My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 440: Successfully Capturing Mortarion
There are always moments when a person must face fear and the unknown.
Like now.
Calas hoped he hadn't instinctively stepped back. He stood there, staring fixedly at the "Mortarion" before him.
At a distance of seven steps from Calas, Mortarion stopped.
It had stopped—but it wasn't completely still, more like a withered branch that had just emerged from the earth.
Only when Mortarion drew close to Calas Typhon did Calas finally see what it looked like now.
Beneath that tattered, hollow-looking cloak, there seemed to be no torso at all—or perhaps only something as thin as bones supporting it. Countless wisps of mist drifted beneath the cloak, giving off a suffocating sensation.
Strange frost patterns spread from the hem, gradually dissolving into the cloak.
The mist surged upward, completely obscuring its face—whatever lay behind the white fog could not be seen.
But what truly filled Calas with fear… deep, instinctive fear… was not any of that.
The fear he felt was primal, like a creature encountering its natural predator—something that came from the depths of the soul.
Facing Mortarion, shimmering green patterns flowed eerily across its form, reflected in its fearless frontal presence.
They came from its wings.
In fact, only when Mortarion had just taken flight did Calas catch sight of the inner side of its folded wings.
They were utterly different from its overall appearance.
A dazzling warning-green flared along the inner wings of those withered, gaunt appendages. The green was rich and full, while black cracks—symbols of destruction—spread and split across it, outlining skull shapes: some human, others alien.
Those skulls, formed by the black fissures, screamed silently at every moment. They struggled within the wings, voicelessly howling, writhing in agony.
Countless streams of white mist flowed down from between them, seeping out through the tiny, shimmering scales.
Each scale refracted a different shade of green with even the slightest movement, dazzling the eye.
It was precisely these inner wings—so completely at odds with the first impression—that startled Calas badly when Mortarion took flight.
In nature, some insects disguise themselves as something insignificant to avoid predators. But if discovered, they suddenly reveal another side—bright colors and bizarre patterns meant to intimidate.
But… for Mortarion, Calas swallowed hard—this was likely its camouflage for concealing itself, approaching its prey silently, and finally harvesting it.
Calas stared at Mortarion. Even though the Primarch was unarmed, Calas believed Mortarion could kill him instantly.
"M-Mortarion?"
There was still no sound—it was like a silent play—but Calas had grown used to it. He hesitated, then spoke:
"The Death Guard needs you. You have to come back and lead the Death Guard."
Mortarion did not move. Calas felt as though he were talking to a leaf.
But at least it showed no intention of attacking him.
Calas smiled. Looking on the bright side—Mortarion wasn't dead, and he had found him. That was enough.
"I'm glad you're not dead, Mortarion. You can't die… right?"
Mortarion stared at him. Something in Calas's words seemed to strike a chord—
+Death is the final step. The final step can only be death.+
It spoke. From beneath the mist-shrouded face, something flowed down from where its eyes should be. How could Calas see it? Because that eerie green pierced through the fog.
There was still no sound, yet Calas heard Mortarion's words directly at the level of the soul.
A breakthrough.
Calas continued trying to communicate:
"…The final step can only be death?"
He swallowed.
"What does that mean, Mortarion?"
+Death,+ the being said, +pure death—cessation, no longer falling into the cycle.+
The Pale Lord fell silent. He tried to see the being before him clearly, but his vision remained blurred. Everything around him was sharp and distinct—except that being…
Its form was like a reflection deep beneath water.
But he did not think it was an intruder, nor a destroyer. On the contrary, that being felt like a part of this place.
So what exactly was it?
The Pale Lord tried to reach out and touch his own thoughts. This was difficult. Ever since he had first begun to develop a sense of self-awareness, he had remained here—thinking nothing, doing nothing, simply existing.
All he needed to do was remain. To wait until that vast portion was completely digested. Only then could he, guided by his own will, attempt to do something.
But he knew he would do nothing.
This aligned with the current of the Warp as he perceived it.
Death was an inevitable process. Whether life acted or not, it would arrive as promised.
It was an inevitability—a natural end.
As a newly "born" Warp entity, he was still fragile. The Pale Lord's instincts kept him on guard. In the depths of his thoughts, he vaguely remembered that he had once been fleeing from some kind of presence—and now, that presence had not truly gone away.
So he concealed himself.
The Pale Lord remained silent. After a long silence, he determined that this new presence was not an "intruder," but rather something that had returned. Thus, he decided to leave once more, to return to his original place, and continue doing nothing.
Calas watched helplessly as Mortarion turned, preparing to leave again.
"Hey! Wait—Mortarion?!"
The Dreadnought hurried after him, but within the boundaries of the Warp, he could never catch a Warp-born being.
"That didn't work. Plan B."
A whisper came through the communication channel.
In the next instant, the Pale Lord suddenly turned around. White mist churned violently as he rose into the air. The skulls within his wings glared furiously past Calas—
The white fog surged toward Calas's back.
Calas turned his head and saw a brilliant golden light. At some unknown moment, Malcador had appeared there. Around him, the Grey Knights were loudly chanting prayers.
"Come here!"
Malcador shouted. His voice somehow carried through this silent realm. Calas felt himself lifted into the air, and before he could even reach Malcador and his group, the old man had already begun running—heading toward a place where the veil was more stable.
At the same time, without hesitation, Malcador grabbed a smaller Death Guard Marine with his free hand. The little one looked half-asleep, swaying silently in the old man's grasp as he ran.
This act completely enraged the Pale Lord. Calas watched as Mortarion flew straight toward them, wings beating, light and shadow alternating. A scythe formed gradually in his hand, condensed from mist—
Beside Malcador, a Grey Knight held a book in one hand, flipping to the correct page for the old man with the other.
Malcador began chanting loudly. Ancient, Warp-born words flowed from his mouth.
Even though Calas understood nothing, in a daze, he felt as though he grasped it…
That was… that was…
Mortarion's true "name."
The tides of the Warp happened to recede at the gates of the fertilizer plant. Just as their group reached that point, Malcador finished the final syllable.
"Get over here!" the old man roared, as a massive shockwave erupted behind them—
BOOM!!!
Vorx stared, dumbfounded, at everything before him.
As the mist cleared, he saw a massive being—
By the Emperor… a gigantic insect-like xenos… lying there…
Yet something stirring in his soul, in his bloodline, told him that he should show this being a certain level of respect.
Emotionally, Vorx knew what it was.
Rationally, he refused to accept it.
Malcador panted heavily, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth—but it didn't help. Blood continued to pour out in great gulps.
You little brat… you think I can't handle you?
Only then did the Death Guard in his hand begin to struggle. The little one wriggled, trying to wipe the old man's blood away—
Malcador sincerely hoped the little thing wasn't carrying some kind of plague.
<+>
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