades squirm.
"…Hades. Do you hate me?"
There was a long silence. When Hades finally spoke, his voice was that of a soul long dead.
"No."
"Then why…?"
Calas swore, he had never seen Hades look so dark before. As if he had crawled out of a grave, his eyes hollow, staring blankly at the world.
Cursing it. Spitting on it.
"…Because I can't afford to."
Can't afford to what?
Calas felt confusion clouding his thoughts, but the sedatives were beginning to take hold—warm, heavy waves of drowsiness crashing down and dragging his mind into the depths.
"If, by some miracle, there's still time left when all of this ends... I'll come see you again."
Hades didn't realize how hoarse his voice had become.
He knew full well it was a blatant lie.
When everything ends, they wouldn't be alive to meet again.
Most likely, only the Primarch would survive—left behind to keep marching alongside brothers he considered no better than garbage.
But even so—what if?
Lies like this… that's where hope comes from.
Calas looked at Hades. His vision was already starting to blur. Apothecaries were never known for mercy, and their drugs even less so.
This was the second promise Calas had received.
The first had come from Mortarion.
Hades gave Calas one last glance.
"If you still believe in anything... then live."
But what Calas didn't know—what he couldn't possibly know—was that this wasn't a promise.
It was a curse.
A curse from the dead.
He had been handed a key, but never shown the door.
Hades sealed the Dreadnought's sarcophagus shut. And with that, darkness swallowed everything whole.
. . . . . . . . .
On the surface of Barbarus, Mortarion still stood there, staring absently at the horizon.
Nearby, Hades had assumed the classic crouch of a seasoned farmer, inspecting the soil between his fingers. It was a habit from a past life—before armor, before machines.
The readings were promising.
The land was fertile.
Hades clapped the dust from his gloves, then stood up, looking toward the sky of Barbarus. Thanks to atmospheric terraforming, the sky was now a pale blue tinged with green.
It was nothing like the suffocating clouds they once knew.
And as for the lavender sun Mortarion had been pondering... Hades hadn't expected that either.
"There's always something we never see coming," he muttered.
For now, Calas's tale had reached a pause. Maybe one day, when the Death Guard found themselves on a battlefield grand enough, his story would continue. But until then, their "old friend" would sleep.
Hades blinked, casting the thoughts aside.
No use thinking too much. That path only led to temptation and madness.
If it can be done—do it.
If it can't—leave it.
If it breaks your heart? Grieve and move on.
Time marches on. Tasks pile up. There's no room left for sentiment.
. . . . . . . . .
The success of Barbarus's reclamation had Hades in good spirits. He looked over the fertile expanse with a rare sense of satisfaction. If one ignored the distant red-robed Mechanicus priests being politely kept at bay by the Death Guard, the fields stretched wide, rich and untouched—waiting to be cultivated, waiting to bloom.
In the Imperium, a legion's homeworld held immense political weight. Whether it thrived or decayed depended entirely on the legion's own will.
Some, like the Ultramarines, poured their hearts into their homeworlds. Roboute Guilliman's Macragge was a shining gem in the Five Hundred Worlds—a place of proud mountains, crystal lakes, and towering fortresses. A bastion of civilization.
Or the Blood Angels' Baal—once a wasteland poisoned by radiation, yet reshaped by Sanguinius into a cathedral of beauty and reverence. Angelic statues bowed their heads in silent worship, embodying the legion's sublime ideals.
And then there were worlds like Barbarus.
Worlds left to be what they were. Unchanged. Unremembered.
Some legions forgot their origins. Others… never really had a place worth remembering.
Such was the failing of legions that lost control of their home.
And as for the Death Guard's Barbarus?
In the Mechanicus' official planetary development plans, Barbarus had a surprisingly clear designation: an agri-world—or alternatively, a paradise world.
If they chose the agri-world route, Barbarus's skies would once again be choked in noxious gases. This time, however, the poison would come from the belching smokestacks of fertilizer factories. Every inch of soil would be pierced by rows of genetically engineered crops, while colossal agricultural machines would thunder across the land, producing vast quantities of rapid-harvest food for shipment across the stars.
Hades and Mortarion rejected this option without hesitation.
The alternative? A paradise world—a planet sculpted into a place so idyllic that "paradise" wouldn't be an exaggeration. The Imperium's existing paradise worlds were prestigious havens where the elite vacationed, discussed interplanetary politics, or casually conducted high-level business dealings over wine older than some colonies.
The main drawback of being a paradise world was its low population threshold. To preserve "scenic value" and avoid pollution, native populations were typically relocated to underground cities.
But for Barbarus, that was hardly a concern. Its population had dwindled to such a degree that even if every last survivor moved to the surface, the Mechanicus tech-priests would still complain there weren't enough workers to justify their maintenance protocols.
So Hades focused on what truly mattered: political and cultural capital.
Barbarus had never been wealthy or populous—but it could become important.
In Hades' vision, Barbarus would be a paradise world—not just for beauty, but for diplomacy. Leaning on the Death Guard's reputation and Mortarion's presence, Barbarus would serve as a diplomatic stage for the surrounding sectors. A place where planetary dignitaries, bureaucrats, and merchant princes could gather, ink treaties, and hammer out trade deals under the shade of carefully cultivated alien trees.
Think of it as a loosely connected confederation. Barbarus would be the largest node in the network, with the Death Guard acting as quiet overseers. The planets would exchange goods and favors, bound not by law, but by convenience and the shared security that came from having a legion's shadow nearby.
This wouldn't bring direct benefit to the Death Guard.
But if the neighboring systems prospered? That alone brought stability—and indirect returns.
After all, if your neighbor has grain, and you have guns… cough cough, no, no, that's not the point. The point is that the Death Guard would levy modest tributes. Just a little, in exchange for maintaining Barbarus as a neutral ground for discussion.
And having these high-ranking politicians traipsing across the surface would raise the cultural standards of the native population. Local citizens hoping to work in related industries—hospitality, interpretation, administration—would need to learn High Gothic.
Hades, however, couldn't help but feel a little dead inside at the idea of schools hiring teachers just to instruct kids in the art of tax evasion. Still, the good news was that, so far, those teachers hadn't managed to corrupt their students' moral compasses.
And if other worlds looked at Barbarus and the Death Guard with envy, dreaming of sending their children to become Astartes?
Well, that could be arranged too—assuming they passed every inspection: loyalty, intelligence, physical aptitude, aesthetics, and the occasional choreographed ceremonial dance.
In the 30th millennium, the Legions still had stellar reputations. Thanks to Imperial propaganda, the Astartes and their Primarchs were seen as noble champions—glorious warriors reclaiming humanity's lost glory with divine purpose.
That was why so many people were eager to join the Legion. On one hand, it was a personal choice—a dream, even. On the other, for families that ruled entire planets, building ties with a powerful Imperial military force was never a bad move.
Once you had a relative in the Death Guard, collaboration in other sectors would naturally follow. One thing would lead to another.
"Isn't this the Imperium?" someone might ask. "Why all the backroom deals?"
To which the answer would be: Why not? Look at Ultramar. Macragge and the Five Hundred Worlds—has the Imperium ever objected to that?
Sure, Roboute Guilliman faced plenty of suspicion from his fellow Primarchs. After all, the Five Hundred Worlds did look a bit too ambitious.
But the Death Guard had no intention of mimicking Macragge. Guilliman might be a walking quantum supercomputer, but Mortarion definitely wasn't.
If the Death Guard tried to administratively govern even half as many planets, they'd run out of qualified personnel before they finished their morning briefings. Even if they trained every last Legionnaire to be a diplomat, it still wouldn't be enough.
So they wouldn't even try.
Hades' plan was simpler: secure Barbarus as the primary anchor and let others come willingly. Mutual benefit made the rest fall into place.
The Great Crusade marched on, and war remained the Legion's true purpose. The Death Guard couldn't afford to bury themselves in political micromanagement. But if they could use Barbarus to quietly build logistics and support behind the scenes, that was a valuable win.
Recently, the Death Guard hadn't received any new war deployments. It was thanks to the Galaspar Campaign—an operation where they had ripped through an entire macro-system at terrifying speed. Mortarion's brutally efficient tactics had broken the enemy so thoroughly that even neighboring systems surrendered outright.
After all, the Death Guard had publicly hanged Galaspar's entire governing elite… and then flattened the capital hive for good measure.
Surrender before the battle? That, at least, guaranteed you'd live to see retirement.
Say what you will, but the Emperor knew exactly which Legion to deploy where. If the mission was to break resistance fast and gather resources efficiently, sending the Death Guard had been the perfect choice.
Even if the cost in Legion lives had been steep.
So far, though, the Death Guard's performance score in the Imperial campaign logs was still passable—not enough to earn any warnings from the Emperor.
Hades checked the time. Once the Legion finished building their supply lines, another war directive would inevitably come.
He glanced up at Barbarus's dreamlike sky, already thinking three steps ahead.
Beside him, Mortarion sighed and stared into the distance.
The noisy clanking of the Graia Tech-Priests had caught Mortarion's attention. While he was vaguely thankful for their relentless dedication to terraforming Barbarus, the red-robed adepts were loud. Far too loud.
They were chanting binary prayers to the Omnissiah at full volume, extolling the Machine God's miracles.
"The Mechanicus adepts are moving this way," Mortarion said with certainty.
Beside him, Hades suddenly erupted into a coughing fit, like he'd inhaled a servo-arm.
"Astartes aren't supposed to be capable of choking," Mortarion noted flatly.
Hades went silent. After a long pause, he finally muttered, "I may have… accidentally shown them a few Mechanicus techniques. From my personal archives."
Mortarion turned to him slowly.
"And… maybe they were a bit too impressed," Hades added, hesitating.
He paused, then admitted, "I might've learned a few 'interesting' things back on Mars."
Mortarion stared silently at the red-robed adepts, his thoughts drifting briefly to Calas Typhon—how much had slipped past because he hadn't paid close enough attention back then?
"If this becomes a burden for you," Mortarion said evenly, "say something."
"The Death Guard will not be threatened by a Forge World."
Hades breathed a small sigh of relief.
Close call.
Technically, he hadn't lied. Not even a little.
"No, no. It's not a problem at all," he said quickly. "In fact, it might even be helpful."
The Death Guard had always specialized in heavy infantry warfare. Asking Graia for a few tanks or siege engines? Entirely reasonable.
After all, no one won wars with just bodies and grit forever.
<+>
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