My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 442: The Old Man's Mischievous Intentions
Where is this? What is he supposed to do—and who is he?
This is the Endurance. He has come to see his brother. And that is… Mortarion.
Correction, a Mortarion.
Roboute Guilliman instinctively wanted to take a deep breath to calm his emotions—emotions he had thought no longer capable of such upheaval. But the Warp always had new horrors in store to surprise the Lord of Macragge.
Then he noticed the white mist filling the room, and politely—if awkwardly—stopped himself.
Mortarion stood before them.
He was… wow… Emperor above…
This was… hard to describe.
Guilliman fell silent.
He decided to give up trying to describe it.
The scene reminded him of the first time he met the Angel, Sanguinius.
Back then, Guilliman had stood there, watching a godlike figure approach him with a gentle smile, every feather on his wings shimmering like fragments of starlight.
Now, he stood here, watching Mortarion roll his eyes.
Thank the Emperor—at least he still had normal eyes, instead of compound ones to match those wings.
Huge, naturally formed wings drooped from the back of the gaunt giant, dim and lifeless.
From the moment the two Primarchs entered, all their attention had been drawn to those massive folded wings.
The wings twitched.
Guilliman felt a jolt run through his soul, his scalp tingling. Along with the movement of the wings came the voice of their old friend:
"Seen enough?"
Angron silently forced himself to look away. It wasn't easy, but he was a Primarch, so he managed.
Aside from the wings, at first glance, Mortarion still looked like Mortarion—just without armor, far thinner. Parts of his body seemed composed of white mist, and his proportions were more elongated, like a scarecrow propped up by dead wood… or perhaps… some kind of insect.
Guilliman looked to Angron.
Angron would be their savior here. Guilliman was not familiar with psychic matters and chose not to speak rashly, lest he cause misunderstandings.
Standing at the doorway, one in front and one behind, Angron and Guilliman watched him warily.
Mortarion remained expressionless. He raised a hand, signaling a servitor to bring over two chairs.
The chairs arrived.
Angron and Guilliman slowly, hesitantly approached and sat down.
For what it was worth, Mortarion was also seated—sitting upright with perfect posture. This was completely unlike his usual domineering, almost slouching manner, as though he needed a sofa to support him.
The backrest of his chair had been crudely cut off—along with part of the rear frame.
It was clear that Mortarion's seemingly soft, powerless wings made sitting down difficult.
Guilliman subtly recalled something Sanguinius had once told him—about not having a bed.
Yes, Sanguinius had no bed. No bed could accommodate those enormous wings. So the clever Angel had fashioned a nest-like structure for himself to sleep comfortably.
So then…
Guilliman glanced at Mortarion.
He probably didn't need to sleep. That must be it.
While Guilliman was lost in thought, the brave, wise, and perceptive Red Angel finally spoke cautiously:
"My brother… are you well?"
Mortarion took a deep breath. As he inhaled, the white mist throughout the room seemed to rise and fall with him.
"…Not well."
The deep dark circles under his eyes, along with his gaunter face, proved his words.
Angron blinked and spread his hands.
"That's obvious. You've scared both me and Guilliman half to death looking like this. Is there anything we can do to help?"
Mortarion let out a dry laugh.
"Your goodwill is… rather pale. I don't need that."
He paused, then said:
"I assume what you want… is for me to explain all of this?"
Angron straightened up and immediately changed his tone, speaking seriously:
"Yes," he said,
"But Mortarion, our concern and goodwill are genuine. Even if you and I both know that sometimes we're powerless, this is still our attempt… to make you feel better."
Mortarion fell silent. He looked conflicted, uneasy. In the end, his tone softened—perhaps by one part in seven million.
"Then next time, you should just say that directly."
He stood up heavily. As he rose, mist shook loose from the wings supporting his body.
"That's it," he said.
"I've grown a pair of wings."
His tone was deliberately indifferent, but the other two present both knew he was pretending.
"…You can… compare them to the wings of some kind of abhuman bird-man… more or less."
"Bird-man?!"
Roboute Guilliman almost shouted.
"Sanguinius?!"
Mortarion frowned at him, looking somewhat confused. Guilliman immediately corrected himself smoothly:
"You reminded me, brother… it does look quite similar."
Guilliman and Angron exchanged a glance, both seeing the same message in each other's eyes:
Hold it in.
Mortarion slowly withdrew his questioning gaze. He looked extremely anxious—though if one could perceive anxiety from something resembling a giant insect, then he was probably on the verge of exploding with it.
Angron paused.
"So what you mean is… this is something that we might all…"
He rephrased:
"…be able to do? Fly?"
Angron considered the possibility. Could it be that, like himself, Mortarion had regained some innate ability after certain "restrictions" were lifted?
After the Butcher's Nails ceased functioning, Angron had gradually regained his telepathic abilities. And he faintly sensed that his powers might extend even further.
Among the eighteen Primarchs, only Magnus was truly proficient in psychic power, while Sanguinius could use it to a limited extent. So, was it possible that among the remaining Primarchs, others also possessed latent psychic abilities?
At least for now, Angron was certain his own abilities were a form of psychic technique.
As for Mortarion…
Angron thought he was close to an answer.
Mortarion's expression darkened further.
"Fly?" he repeated.
"Do you want me to demonstrate?"
Behind him, his wings suddenly spread wide. A strange radiance burst forth—an eerie, vivid green utterly at odds with his outward appearance. Within that glow, shifting skulls glared at them menacingly.
Angron, who had leapt to his feet in an instant with weapon ready, slowly lowered his axe.
Then he burst out laughing.
"Of course you can—but I've got to say, this is incredible!"
He stared at Mortarion's wings, marveling.
If earlier Mortarion looked like a pile of ragged cloth, now he was like an upgraded, glowing, deluxe version of that same ragged cloth.
Angron walked toward him. After receiving Mortarion's silent permission, he circled around him once.
He had expected Mortarion to remain as usual—dull, unremarkable, weary… but once those wings spread—
This was what a Primarch should be.
Angron wouldn't mind having something like that himself. Though preferably in a different color, and not…
He laughed inwardly. Not insect-like. If necessary, bird-like would be acceptable.
Still—
Angron came up beside Mortarion and gave his shoulder a firm pat.
"Good stuff! It suits you perfectly!"
Mortarion's mood seemed to improve slightly. He gave a faint smile.
Angron figured he might be the first person ever to compliment Mortarion's appearance.
Roboute Guilliman, who had also stood up moments earlier, cautiously approached.
"Very fitting." Roboute Guilliman said, "But for me, this is still hard to imagine."
He smiled slightly.
"It seems I'll have to push the limits of my imagination. I simply haven't seen enough… I've always been rather poor at learning in this regard."
Mortarion folded his wings. He still seemed unaccustomed to them—the massive appendages fluttered a few times before finally settling.
"Sometimes… that's a good thing, Guilliman. At least in this matter,"
Mortarion stared at him.
"I envy you."
Guilliman's blue eyes met the gaze of this newly transformed, insect-like Mortarion. That… didn't sound like something Mortarion would say.
"I envy you more," Guilliman replied cautiously and concisely. One hand rested on the sword at his waist.
"In this matter, I owe you an apology, Lord of Death Mortarion. Because of my misjudgment… you were exposed to danger. For that, I am sorry."
"This is only a private expression of regret. If you find it insufficient, we can arrange a more formal ceremony."
Mortarion looked at Guilliman as if examining him. At last, he spoke slowly:
"No need. This is…"
He struggled slightly with his words.
"This is something I had to go through."
Guilliman was taken aback. He had expected at least a few sarcastic remarks.
But Mortarion merely fell silent, then suddenly said:
"That person isn't dead."
Guilliman blinked in confusion.
"Which person?"
"The one everyone knows."
Angron frowned, folding his arms.
"What, you can't even say his name? Ha—mmph!"
A surge of white mist instantly covered his mouth and nose. What had been odorless became sharply pungent and unbearable.
"Alright, alright! I won't say it!"
The mist dispersed.
Angron wiped his nose, clearly remembering that smell.
"So what exactly happened?"
Mortarion fell silent again. He looked even more sorrowful.
In truth, the explanation was simple: Mortarion had become the very thing he hated most—a psyker… or something far beyond a psyker, a Warp entity.
And in the process of transforming into that state…
To survive, Mortarion had "summoned" Hades—the Lord of the Underworld—using a part of himself as bait.
Mortarion's fate had already been closely tied to that of Hades. And by "sacrificing" part of himself…
His psychic presence had been marked.
Hades himself might recognize Mortarion and try to hold back—but the Underworld Lord as a force would not.
It attacked Warp entities indiscriminately.
So now… who counted as a Warp entity?
Who indeed?
Malcador was practically laughing himself to death. After all, he was a psyker—not a "Warp entity."
This was tragic.
But Malcador could only laugh.
Mortarion's expression darkened.
"…He will attack me."
He said, explaining to Angron and Guilliman—this was what Malcador had told him:
"Do not recall him. Do not speak of him. He cannot be described."
Mortarion fell into a long silence.
"Unless I wish to bring about my own destruction."
The even worse news was that he likely couldn't withstand the current, unconscious rampage of that drifting "Black Domain" in the Warp.
In a sense, Mortarion should be grateful to the Chaos Gods—they were currently doing everything they could to pin that Black Domain over Cadia, allowing only slight leakage when it was invoked.
…Maybe he should just choose self-destruction after all.
Angron took a deep breath.
"That… sounds pretty tragic."
"But at least we've got one piece of good news—he's not dead, right?"
Guilliman swallowed.
"That is good news. But I mean… on the Endurance, that tomb of his… what are we supposed to do about that?"
He and his mother had even laid flowers there.
Now it felt rather awkward—like offering sacrifices to someone still alive.
Mortarion let out a long sigh.
"I don't know," the Lord of Death said honestly for the first time. After everything that had happened—especially a month of memory restoration therapy under Malcador—he seemed… more sincere than before.
"I only know that we need to go to the battlefield, to the place where he fell."
"…As long as there's even a single chance…"
"And then?" Angron asked, staring intently at Mortarion.
"…Malcador didn't tell me the rest," Mortarion replied simply.
"But I felt the presence of others like us there."
"They were there… and they gave him a sliver of hope."
Mortarion's gaze drifted into the distance, unfocused.
"After that… I should thank them."
His eyes slowly turned back to Angron and Roboute Guilliman, a bit sluggishly.
"And you as well."
Angron paused.
"Brother, we held you back."
Mortarion looked at him. Then, finally—
"You're right."
He spoke again, clean and direct. "You should learn more about the Warp. I believe… Malcador would be more than willing to teach you, just as he taught me."
Mortarion took several breaths. On the seventh, he spoke again, spreading his hands slightly.
"I am trying to reclaim my form. When Malcador judges that I will no longer harm mortals unintentionally, I will go out."
"You may also call upon me—the Pale Lord. Call me with seven deaths, and I will descend with my power."
He paused.
"But I would prefer that you call upon… the Emperor, or that person. They are effective—far more vast than we can imagine."
Mortarion turned and sat back down. In the darkness and white mist, he watched the two visitors.
"There is nothing further. I still exist, and will continue to exist. Thank you for your visit."
Taking the hint, Angron and Guilliman did not linger. They exchanged glances, offered a few final words of courtesy and concern, and then disappeared back into the corridor beyond the door.
The blackstone doors slammed shut.
Mortarion remained seated there, motionless—like an insect perched on a branch.
After a long while, faint rustling sounds arose within the mist.
Small Death Guard figures emerged, gathering around him. Some tried to climb up by tugging at his cloak.
Mortarion bent down, lowering his hand to let two of the smaller ones climb up after they slipped.
He idly watched the two tiny Death Guard in his palm, tilting their heads as they looked at him.
"…They didn't realize I don't recognize them, right?"
Mortarion fell silent.
"Who is Sanguinius?" he murmured quietly to himself.
"Malcador… that damned old man… he definitely didn't tell me everything. He deliberately told me to compare it to abhumans…"
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