My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 443: The Other Side That Lost Miserably
Malcador coughed twice. He tapped the floor with his staff, producing dull thuds. The blackstone door before him opened slightly, revealing a narrow gap.
Behind him, Mortarion still sat there, silently watching the old man.
"Can you see that side?" Malcador asked, nudging away a small Death Guard that tried to approach him with his foot.
"Barely."
In the dim mist, a faint hissing sound echoed—like insects rubbing their wings.
"A scar that can wound any soul runs through that place. I cannot gaze at it for long."
Malcador paused, then once again pushed away the same small Death Guard with his foot. This time it stopped, standing there and looking up at him.
The old man let out a quiet sigh.
"…They are truly enraged… That is the real battlefield."
Two dim yellow lights narrowed within the white mist.
"Didn't you say there were at least three powerful legions over there? Or… are you worried about corruption?"
Malcador reached up and pulled down his hood, hiding himself once more in shadow.
"You know what I mean, Pale Lord."
He paused again.
"If you want to be safer, you should start using your new abilities."
"At the very least, we need to hold this place—secure a stable rear."
"…And then, you can try something else."
"I will." The hoarse voice answered. The silent shadow faded into the mist.
Malcador sighed. The storm had not subsided. Navigation was impossible, departure difficult. Should they wait for the Astronomican to reignite, or for another miracle?
"You'll leave later," the old man suddenly added.
"To maintain regional stability, Guilliman plans to establish a temporary autonomous state. He intends to make you its Warmaster, so you need to show yourself at least once."
There was no response. Malcador looked down at the small Death Guard by his feet. After failing twice to climb onto him, the little one had stopped, simply staring at him.
+NOT INTERESTED!+ the tiny figure shrieked.
. . .
Warmaster.
A beautiful word. It represented power, responsibility, the submission of billions, the command of countless stars…
But none of that was the most important part.
What mattered most was that it represented trust—his trust in the chosen son.
But the Lion knew: true trust needed no reward.
Lion El'Jonson stood tall at the prow of the Invincible Reason, silent like a lion. The glow of a dying star flowed slowly through the viewing ports, pooling at his feet.
The Dark Angels, who had been shadowing the Night Lords and preparing to judge the Eighth Legion, had encountered unexpected trouble in this star system.
What should have been a routine vindication mission—a modest star system, countless industrial worlds, and a massive forge world—had gone wrong when the Astronomican went dark just as they raised the sword of war.
Then, madness descended.
Any Primarch would have been shaken—by what followed, by what they witnessed, by the conclusions they were forced to draw.
But he was the Lion.
And so, after losing a quarter of his fleet, activating the Ikaros Contingency, and detonating the star of a potentially habitable system, the Dark Angels once again became the blade in the Lion's hand. Though dulled, stained with blood, and reeking of slaughter.
Soft footsteps approached. The Lion did not need to turn to know it was Corswain.
"My lord, the fleet is ready to depart."
"Have you found my brother's trail?"
"According to the monitoring array, the Eighth Legion—the Night Lords—last performed a Warp jump with an eighty-three percent probability of heading toward Baal."
"However," Corswain hesitated, "based on projections, their journey will not be smooth. The monitoring array has detected other psychic fluctuations heading directly toward the Eighth Legion."
The Lion's eyes calmly reflected the burning star system before him. Billions of lives reduced to ash.
Any being with a conscience would hesitate.
But the Lion would not.
Because he knew this was the right thing to do.
"Prepare yourselves," Lion El'Jonson said, "If my brother has suffered the same fate as I have… then I believe it is time for judgment."
He did not think Konrad Curze could endure what he had gone through.
Now, hope was gone. The Astronomican had gone dark. The Emperor, the Warmaster—everything had vanished along with it. Chaos was everywhere.
But fortunately, the Lion had never relied on those things to fight.
He fought only for loyalty.
. . .
"I want to see Konrad Curze."
The Phoenician bent down slightly. His long, smooth silver hair fell over Sevatar's shoulder armor. Sevatar's pitch-black eyes stared unblinking at Fulgrim.
Under normal circumstances—during the Great Crusade—Sevatar would never have done this. It was disrespectful to a Primarch.
But now, order had shattered. Things were no longer as they once were.
In a broken galaxy, even Primarchs were nothing more than rag dolls, unable to control their own fate.
And Sevatar was now the final authority of the Eighth Legion. He could not show weakness.
"My lord," Sevatar forced a smile. It looked worse than a grimace, revealing sharp teeth.
"My father says he does not wish to see you."
He spoke softly. Fulgrim's eyes narrowed dangerously. The Primarch's slender fingers tightened slightly on Sevatar's shoulder plate, causing it to creak under the pressure.
"Is that what he said… or what you think he should say?"
Sevatar thought bitterly: on my honor, this time it really was Curze himself who said it.
Even though Sevatar had chained Curze up, bound him to a pillar, extracted gene-seed at maximum frequency, and withheld food to reduce the frequency of his madness—still, this time, those words had truly come from Curze's own mouth.
Even if he had been completely insane when he said them.
Sevatar bared his teeth again—but this time it was pure mockery. Endless suffering had long since stripped him of any fear of Primarchs.
Fulgrim saw that something was wrong with the Night Lord.
Just as Sevatar saw that something was wrong with the Phoenician.
Silently, Sevatar crossed Fulgrim off his list of potential allies.
Only Sanguinius remained.
"My lord, in the name of the Emperor, those were indeed Konrad Curze's own words. But if you insist on seeing him… I can disobey his command."
Fulgrim shoved Sevatar aside. The Phoenician let out a disdainful snort.
"Just as I thought," he said coldly, "Greedy creatures. What do you want, to let my brother go?"
Sevatar spread his hands helplessly.
"My lord, a place of stability—a place where we can rest. This is not what we desire, but since the Astronomican went dark, my father's condition has worsened day by day. We have no choice."
Fulgrim fell silent. Sevatar could see, beneath that beautiful and flawless exterior, a corner of something else—
Endless exhaustion. Doubt.
"There will always be a place to rest," Fulgrim said.
"Now, take me to my brother. Do not play tricks—otherwise, the Emperor's Children can tear your fleet apart at any time."
Sevatar stepped aside, making way for the Phoenician.
"As you command. But allow me one final word—my father, Konrad Curze, said he does not wish for you to seek him out."
"Lead the way."
<+>
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