Chapter 177: The Three
Hades sat silently in the chair, his expression unreadable.
He said nothing, simply staring at the visibly bewildered Mortarion and the death-seeking Calas Typhon.
He said nothing… but his soul ached.
How did it come to this? He was just a shut-in, dammit. Yet somehow, in this bizarre new life, he'd ended up living out a melodrama straight out of some infamous ninja anime.
Hades wasn't the type to spiral into endless internal monologues. When it came to decisions, he preferred to assess the situation with cold logic.
Unfortunately, the two sitting across from him didn't share that trait.
If he went strictly by reason, there was only one conclusion to be drawn:
Calas should already be dead.
He sighed.
He remembered a line he'd once read in his past life, something like: "If killing someone doesn't solve the problem, then you're in for a complicated mess."
Wasn't Warhammer supposed to be a universe of endless violence and carnage?
Funny—he used to pray every day not to run into death when he first transmigrated here.
He was starting to regret those prayers now.
Another sigh escaped his lips.
He'd just finished consuming the psychic backlash of an entire planet, Barabarus—mind, body, and soul exhausted. He hadn't even had a chance to rest before getting jumped by the grease-covered mech guys from Graia. Just when he finally escaped and was headed to the mess hall…
Boom
Mortarion dragged him off to the medical ward.
To clean up this centuries-old mess.
Thank the warp for Apothecary Leo's compressed nutrient packs. It was the only thing giving Hades even a shred of warmth right now.
Mortarion and Calas, meanwhile, weren't saying a word.
Masters of silence, those two. Clearly trying to force him to break the ice.
Hades shot them both a side glance.
Alright, fine. Time to get this over with.
He cleared his throat and spoke:
"Let's put everything else aside for now."
"Calas. What do you remember about the former apothecary… Laton?"
The traitor apothecary, Laton, was still missing.
The corruption that had first taken root in the Death Guard—it all started with him.
Hades had pored over every report, every scrap of data. The only solid conclusion he could reach was that Laton's fall had something to do with the psychic contamination from the Librarius.
Everything after that?
Laton had gone out of his way to erase his tracks. The records left behind were too perfect—textbook forgeries. The kind you could spot immediately if you'd ever dealt with real reports.
Honestly, Hades would've loved to believe Laton died back on Barbarus.
But his instincts told him that was just wishful thinking.
The idea of a corrupted Death Guard rogue-psyker wandering freely across the galaxy?
Yeah, no thanks.
Calas, in his current state, couldn't stir much trouble anymore. Might as well squeeze what intel they could out of him before the next storm hit.
Hades had officially given up trying to care.
To his surprise, Calas actually froze.
He'd been bracing for insults or mockery—but instead, Hades had calmly asked a question.
Mortarion glanced over at Hades too, clearly not expecting that line of inquiry.
"…It was before the Battle of Galaspar," Calas finally replied, voice low.
"My powers started… getting unstable."
He began recalling that time—chaotic visions, whispers in his ears, boiling lust for power, envy toward Hades, anger at Mortarion… and buried beneath it all, that deep-rooted self-loathing and hopelessness.
That desperate, overwhelming urge to climb higher.
To become strong.
Hades rolled his eyes internally as Calas slipped into his flashback monologue, but held his tongue and let him continue.
Mortarion kept his head lowered, the weight of memory pressing heavily on his shoulders.
Back then, all he could think about was the looming liberation of Galaspar—he hadn't noticed the shift in his friend at all.
"He said… all things would rot and decay in the end. That only stagnation and a death-like cycle awaited us all."
"You shouldn't have believed that. We've already moved past that time."
Mortarion's voice was barely a whisper.
"You might have," Calas replied flatly. "But not me."
"You could have—" Mortarion tried to insist.
But once again, the two men had slipped into that all-too-familiar spiral: a philosophical debate on fate, just like the very first time they met.
Hades sat and listened patiently to Calas's entire speech.
And after all that?
Not a single useful piece of intel about Apothecary Laton.
Figures. If Laton really had used Calas as a disposable pawn, then of course he would've hidden his tracks completely. No loose ends. No trail.
Hades sighed inwardly, then coughed deliberately—breaking the awkward silence that had started to thicken in the room. Once again, the other two acted like he didn't even exist.
Still, Mortarion and Calas had just about finished their little emotional spiral.
From the way Hades saw it, they were now stuck in that awkward "mutual guilt" phase.
No surprise there.
Blanks like him were easy to ignore, especially with his Null Field active.
This wasn't new.
Back on Barbarus, their dynamic had always been like this:
Mortarion would talk endlessly to Calas about all kinds of cryptic nonsense, Calas would brood, and Hades? Hades would chill in the background doing absolutely nothing—until their weird philosophical rambling went off the rails and he had to drag them back to reality.
He cleared his throat again.
"So. The Death Guard are still hunting Laton."
"And despite being the one most closely connected to him, you have no idea where he is."
Calas gave a small nod.
Mortarion looked like he was about to say something, lips parting—
Hades could already guess what he was going to say:
That Laton was the one who dragged Calas into the abyss.
Yeah, no kidding.
Hades already knew that. But it didn't change the truth. No matter who pulled the trigger, Calas Typhon had still fallen. He couldn't return to normal life in the Legion. Not anymore.
He was a traitor.
T-R-A-I-T-O-R.
Mortarion opened his mouth again… and closed it, saying nothing.
"I know what you think of me, Hades," Calas said quietly.
Standing on the edge of death, he had already let go of everything. He had nothing left to lose.
"A psyker prone to corruption. A jealous colleague. A schemer who played with shadows behind everyone's back?"
"No," Hades said coldly, eyes locking with his.
"A traitor."
Calas had meant the betrayal of their brotherhood.
But Hades?
He saw the betrayal of the entire Death Guard.
He saw the fall.
The plague.
The rot.
The moment the whole Legion surrendered to decay.
Would Hades gamble?
No. He wouldn't—he couldn't.
He'd already taken so many lives, and he knew he'd take many more in the battles yet to come. What difference would one more drop of blood make?
Maybe once, a flicker of pity had brushed his mind… maybe he'd felt a whisper of regret.
But it wasn't enough to stop him from pulling the trigger.
Calas Typhon gave a bitter, defiant smile.
Of course.
He shouldn't be trusted. If their positions were reversed—if he were in Hades' shoes—he would've already fired.
In truth, Calas longed for death.
He knew all too well that his condition—his corrupted body, his fractured soul—meant he would never again return to the battlefield he once yearned for. Even if Mortarion tried to save him, it was only out of a last shred of hesitation… of mercy. But time would erode even that.
Eventually, Mortarion would come to resent the choice he never made.
Better to die now, cleanly.
So Calas provoked Hades, deliberately. With a look. A smirk.
He knew Hades couldn't stand that expression—that pretend calm, that fake peace—because Hades himself was far from at peace.
It worked.
Rage flared in Hades. That smug, infuriating grin lit the fuse.
He took a deep breath, forcing his fury down, and said coldly:
"How would you handle a traitor, my dear Primarch?"
Mortarion said nothing.
The word—death—hovered in his throat like poison, heavy and immovable. He couldn't bring himself to say it.
Could he really let Calas die like this?
Not in battle, not with honor—but here, in a room thick with guilt and silence.
A death wrapped in shame and betrayal.
Years ago, he had promised Calas a noble end. Now, he was being asked to deliver a death sentence… to his first human friend.
But Calas deserved to die. He was a traitor. His sins were real.
Mortarion wished he could undo it all. But the facts remained: Calas had tried to strike him down. He had turned against them both. No amount of remorse could erase that.
As Mortarion wrestled with his silence, Hades found clarity again. The fire Calas provoked was cooling now, and in its place, cold reason returned.
Perhaps he'd gone too far.
If he killed Calas now, what if Mortarion snapped? That kind of emotional instability was dangerous—lethal in a Primarch.
No. He needed a solution. Something in-between.
A fate worse than death, but not quite life.
"Maybe…" Hades said slowly, eyes fixed on Calas.
"Mortarion, if you truly wish for him to live—"
Calas's green eyes met his.
For a moment, it was as if the two of them were the only ones in the room. More than Mortarion, they understood each other—two men shaped by bureaucracy, strategy, and unspeakable burden.
And Calas understood immediately.
He let out a tired, knowing chuckle.
So he wouldn't get his clean death after all.
Mercy, from a Death God, was a rusted scythe—blunt, slow, painful. Not the screaming embrace of true death he so deeply craved.
Maybe this was always how it was going to end.
In that instant, the judge and sinner, warden and would-be penitent… reached a wordless agreement.
Together, they turned to Mortarion.
""Send him/me into a Dreadnought, Mortarion.""
Mortarion's eyes widened in shock.
<+>
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