My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 398: Hold the Line—We Can Still Fight!
Gray helms trod over loose soil; clods that had been soaked in blood, then dried, gave off a grinding rasp beneath their steps.
High above the distant dome, red rain fell from the heavens, tearing fiery seams through the all-pervading gray fog.
"You can't go back to the front line." Ferrus's steady voice rang out.
The Primarch frowned deeply, eyes fixed on Hades, who was resting against a Blackstone pylon.
Hades lounged there with arms folded, leaning against the actively humming Blackstone pylon. Around him, pitch-black arcs of electricity seemed to rend space itself, exposing an inorganic substrate beneath reality.
"…I was thinking the same," Hades said quietly, swallowing down the blood rising in his throat without drawing attention to it.
The recent struggle against the Warp—though temporarily suppressed—had exacted a severe backlash on his body.
He was in no condition to fight at full strength.
He calculated silently. At the very least, he had to make sure the only person capable of suppressing the Warp stayed in the fight to the end. That meant he couldn't bow out halfway and end up in the ICU, effectively playing dead.
Hades let out a sigh and said, "Ferrus, you can rest assured. I'm not someone who revels in battle or clings to it obsessively."
Ferrus's iron-gray eyes locked onto Hades. He recalled what he'd seen earlier—Hades charging after the enemy in a frenzy, to the point that both the Custodes and the Sisters of Silence had to step in together to restrain him—
And this was someone claiming he wasn't battle-hungry.
Complex emotions flickered through Ferrus's gaze, but in the end, the Lord of Medusa chose to trust him. After all, the most important prerequisite of cooperation was mutual trust.
"I hope you mean what you say, Hades."
Hades blinked.
"I do."
As his words fell, pale green lightning split from the black arcs around him. The red glow of Hades's mechanical left eye intensified, and a faint rustling sound rose from beneath Ferrus's feet.
Ferrus lowered his gaze and took a half step back. Silvery metallic droplets shimmered as a cold liquid seeped from the soil, defying gravity as it climbed up his armored boots and continued flowing along his dark-gray armor.
"For the next phase of the battle, the Sisters of Silence and I will provide support to the Iron Hands," Hades said, gazing into the distance. Reflected in his eyes was the Iron Hands army.
"Understood." Ferrus replied.
"Then what's next, offense or defense?"
Hades paused. In terms of manpower, the Sisters of Silence and the Iron Hands were at a disadvantage, and Imperial reinforcements were nowhere in sight.
On the other hand, Hades was certain he had severely wounded Perturabo and injured Vashtorr as well.
He ran countless simulations in his mind over Cadia's map, but the greatest variable was always psychic power. As long as the Warp was involved, no strategy could rely solely on conventional logic.
At last, feeling the planet's malice pressing in on him, Hades slowly opened his mouth.
"Offense."
Ferrus's lips curved into a taut smile.
It seemed they were thinking the same thing.
"The Iron Hands are ready." The Lord of Medusa said curtly; beneath his icy words, rage roiled.
Hades smiled as well.
"Let's see whose blade is sharper."
. . .
"The Iron Hands have landed."
After a long silence, Perturabo spoke.
"They've linked up with the Sisters of Silence on Plain Three. The fleets in Cadia's orbit are still locked in combat; they used a gap to perform a drop landing."
Vashtorr's gaze was fixed on Perturabo.
Nourished by the Ocean of Souls, Vashtorr had grown larger—more terrifying—showing little sign of its recent injuries.
The monster spoke slowly, methodically:
+Our objective is not to win this battle.+
It stated this bluntly. Perturabo returned the stare coldly. Man and monster stood several meters apart, and between them, the round, rotund Laton stood with arms spread wide, awkwardly trying to smooth over the tension in the air.
+Only the God-forsaken… only him. Kill him, and everything else becomes easy.+
Vashtorr said.
+Whether it's Ferrus, or any other Primarch… even Horus, once all the Blackstone pylons successfully reverse their polarity, no Primarch will be able to stop this miracle from occurring.+
"Except him." Perturabo replied without hesitation.
He bared his teeth in a grin, schadenfreude written plainly across his face, as if the suffering he had just endured had happened to someone else.
"How exactly do you plan to kill him? We failed to do so even when he was alone, and now, under the protection of an entire Iron Hands Legion, you think we can take him down?" Perturabo said softly.
"That's not realistic."
Flames roared across Vashtorr's form as iron worms coiled and writhed around his metallic body.
+That was not the correct moment… the Warp demands ritual, Perturabo. Remember that.+
Perturabo snorted, mocking Vashtorr's absurdity. At that moment, Laton—wedged awkwardly between the two—let out a muffled cough, as if swallowing a mouthful of thick phlegm.
"May I say a few words, my lords?"
Vashtorr shifted his iron wings, signaling for Laton to speak, while Perturabo crossed his arms.
"You'd better be quick. Time is running out."
"My thanks for your generosity, my lord," Laton said unhurriedly.
"But there's no need for concern. Time is merciful and stagnant, we have more than enough of it to wait for death to arrive."
"My lords," Laton continued, "we can activate the Blackstone pylons once more, turn the amplification to its maximum, and sacrifice several main towers as calibration markers for the adjustment chambers—"
"—And what good would that do?" Perturabo cut him off impatiently.
"Even if the pylon array is reactivated, that monster will still prevent the Great Rift from opening."
Beneath his helmet and layers of pus, Laton smiled. He raised a finger and began idly fiddling with the clinking potion vials hanging from his belt.
"My lord, I know certain things," he said.
"Suppressing the psychic surge pouring out of Cadia—the entire Great Rift—also requires a price. This can serve a purpose… at the very least, it can prevent him from continuing to devour the innocent souls around him."
Vashtorr's voice rang out uncertainly, as though it had caught for a moment.
+You mean allowing him to consume psychic energy?+
"This is the will of the Grandfather," Laton said solemnly. The small Nurglings at his feet straightened up and began saluting in earnest.
"It is also the will of the Empyrean. I don't know exactly what will happen as a result, but in the short term, this can indeed suppress him."
Vashtorr fell silent. The Lord of the Forge did not know how much strain the Lord of the Underworld's physical form would endure if he consumed psychic energy in vast quantities.
But it did know this: if the psychic concentration rose to a certain threshold—far, far beyond the rate at which the Accursed One could devour it—then other souls would be able to cling to life in his vicinity for a time.
But… what came after that?
What kind of existence would the Lord of the Underworld become after consuming such an immense amount of psychic power?
Vashtorr understood then what the Four Gods intended.
There would be no 'after' for the Lord of the Underworld.
The arcs of lightning around Vashtorr writhed instinctively. Earlier, the problem had been the absence of [sacrifices]. Even if they attempted to kill the Lord of the Underworld—and even if they succeeded—they would be dragged into the abyss by that madman's final frenzy, a conclusion no one wished to see.
Therefore, [sacrifices] had to be present. That was precisely why Vashtorr had chosen a tactical retreat without hesitation, there had been no [sacrifices] among those present at the time.
The firelight in Vashtorr's eyes flickered briefly over Perturabo.
…No, not him.
His fate had not been overly entangled with the Lord of the Underworld's. Of that, the Lord of the Forge was certain.
A drop of pus slid down Laton's armor. The small Nurglings at the apothecary's feet chattered excitedly, some casting sidelong glances at Perturabo, others looking toward Lorgar.
Unfortunately, the Lord of the Forge paid no attention at all to these adorable little creatures.
That is to say, what Vashtorr intended to do next was to have Lorgar—or Ferrus— to be by Hades's side, to sacrifice the life of a Primarch in exchange for the Accursed One's complete and final death.
The condition for victory had always been simple: a Primarch must die in the Lord of the Underworld's presence.
Once that was achieved, the Four Gods would descend personally to finish it.
But the existence of the Lord of the Underworld's domain made fulfilling that condition exceedingly difficult. Its indiscriminate assault on souls was a lethal threat to any Warp entity.
The chance of approaching the Lord of the Underworld directly was effectively zero.
And now, if Laton's proposal were followed…
If the Lord of the Underworld's domain could be restrained, then the actions to follow would become far simpler.
But they would have only one chance.
Failure would invite true catastrophe.
Still…
Vashtorr pondered this. Since the Four Gods had already spoken these words through Laton's mouth, it meant that in the coming war, the Four Gods would truly commit with their full strength.
Because they, too, could not accept the consequences of failure.
The furnace-fire burned quietly.
The moment the Four Gods chose the strategy of activating the Blackstone pylons, they had already tacitly accepted that the end of this river of fate led to only one destination—
A true death.
+Very well.+ Vashtorr hissed. +It seems we may now fight a truly "fair" battle.+
The Lord of the Forge laughed, ignoring Perturabo's cold stare.
"Fine, then." Perturabo said.
"I don't care about any of that,what I want next is a battle with Ferrus. Vashtorr, you may choose Hades as your opponent."
Vashtorr's laughter slowly faded.
At last, it fell silent.
"And one more thing."
Perturabo fixed his gaze on Laton, the ashen-black eyes glinting with the jaundiced yellow of Chaos vigilance.
"Bring out the rust you used to corrode the Iron Warriors, little apothecary."
Beside Perturabo, Vashtorr stiffened—even its arcs of lightning seemed to freeze in place.
Yet aside from it, the two figures conversing appeared perfectly natural.
"Of course, my lord," Laton said meekly. With the pads of his fingers, he plucked a small vial from his belt. Inside the glass bottle, rust like dried blood scabs seemed to breathe.
"How is it used?" Perturabo asked.
He saw Laton unstopper the vial directly, and instinctively took half a step back.
"Just let it touch you," Laton said casually.
"I will spread it among the Iron Hands, Lord Perturabo."
Perturabo swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed once.
"Give me some." he said, Ferrus's cold, distant expression flashing before his eyes.
. . .
[Elsewhere]
Lorgar stood beneath a towering pylon. Soot-black powder drifted down, and the Primarch's eyelashes fluttered slightly.
"This is madness." he muttered, quietly judging the bizarre structure that had just been erected with the help of the Word Bearers and the local natives.
Ingethel laughed loudly.
"My lord, this is the most critical step. Only this can remove that false god from the board."
Lorgar pressed his lips together, then circled the main tower with keen interest.
"…Pouring the Warp into the physical universe… but not only that… drawing upon the empyric resonance produced by the greatest catastrophe in human history… the resulting aftershocks will be powerful enough as well."
He paused, then asked with some concern, "This alone isn't enough. It can tear the Imperium apart, but it cannot imprison him."
"My lord—oh, my naïve lord!" Ingethel cackled.
"The one who symbolizes hope and tides will employ His divine might—He has prepared for this moment for far too long."
Lorgar turned his head. He stared calmly at Ingethel, uneasily gripping his own wrist, rubbing it back and forth.
"I mean… it still isn't sufficient. They need a guide, someone mystically and by bloodline bound to him."
Lorgar stood in silence, his body trembling faintly. The silence stretched on a little too long. Ingethel looked at him, puzzled.
Lorgar took a small step back.
"Is it me?" he asked.
"I would gladly offer myself to the gods, to tear away his mask of hypocrisy."
Ingethel's manic ravings quieted. It stared at Lorgar, its body convulsing violently. For an instant, in the corner of Lorgar's vision, blue feathers drifted down—but in the next moment, the vision vanished, leaving only the twitching Ingethel behind.
The daemon opened its mouth and let out a rasping chuckle.
"The stage for this grand play is not here, my good child."
It laughed, mocking loudly. Fate had long since been decided; the future had already been observed by those of the past, collapsing into a single inevitable outcome.
Those who behold the sorrow of the future are doomed to walk the path that leads to it.
Struggle with all your might! Twist in despair upon the road of destiny! Every fraction of resistance only hastens the final ending.
It could hardly wait for that exquisite destiny which had already occurred in the future.
. . .
[The Past]
[The Council of Nikaea]
[Thousand Sons' Chambers]
Magnus was shaking, gulping in great breaths of air. In his single eye, the cold light that foretold the future slowly faded.
With trembling hands, he raised his arm. In his crimson palm, the piercing, deathly blizzard seemed still to linger.
He stood within the storm. The entire world cried out for him—those benevolent Warp entities were willing to sacrifice themselves for humanity's fate! Magnus lifted his hand.
It wasn't enough. It was still not enough.
His soul began to blaze. He cried out the incantation. He would sacrifice himself, with a resolve he had not yet fully understood—
Magnus suddenly sucked in a sharp breath. Darkness swallowed his vision. Powerless, he leaned against the side of the chamber, feeling the faint vibration of the Space Wolves' vessel.
Terra…
Magnus thought. The Emperor still could not trust him. He had left behind a small fragment of Magnus's soul.
Perhaps that was a good thing.
Within his prison, Magnus gave a bitter smile. Irritably, he scratched at his already wild, exploded hair. Once more, in his dreams, he saw that ancient prophecy.
Magnus smiled bitterly. It was nothing more than… nothing more than a lie. He had long since been forced by the Emperor to behold the truth.
The Crimson Sinner trembled. In the long, dark passage of time, he fell silent once again.
Only—
There was no snow on Cadia.
So what, exactly, had he seen?
<+>
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