My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 396: Who Wins, Wins, Wins?
The warships cast their shadows from the ashen, hazy sky. Blazing flames roared as, across the entire continent, layers of rising smoke formed what looked like an ocean of drifting ashes.
The indiscriminate bombardment continued. A faint tremor passed through the ground beneath their feet; fragments of black stone shook loose from the high tower, which hummed as black lightning coiled around it.
Hades leaned expressionlessly against a blackstone pylon. On his pale face, faint traces of blood that had been hastily wiped away were still visible.
The holographic projection before him flickered violently as the figure of the Lord of Medusa appeared.
Ferrus's gaze seemed hesitant. Hades, by contrast, maintained a calm that followed extreme rage—one that even carried a hint of exhaustion, or perhaps regret at not having smashed the traitor's head in.
Ferrus hesitated for a moment, recalling what he had just seen. Then, amid the thunder of artillery, the Lord of Medusa's voice rang out:
"…You've done well."
Hades broke into a violent coughing fit. He seemed not to understand what Ferrus meant at first. He looked up at him; Ferrus met his gaze steadily.
"Iron Hands reinforcements will arrive shortly. We ran into some trouble in orbit over Cadia, but we can now begin the drop. The first wave of airborne troops has already been deployed."
Hades let out a breath of relief. His timing had been right. The Silent Sisterhood had managed to hold on until the Iron Hands' arrival, at least there had been no sign here of the "eternal nine hours."
"I'll send you Cadia's terrain map. Support us as quickly as possible," Hades said. After the Iron Warriors' indiscriminate large-scale bombardment, Cadia's terrain could be said to change every two hours, not to mention the additional distortions wrought by Chaos psychic forces across the continent.
Ferrus spoke again: "The Iron Hands may land from the flank. The Iron Warriors' firepower in your area is too intense for us to gain air superiority in a short time, but we'll do our best to disrupt their bombardment of your position."
Hades nodded silently. Seeing that there was nothing more to discuss, the Lord of Medusa's figure vanished with a crackle, dissolving into scattered particles of light.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hades glanced toward the front lines. He saw that golden-armored back. If Charon and the Sister Nera hadn't rushed over in time to restrain the roaring, enraged Hades, he believed he might have tried to pursue Perturabo's group a little farther.
His bones creaked under the strain. The immense pressure still weighed heavily upon him, though it was far less than during his battle with Perturabo.
Forcing his way through the oppressive psychic pressure of the Four Gods to launch that assault had brought backlash. Hades quietly tasted the blood in his mouth—several of his internal organs were definitely shattered. At the same time, he closely monitored the movements on the battlefield.
After the chaos subsided, Perturabo and Vashtorr were showing signs of fatigue as well. Both sides were catching their breath. Hades couldn't help wondering why the daemonic armies of the Four Gods hadn't rushed in to fill the opening—
The blackstone pylon humming behind him answered that question.
Hades briefly recalled his previous battles, then realized that he usually collapsed unconscious after a burst of exertion, only to wake up staring at the ceiling of a medical room.
At least this time, he couldn't afford to fall before the fight was over. This battle—he had to see it through to the end, and make sure the traitors' heads hit the ground.
Hades pondered silently. He controlled the Black Domain, watched the battlefield, practiced controlled breathing to recover, and waited calmly for the next phase of the war.
No more recklessness, Hades thought.
. . .
Ferrus stared silently at the screen—Cadia as seen through Iron Hands sensors. The image was heavily pixelated and blurred, but within it one could vaguely make out a massive shadow advancing at high speed.
That was… Hades?
Ferrus Manus found it difficult to describe exactly what he was witnessing.
He saw his former brother—now a traitor—Perturabo, bare-chested, sprinting forward with absolute resolve. On the other side, that mass of darkness was racing just as fast, charging straight toward the Primarch.
But Perturabo was, after all, a Primarch. The distance between them was steadily widening.
Then came a phantom flash of green light, a streak of black shadow—Ferrus saw Perturabo fall, and the darkness seized the opportunity, lunging forward violently.
Ferrus had no idea what exactly transpired within that small space swallowed by absolute darkness, but he knew Perturabo had not died. In the very next moment, a flying vessel slammed straight down from above.
The image transmitted by the sensors suddenly warped, even emitting a shrill screech. Ferrus frowned as he stared at the screen, now choked with static—eerie blue, seductive violet, furious red, and pale green crept inward from the four corners, as if the entire space itself were twisting.
…Is this the true enemy they are meant to face?
Ferrus's brow furrowed deeply.
A massive burst of flame abruptly filled the entire screen. Ferrus instinctively held his breath. Everything that followed descended into chaos. He saw, through the smoke, a grinning metallic monster slowly rise to its feet. He saw the Imperial traitor Perturabo.
And then he saw—
That sudden, jarring darkness surging out of the firelight, crawling forward in a madly twisting rush toward the monster.
Ferrus swallowed and quietly withdrew the hand he had raised to try to contact Hades's comm channel.
He even began to doubt what he was seeing. Could monsters feel fear too? As if confronted with something they found utterly repulsive and terrifying, the metallic abomination chose to flee outright.
So… Ferrus's thoughts stalled for a moment. What, exactly, had they seen?
In every image transmitted by the sensors, Hades's position was nothing but darkness, but Ferrus did not believe darkness alone was enough to terrify warp-born entities like that.
Meanwhile, the four colors filling the corners of the screen never faded. For a fleeting instant, those bizarre manifestations even made Ferrus feel that it was impossible for Hades to survive.
Yet Ferrus kept his eyes fixed on that rapidly distorting, fast-moving silhouette…
Ferrus trusted Hades, and now, that trust had become even heavier.
"Prepare for landing." Ferrus said coldly.
Let the Iron Hands put an end to this farce called rebellion.
. . .
Cable-worms twisted and writhed in restless anxiety, squirming into the gaps where steel met steel, sparks flying.
Vashtorr let out a rasping, grinding breath. The Lord of the Forge stood beside a blackstone pylon glowing faintly with white light, while the tides of the Vast Ocean washed over its body, metal surging forth like living flesh.
The forge reignited.
Vashtorr felt power flowing from the "Future"—a force rapidly filling it to the brim. What surprised the Lord of the Forge was that this power was even more generous than what it had previously sought.
Why had They suddenly become so lenient?
Vashtorr thought in astonishment, beginning to carefully review the terms of the pact. If it could draw greater power from the future, then that meant this "future" was the one that was "more likely to arrive".
But… what, exactly, made this future so close at hand?
Clearly, he and Perturabo had just suffered a defeat. By all logic, They should have grown more impatient.
Earlier, Vashtorr had almost already sensed the psychic stench of that so-called "First One"—and other odors besides: the rot of the Garden, the decaying tomes of the Labyrinth, the blood-soaked reek of the Blood Pits, the perfume of the Grand Palace.
Because Vashtorr had refused the direct power of the Four Gods, once it became clear that failure was possible, Vashtorr had expected Them to stake even more, to tear the veil wide open.
But now…
Those presences were gone.
So what, exactly, had happened?
Vashtorr pondered silently. By all rights, everything should have been going terribly wrong.
When Perturabo forcibly disrupted the plan and foolishly chose to charge out on his own, Vashtorr almost screamed in rage.
For the sake of the plans to come—for its own interests—Vashtorr had been forced to rush to Perturabo's rescue before it was ready, and in doing so had successfully encountered, for the second time, the very thing it never wanted to face again in its existence.
Though Vashtorr knew it would likely have to face it again anyway.
Sparks and flame burst from Vashtorr's massive maw. The great wheel of war continued to turn. Vashtorr tasted the stench of battlefire—and since it had already received the portion it was due…
Now was not the time for excessive thought.
Vashtorr steadied itself and began to focus on communing with the faith of the future. Across Cadia, the wreckage of machines also provided power for its reforging.
It seemed that… a rather promising future lay ahead.
Metal crept upward. The flames reignited.
. . .
Strange, hazy mists reflected in his eyes.
Lying flat on the ground and staring up at the sky, Perturabo burst into laughter.
He listened to the sounds of Vashtorr's body being reforged near the blackstone pylon in the distance. He listened to the murmured whispers of Lorgar at his side as he was treated. From the great daemon called Ingethel, viscous slime dripped down, splattering into pits in the soil.
"…You should be more careful, my brother."
Lorgar said softly, his violet eyes fixed on Perturabo with concern.
Perturabo narrowed his eyes dangerously as he stared at "Lorgar."
"I have no brothers. You are not my brother, and you are not Lorgar either, daemon."
Ingethel's voice rose in a low, hushed tone.
"Sir, give it some patience. It is eroding him—they are merging."
Perturabo frowned deeply.
"You're saying that the one called Uriah is merging with Lorgar?"
"Yes," Lorgar replied calmly.
"But unfortunately, the ritual was disrupted. The gods were forced to place their power elsewhere. I'm not certain how far the process went, but right now, I do indeed possess the past experiences of the man called 'Lorgar.'"
Lorgar stared at Perturabo. Perturabo stared right back at him. In the Lord of Iron's steel-gray eyes burned a dangerous yellow glow, reminiscent of the warning tape cordoning off a hazardous site—beyond it lay an environment of extreme danger.
"So who are you, really?" Perturabo asked slowly, his voice edged with threat.
"I can't tell either," Lorgar said sincerely.
"Uriah, or Lorgar? I don't know. Uriah was a good believer—devout, humble, and gentle. And Lorgar was the same."
Lorgar glanced down at his own hand. It still twitched faintly; perhaps this was the consequence of forcibly occupying a body. The introduction of a new soul always caused rejection from the original flesh.
"Time will eventually muddle all of this." Lorgar said vaguely.
Perturabo looked away. As if realizing that whichever Lorgar this was, he was still the same pitiful, faith-obsessed fool he had always known, Perturabo interest quickly faded.
But he would be the winner.
That thought ignited within Perturabo, filling him with satisfaction. He had gained what he wanted—freedom, liberation from all control. That metallic monster might not yet have realized it, but by leveraging Hades's Black Domain, Perturabo had already broken free from the bindings it believed to be so well concealed.
Perturabo let out a low chuckle.
He had been right.
Hades, or Vashtorr? He trusted neither. He would only use them.
No one would ever use him again.
Perturabo felt himself—felt everything. He himself was everything.
He listened to the lush proliferation of cells dividing within his body, to the gurgling flow of blood through his veins. His shattered left leg still throbbed with a dull ache, but that no longer mattered.
Because Perturabo knew that this body was no longer a set of shackles binding him.
He recalled that fleeting glimpse within the illusion: the laboratory, the massive nutrient tube, the twisted figure suspended inside it. That was him—himself—his original form.
Perturabo was still very weak. To take risks meant accepting loss and danger. The fire of his soul had been diminished, yet it burned brighter than before, closer to its original state.
Data, more data. Particle-like streams of information surged toward him from the Vast Ocean without end. He was their true master. He could feel every warrior of the Iron Warriors, every vehicle—
Now, he was them, and they were him.
Consciousness resonated. He could almost hear the fragmented whispers of every thing in existence—extensions of his will, vessels that carried fragments of his computational power. The stronger the Legion grew, the stronger he became.
He had become his own true master.
Perturabo was satisfied.
Even if he was still so weak. Even if his recent retreat had been disgraceful, utterly devoid of dignity—yet for Perturabo, for someone who from birth until just moments ago had lived beneath the shadow of being controlled and exploited, all of this was worth it.
Perhaps he should properly thank Hades, Perturabo thought mockingly.
What a "kind" person.
Slow footsteps sounded near his ear. Perturabo cast an arrogant glance to the side and saw armor soaked in pus. What had once been bone-white power armor had turned a rotting green, and some bloated, green potato-like creatures had sprouted legs, chattering noisily.
He heard Ingethel's sharp yet leisurely greeting, heard Lorgar's faintly surprised voice, and heard, in the distance, Vashtorr erupt in a burst of forge-fire thunder.
Perturabo turned his head. Struggling, he propped himself up and stared at the newcomer.
He saw a warrior clad in Mk III armor, fungi pouring from the gaps in the plating. Perturabo's gaze drifted unintentionally to the cluster of small bottles at the man's waist. The Lord of Iron could see it clearly—inside them was that familiar rust fungus.
Laton bowed with his round body, then wheezed heavily for breath.
"Lord of Calamity, greetings."
Perturabo raised an eyebrow, but he accepted the new title.
Laton grinned guilelessly.
"Praise the Grandfather. I'm glad to see you as you are now. It means there's one more lethal chip on the table—and victory is on our side."
Lorgar knelt silently at Perturabo's side, half-lowered to the ground, a thoughtful look in his violet eyes.
<+>
If you want to see more chapter of this story and don't mind paying $5 each month to read the latest posted chapter, please go to my Patreon [1]
Latest Posted Chapter in Patreon: Chapter 421: Guilliman Scores Some Points[2]
Link to the latest posted chapter: https://www.patreon.com/posts/152512330?collection=602520[3]
https://www.patreon.com/collection/602520?view=condensed[4]
[1] https://www.patreon.com/Thatsnakegirl
[2] https://www.patreon.com/posts/152512330?collection=602520
[3] https://www.patreon.com/posts/152512330?collection=602520
[4] https://www.patreon.com/collection/602520?view=condensed