My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 445: The Legion Master Fights the Legion Champion
"Traitor!"
The Lion's roar spread through the darkness. In the faint light, the sound pierced into the shadows and faded far away.
It reminded Lion of his homeworld—Caliban. The forests where the Lion had spent an immeasurably long time.
Caliban, near Cygnus X-1. A world filled with secrets. In its forests lurked beasts corrupted by Chaos, and truths about the Warp.
And there, Lion El'Jonson had faced it all alone—until his adoptive father, Luther, discovered this "wild man" in the woods.
In time, this feral beast was "tamed" by Caliban's knightly culture and became a knight.
But deep within Lion El'Jonson, he was still a beast.
Only a loyal beast could survive.
Not a mindless madman.
The Knight King stopped in an open clearing. He paced slowly, Lion Sword held aloft, the winged crests on his helm like ears raised in alert.
The darkness here was never silent. It whispered, rustled—like countless rodents crawling through unseen corners.
A steady, dignified baritone voice rang out:
"Abandon resistance. I can grant you a quick death, Curze."
From the darkness above the pipes, the creature let out a hissing laugh.
"Pathetic little cat. Has no one ever told you? Your arrogance always invites disaster."
Lion listened carefully for Curze's movements. The First Legion had already begun their advance. From the tremors beneath the Nightfall's deck, the Lion could tell the battle elsewhere was fierce.
"If you're trying to provoke me, you're mistaken. I am not Fulgrim."
Curze burst into manic laughter. And at the very moment that laughter reached the Lion's ears, razor-sharp claws lunged for his head from behind!
Curze pounced—
Without hesitation, Lion dropped low. He heard the scrape of his breathing tube being grazed, saw the shadow flash over his head—and thrust his Lion Sword straight upward!
Realizing the Knight King hadn't turned to counterattack, but instead had crouched low to evade, Curze let out an enraged snarl, only for it to be cut off by a spray of blood.
Crimson arced beautifully through the air, splattering across the lenses of the hunter's helm. The bright, foul-smelling droplets steamed as they struck.
Lion shifted his stance. The silver blade flashed coldly. With one hand, he wiped the blood clean.
"You have betrayed the blood that flows within you, Konrad Curze."
Curze bared his teeth, clutching his abdomen. The blood flowing from it had already begun to clot.
Having been imprisoned by Sevatar, he wore no armor—and now he faced the fully equipped Lion.
"Betrayed?"
His pitch-black eyes locked onto the tyrant—the true beast.
"Knight King, do you still not understand the situation? Can you still not see who is truly loyal?"
Lion El'Jonson stared at Curze in silence.
Curze began to move, like a shifting shadow in the dark, luring the ignorant into the same filthy mire he inhabited.
He spat venom—words long forced down his own throat, now fermented within the vessel called "Konrad Curze," brewing into a bitter wine of despair.
"He abandoned us. Look around you, can you reach him? Can you contact the Warmaster? We are nothing but discarded refuse."
"Do you know the price of living now? Pure death would be the greatest mercy."
"And you—you, Lion El'Jonson, my brother—are you still clinging to your empty titles? Do you still hope that you and your Legion will be praised in the mouths of men? You think yourself his executioner, the one who corrects mistakes—"
Found you.
Lion charged straight at Konrad Curze.
Gunfire followed in rapid succession. The knight swung his blade, turned to evade a counter-pounce, then drove his elbow forward. The dull impact told him he had struck Curze again.
Curze let out a pained shriek, blood spilling from his mouth.
"I don't care."
The black-armored Knight King stood in the darkness, dried blood on his lenses glowing faintly red.
"Konrad Curze, aside from the blood of traitors, I care for nothing else."
"That is my loyalty."
Curze screamed—a piercing, unbearable sound. His insides cried out in agony. He turned and fled toward the exit without hesitation.
This shouldn't be happening! This shouldn't be happening!
Behind him, the heavy footsteps of the Lion thundered in relentless pursuit.
A second glint of cold light flashed in the darkness.
"Curze, my brother… I think we need to have a proper talk."
The tip of a flaming sword hovered above the deck. Fulgrim stared at Curze, his expression unreadable, a loose strand of hair falling over his forehead, echoing the smeared traces of his running makeup.
"Seize him!" Lion shouted immediately.
Fulgrim didn't even glance at the Lion. His full attention was fixed on Curze, who was rushing toward him—toward the exit.
"He's harming you!" Curze shouted.
"He's harming you—Fulgrim! You cannot stand with the arrogant! They cannot see the real monsters—they foolishly believe the world is still the same!"
Darkness had already fallen. This was no longer the human world.
Yet the arrogant still believed things could return to the past—but hope was already dead. Dead!
Their arrogance now was an arrow fired into their own future—time would only magnify its force.
You will twist, you will fall, you will become true monsters. Past glory will vanish. You will no longer be yourselves. The longer they stay, the longer they live… the further they will fall into monstrosity!
No one can stop it. No one can resist it.
It is inevitable.
The worst has already happened—they've been abandoned. No reinforcements. Alone and forsaken.
Cannibalism. Flaying. Atrocities turned into virtues. Souls reduced to slaves. To please their masters, they trade lives and wars as entertainment. Countless horrors unfold—unspeakable crimes revel in frenzy.
Humanity has willingly fallen.
For a moment's survival, they have sold themselves to devils—
If you can truly die now, then sleep!
Do not wake!
This is not home!
"This—this is hell!"
Curze let out a pained howl. The Phoenician stared at him—he seemed about to escape through the ventilation shaft above.
Then—
Curze suddenly changed direction and slammed straight into Fulgrim.
The immense momentum hurled them both across the distance before crashing heavily onto the ground.
The two giants instantly tangled together. Fulgrim clearly heard the sizzling sound of his flaming sword piercing into Curze's chest.
Curze abandoned part of his defense—gaining instead both hands locked tightly around Fulgrim's throat.
Fulgrim realized not wearing a helmet had been a grave mistake.
Unlike him, the cautious Lion had worn one.
In that instant, the gaunt Night Haunter possessed terrifying strength. He pinned Fulgrim to the ground.
Lying on his back, Fulgrim saw Curze's face—twisted with pain, streaming with tears. Above them, the corridor's lone lamp cast a cold, indifferent gaze.
"…Sorry… I'm sorry…"
Curze muttered.
"I'm saving you… brother… you shouldn't face those things… let me try… let me try…"
The abandoned Phoenician would fall.
A tear of blood slipped from the corner of Curze's eye, dripping onto Fulgrim's smeared black tear-streaks—still glittering faintly with specks of shimmer.
Curze didn't want him to fall.
But fate said otherwise.
…Fate… fate…
Let him try again.
Let him try… to change it.
Curze's pitch-black eyes trembled. He felt the flaming sword inside him grinding through bone. He could feel fragments of his organs rising into his throat.
He was resisting.
After falling countless times, he was resisting—for his brother, for the brother who once showed him kindness… and for himself.
It was nearly a mutual destruction attack.
Curze stared at Fulgrim—and in a daze, he saw Mortarion's hateful face.
The Lord of Death sneered at him, the wrinkles beside his eyes bunching in mockery.
"…Fate?" he said slowly.
"Let me ask you, Konrad Curze—"
"Is Sevatar still alive?"
"SEV—!!!"
Konrad Curze unleashed a scream powerful enough to shatter eardrums. He staggered forward violently—
A merciless blade of light swept past his neck, barely missing.
The Lion frowned. His strike had cut empty air.
Without helping the fallen Phoenician to his feet, he stepped directly over him, pursuing the staggering Curze.
Then, a thunderous explosion erupted.
At the same time, the ventilation system roared to full power.
In an instant, a dim, toxic gas began to spread across the floor in a thin layer.
Curze burst into manic laughter.
"Sev! That's my Sev!"
In an instant, he darted into the thickest concentration of toxic gas. Sevatar was clever—he had used the same gas as the previous two times Curze escaped, not the newly formulated one.
That meant Curze had already developed immunity to it.
The Lion was far more cautious than Konrad Curze had assumed. With his breathing tube damaged, he chose to fall back—retreating to the Phoenician's side. Only then did Fulgrim manage to rise to his feet, looking even more disheveled.
Lion El'Jonson stared with displeasure at the blasted exit. Massive chunks of debris had completely sealed off the only way out.
And the ventilation shaft was far too small for a Primarch to pass through.
Frowning, he called out to his warriors over the comm channel.
"Received."
The Dark Angel Corswain replied. He stood in the Nightfall's central command chamber, blade in hand, facing Sevatar—who was watching him with a provocative smile.
Sevatar stood there casually, one hand resting on the console. The gauntlet adorned with human skin had just pressed a button.
The massive viewport, taking up half the chamber, cast an eerie glow over the two Space Marines. The Warp rift the Dark Angels had torn open had not yet closed, and its tides churned in the vacuum beyond.
The rest of the Dark Angels had yet to arrive. As the vanguard, Corswain had advanced too quickly.
But what shocked him was that the Night Lords did not appear to have enough forces to resist his penetration.
Unhurried, Sevatar picked up a small microphone from the command console.
"My lord, what do you require? Your most loyal son awaits your command."
A harsh burst of static crackled, then Sevatar's voice echoed through the corridor where the three Primarchs stood.
Curze began coughing with laughter.
"Gas Type 3—and the ichor!" he shouted, seizing the initiative once more.
Corswain, who believed he was locked in a standoff with Sevatar, felt a surge of offense. The champion of the 9th Order raised his sword and struck toward Sevatar, attempting to interrupt him.
The Prince of Crows moved as if he had foreseen the attack, dancing aside. His chainglaive parried the blow, and his other hand immediately pressed another button.
"Ichor release confirmed."
A mechanical voice echoed through the empty command chamber.
"Confirmed! Authorization granted—Legion Master Sevatar!"
Corswain instinctively drew a sharp breath—but his sword never ceased. He swung again, then halted.
He stared at Sevatar.
"Who… are you, really?"
Sevatar returned the gaze with a thin, humorless smile.
"The Prince of Crows. The Condemned. The true Legion Master of the Night Lords—Sevatar."
"Unbelievable," Corswain said.
"The Night Lords have fallen to such depths."
Sevatar watched him closely. Of course, he wanted to stall for time—and in truth, he believed his opponent wanted the same.
Both of them believed their Primarch would be the first to kill the other—and end this war.
On the other side—
Curze screamed as he hurled a mass of ichor at the Lion. The sticky substance splattered beneath the helm's lenses.
In the next instant, the Night Haunter slammed the Lion into a fuel pile—then immediately fled.
Corswain raised his sword and gave a brief, almost perfunctory salute. It was a knightly tradition.
For some reason, he found himself unwilling to declare his full title before Sevatar…
All titles seemed pale before the words "true Legion Master."
"My name is Corswain."
Corswain said curtly, with a hint of disgust, as he weighed a possibility in his mind.
"Surrender. The fleets of the First and Third Legions have already encircled you. You've already lost."
There was no way the Eighth Legion could stand against two Legions.
The Third Legion had only just realized what was happening, but once the First Legion alerted them, they moved quickly.
"Do not struggle in vain. Surrender, and our Primarchs may consider granting the Eighth Legion a way out."
Corswain paused in thought.
"…We can give you a chance to break free from your Primarch, Sevatar, if you order the Legion to cease resistance."
The Lion—who had been slammed into the fuel pile—let out a thunderous roar. He dragged himself out in a battered state and charged after Curze. The Phoenician had already given chase as well.
Curze tore free the chains that had once bound him. The massive links became whips in his hands—do not question the strength of chains capable of restraining a Primarch.
Wielding two heavy chain-whips, Curze lunged toward Fulgrim.
Back in the command chamber, Sevatar let out a soft laugh. He spread his hands innocently, looking at Corswain.
"My cousin," he said, as though trying very hard to appear sincere.
"You can see it too, the Night Lords are on the brink of collapse. Konrad Curze has gone mad. I'm just a pitiful man caught between a Primarch and his Legion."
"If it were possible… I would also wish…"
Sevatar spoke slowly. He stepped back, letting the trophy mounted behind his armor press lightly against the command console, subtly pressing a sequence of buttons.
Orders were issued from central command. Across the Nightfall, countless secondary control nodes activated.
From a macro perspective, the Nightfall began to accelerate—hurtling toward the Warp rift.
Sevatar counted silently in his mind. He understood his Primarch's intent…
That mad father of his could only mean one thing.
"…that all you arrogant bastards would die!"
Sevatar suddenly lunged at Corswain, shouting with reckless abandon.
In that moment, Sevatar extinguished a future that, for him, could have been extraordinarily bright.
But there was no other choice.
He was the Legion Master.
He had to be responsible for his Legion.
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