My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 441: Now, It's Fantasy Time!
[One month later]
"You may meet him now."
The Imperial Regent, Malcador, said leisurely. He looked at the two Primarchs before him, who seemed to have mixed feelings about the news.
Roboute Guilliman frowned.
"I've heard some troubling rumors. May I ask, how is our brother doing now?"
Since returning from Iax, the Death Guard had maintained a state of heightened vigilance… and something close to frenzy.
They claimed they had recovered their Primarch, but from beginning to end, Mortarion himself had never spoken a single word, nor had he ever appeared.
Guilliman suspected that under the influence of Warp Chaos, Mortarion had encountered something… something that prevented him from showing himself.
At the same time, after the Death Guard returned to Macragge, a minor outbreak of influenza spread across the world—one that could even infect the Ultramarines. After everything that had happened before, Guilliman took this matter extremely seriously.
The Lord of Macragge personally organized a lockdown and investigation. But the final results surprised him.
After conducting one-on-one examinations of the infected, Guilliman discovered that eighty percent of them were not "themselves."
They shared the same origin as those traitors… the Hydra.
Having learned from past mistakes, Guilliman had been proactively reporting the situation to Malcador since the outbreak began. The old man had been fatigued for a time, but recently seemed to have recovered somewhat.
After some thought, Malcador instructed Guilliman to contain the infected. He told him that this outbreak was, in all likelihood, beneficial to them.
In the past, Guilliman would have dismissed such a claim as misguided and contrary to Imperial Truth. But now, he had come to accept that perhaps in the Warp, there truly existed some "benevolent wizard" using methods similar to their enemies to aid them.
He did not yet know that this "benevolent wizard" was Mortarion, but that would soon change.
Angron chuckled.
"Looks like our brother is recovering quite well?"
He glanced at Malcador, whose spirits had finally improved somewhat.
"Malcador, you should relax too. With Guilliman and me holding things together, and Mortarion on the verge of recovery, nothing major should happen anytime soon."
Malcador gave a thin, insincere smile. But the two Primarchs were already used to this rather gloomy, sarcastic old statesman.
"I have been relaxing quite well." Malcador said in a strange tone.
As he spoke, he seemed to recall something amusing. Even this seasoned political veteran, who rarely showed emotion, let out a genuinely cheerful laugh.
There was nothing more delightful for a "psyker," especially one who had previously been cursed as a "damned psyker" by Mortarion himself, to watch Mortarion mentally break down after realizing he was a psyker.
Ha.
Every time Malcador thought of it, he couldn't help but laugh from the bottom of his heart. Such pure amusement—especially when the person involved had brought it entirely upon himself—was rare.
To prevent Mortarion's unstable psychic abilities from causing contamination, Malcador, together with the Death Guard, had "temporarily placed" the newly born "Pale Lord" into the Death Guard's Zero Company holding cells—used specifically for imprisoning psykers.
Meanwhile, the anti-psyker systems aboard the Endurance had, over the past month, been gradually shut down or reduced in power under Malcador's orders.
After all, the Death Guard couldn't afford to banish Mortarion back into the Warp while he was aboard the Endurance.
Ha.
Malcador laughed again inwardly.
This joy even managed to ease the worries brought on by the situation on Macragge.
"You will need to prepare yourselves mentally. Mortarion hasn't just lost part of his memory."
"Of course, I assume you already know that. And with your abilities, communicating with him shouldn't be a problem. However, what I want to emphasize in advance is this."
Malcador said lightly, his tone relaxed.
"Your brother has… changed his appearance. I think you can use Sanguinius as a simple reference when imagining him."
"Alright, go on."
As he spoke, the old man stepped aside. Seven silent Death Guard stood behind Malcador, ready to guide the two Primarchs aboard the Endurance.
Roboute Guilliman and Angron exchanged a glance, each seeing… a trace of unease in the other's eyes.
Even as Primarchs, their extraordinary imaginations struggled to picture a "Mortarion" resembling "Sanguinius."
The two Primarchs walked along the corridors of the Endurance, speaking quietly over a private channel.
"Hard to imagine… Could it be that Mortarion now has smooth, flowing blond hair?"
Angron muttered. No matter how he tried, he couldn't reconcile Sanguinius's handsome appearance with Mortarion, who, though not unattractive, always looked… like a leper.
A Mortarion with long, silky hair—that was the limit of his imagination.
Angron pictured it for a moment—Mortarion tossing smooth hair….
No. Better not.
Guilliman remained silent for a moment.
"Perhaps… fangs," the Lord of Macragge said. "Though I've never really paid attention to Mortarion's teeth—he always wears a mask."
Angron realized Guilliman had also subconsciously skipped over the possibility of Mortarion becoming handsome.
The Red Angel coughed awkwardly.
"Well, I mean… is it possible that Malcador meant Mortarion has become more… likable? Like Sanguinius?"
"If he didn't have those dark circles, put on a bit of weight, if his skin wasn't so rough from poison, had fewer wrinkles, and started using friendly expressions—"
"I would very much welcome our brother becoming such a person," Guilliman said with restraint, "but I think we should lower our expectations in that regard."
A Mortarion with friendly expressions was somehow even more terrifying than one with flowing golden hair.
In their impressions, Mortarion was the kind of person whose smile would always be a sinister, mocking smirk, with wrinkles piling up at the corners of his eyes like some kind of sorcerer.
The two Primarchs chatted as they walked. Since they would soon see Mortarion—and Malcador had already assured them there was no problem—the atmosphere remained relatively relaxed.
Angron suddenly paused slightly.
His gaze flicked subtly toward a corner of the corridor. He saw nothing—but something had been there just moments ago… something small.
They passed through layers of Death Guard guards. Finally, the seven leading them came to a halt before a massive door.
In front of it, a Dreadnought stepped aside.
Thin wisps of white mist seeped from the cracks of the blackstone door, accompanied by frost creeping outward along its edges.
Guilliman paused, then looked at Angron, who had also fallen silent.
Lowering his voice to the barest whisper, the Lord of Macragge asked hesitantly:
"Psychic power… that is psychic power, right?"
"Of course it is," Angron replied, forcing a casual tone with difficulty.
Damn it… what kind of state is Mortarion in now?
"Perhaps we should just see him first."
The Red Angel put on a friendly smile and pushed the door open.
His pupils instantly widened. The smile froze on his face.
"Oh," Angron said stiffly, stepping aside to let Guilliman enter.
Guilliman also froze in place.
"So… it's wings."
Hearing Angron's words, Mortarion—standing before them—revealed an expression of utter despair.
This was… not particularly similar to Sanguinius at all.
Not even close.
Well… except for the wings.
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