My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 517: Soul of Vengeance
The black tide receded, revealing the skeletal remains that still clung to life.
Horus calmly raised his Lightning Claw. In the dim corridor, one side was a wall, and the other was an observation window—beyond it, Cadia spun in silent repose.
The blinding arcs of the Lightning Claw cast flickering light and shadow across Horus's face.
His bloodshot eyes fixed on the far end of the corridor, where soft sounds echoed. He was in no hurry. As the tide withdrew, power surged back, exposing the ugly, bare riverbank of his strength.
In the shadow behind Horus, kaleidoscopic phantoms danced—the promised psychic power was returning to its nest. This filled him with both ecstasy and despair.
But slowly, the ecstasy of regained power draped over his helplessness like a veil.
The despair and agony born of the Warp were transforming into strength, once again at Horus's command.
He looked with contempt at the mist rolling at his feet—it was far weaker than the fog he had seen during his first encounter with Mortarion. The Fire-eater would eventually play with fire and perish in the flames.
Horus opened his mouth, ready to mock Mortarion's wretched state, when the Pale King's whisper drifted through the churning mist.
"Spare me your words... I never sought to compete with you for the title of 'the Emperor's most beloved.'"
Horus's eyes widened. He let out a low, furious snarl, like a provoked beast.
"If this is how you understand loyalty, traitor, then I know why you've turned yourself into this half-man, half-ghoul monstrosity," Horus sneered, drawing Worldbreaker. The golden warhammer's head gleamed brilliantly against its obsidian shaft.
The Primarch gave the hammer a slight twist, and the polished surface of its head reflected a pale, gaunt face.
The mist surged, erupting like a geyser. A tattered cloak emerged from the haze as Mortarion stepped forth, shaking his wings. With every beat—every unfurling and folding—countless torrents of roiling white mist poured from the inner membranes. At the edges of the fog, silent, screaming voids shaped like skulls formed.
Horus glanced imperceptibly at his armor's status report. As expected, the contaminant levels were skyrocketing.
His heart sank. His armor's circulation system was damaged—and that was far from good.
Immediately after, Horus felt a gust of wind whistle past him. Without a moment's hesitation, relying on his battle instincts, he swung his warhammer and parried Mortarion's surprise attack.
The scythe hung before Horus, the rapidly spinning chain-blade spitting sparks that flew into his eyes.
Horus gripped the hammer's shaft with both hands, holding it horizontally to catch the junction of Oblivion's blade and shaft.
Even though the Four Gods had bestowed their power upon Horus—making his body more swollen, more bloated—he was still shorter than Mortarion, who had drawn closer to his true nature. The Pale King's shadow loomed over him.
Two trapped beasts tested each other, refusing to yield, letting their strength channel through their weapons as they locked together in a desperate struggle.
During the long stalemate, the adamantium wailed, and sparks flew.
"You've grown weak," Horus said with a smile.
But Mortarion silently refused to engage. In luring Horus into the Black Domain, he had also expended a considerable amount of energy. As a psychic entity, this had left him even more depleted.
The Warmaster's arms trembled. For a moment, Horus even doubted if Worldbreaker would shatter.
He glared at Mortarion with manic intensity. The coward, hiding behind his rebreather mask to conceal his true emotions, still held a gaze devoid of feeling—until—
A brilliant flash of fire erupted beyond the floor-to-ceiling window. The explosion of the Hour of Death illuminated the void, but this was merely the prelude to a grander symphony of destruction. Countless brilliant fireworks burst outside the window, casting their light upon their faces.
In that instant, Horus saw the flickering light in Mortarion's eyes.
The next second—Bang!
Mortarion struck first, twisting his scythe to deflect the blow and break the stalemate!
The massive scythe slammed into the ground with a thunderous crash. Horus lowered his warhammer, his palms numb and his arms aching.
Yet Horus watched Mortarion with a faint, knowing smile. His own face, bathed in the fiery glow of the exploding ship, was half-lit and half-shrouded in darkness.
The Warmaster watched as Mortarion swayed. The Pale King gazed thoughtfully out the window at the scene of his Death Guard being surrounded.
Poisonous gas hissed from beneath Mortarion's rebreather mask. He stared at the almost dazzling naval battle, his voice a mere murmur.
"You want..."
Mortarion turned his head, glaring at Horus in disbelief.
"I misjudged you, Horus," Mortarion said softly. "You want to go down with me?!"
Oblivion whistled through the air again, this time swinging horizontally at Horus's waist. Horus blocked the strike with his Lightning Claw, then twisted his wrist, wrenching the scythe blade free.
"The feeling is mutual," Horus said, a faint smile touching his lips. "You were thinking the same thing three minutes ago, weren't you, Mortarion?"
Mortarion's face darkened as he unleashed another strike.
His scythe moved so fast it left afterimages, yet Horus parried every blow with effortless precision. He wasn't pressing the attack, merely stalling.
Mortarion realized it instantly.
Horus is buying time.
With this realization, Mortarion's attack speed surged, doubling in an instant.
Yet even so, Horus's defense remained flawless.
"I see our younger brother Omegon," Horus shouted amidst the frenzied clash of metal. "That was your original place, wasn't it, Mortarion?!"
A blinding green light erupted!
Horus tried to close his eyes, but it was too late. His vision swam, the searing green glare searing into his retinas. Tears streamed down his face as he squinted, seeing the Two-Winged Moth God ascending in the narrow corridor, and behind it, a trillion writhing, distorted wraiths!
The deafening roar of wings hammered at Horus's soul, as if something were drawing near—closer—closer. Horus stared blankly at the monstrosity in the air, a breeze brushing against the smooth skin on his left side—
Horus violently raised his warhammer to his left. The moment he brought up his defense, the laser-fast scythe slammed into his warhammer!
The Chainscythe roared savagely, tearing away the surface skin from the left side of Horus's neck. The skin curled back, exposing raw flesh.
Horus turned his head, tears streaming down his face. He stared at the monster to his left, abandoning the phantom that had lingered beside him.
Beside him, Mortarion—his wings folded, his entire form devoid of light—stared back with a deathly intensity. Mortarion lowered his center of gravity, his back arching like a full moon as he gripped the scythe's shaft, as if sworn to sever Horus's head in a single strike.
A guttural, snarling threat escaped Mortarion's lips.
"You never understood any of this."
"Is that so?"
Horus smiled, but the smile widened and widened, tearing open into a horrific laugh.
"I remember..." Horus said casually. Even as Mortarion's scythe blade sank deeper, its rapidly spinning chain-teeth brutally gouging out flesh, Horus continued to speak, his voice sounding manic.
"I remember our first meeting..." Horus's gaze shifted meaningfully toward Mortarion. "You knew back then, didn't you?"
Mortarion's pupils trembled violently. After stepping into Nurgle's Garden, Mortarion had lost most of his memories—even though his emotions had been preserved in their entirety!
Mortarion had no idea what had happened the first time he met Horus, but the guilt and self-reproach that suddenly surged within him at this moment were all too real!
What exactly happened back then?!
Mortarion decisively cut off the thought. His gaze turned cold once more; the brief interruption would not hinder the Reaper's harvest. He strained his arms, burying the buzzing chainsword deeper into Horus's neck.
Blood erupted in a spray. With the muscles on one side severed, Horus's head twisted at an unnatural angle. He stared sideways at Mortarion, blood spilling from his mouth.
"You knew even then, so you rejected me," Horus murmured. "Was I abandoned so early? Or..."
He stared at Mortarion. What unnerved Mortarion was that even though the chainsword had bitten deep, Horus's hands, still gripping his warhammer, held it firm, refusing to give way.
Mortarion could even see the grey of Oblivion creeping up Horus's skin—his chainsword was, of course, poisoned.
Horus wheezed.
"You are not like Omegon. What did you sacrifice? What kind of price is acceptable?!"
Mortarion did not answer. The Pale King simply unfurled his wings again, their powerful beats thrusting him forward, driving the scythe pressed against Horus's neck deeper.
But this time, Horus's hands did not budge. He glared at Mortarion, his eyes nearly bursting from their sockets, the venomous words from his mouth spraying blood across Mortarion's face.
"So cold-blooded... so cruel... You chose to abandon your brothers, and let them fall into the abyss?"
"That was your fucking choice!"
Mortarion cursed. The next moment, he felt a colossal force slam into his scythe, sending him hurtling backward. He crashed against the wall, a thick mist dissipating from the gaps in his armor.
Amidst the chaos, Mortarion stared at Horus. He finally understood what Horus was doing—he was embracing the power the Four Gods had bestowed upon him. All this time, Horus had been resisting them! Even in his half-mad state, he had refused to fully accept their gifts.
Mortarion's gaze swept past Horus, taking in the sea of burning ships in the fleet behind him, and then to the planet rotating silently in the void.
Hades... Mortarion realized that if Cadia were destroyed... this would be anything but the ending the False Gods desired!
For a fleeting moment, Mortarion even hoped that Horus, now puppeted by the Four Gods, would order the bombardment to cease. But his hope was dashed. With a casual gesture, Horus reached out and tore the communication cable from Mortarion's armor, crushing the small device into dust in his hand.
Meanwhile, the Warp tides surged back into the grand battlefield. Billions of rebel soldiers—or their corpses—were immersed in the Warp's currents, their forms beginning to blur and fade.
But at this moment, the two Primarchs, glaring at each other like sworn enemies, remained oblivious.
Mortarion stared at Horus, sensing the Warp's energy replenishing around them. He watched as Horus's form swelled before his very eyes, like a balloon being forcibly inflated—
"You've completely surrendered?" Mortarion asked softly, tightening his grip on his scythe as he watched Horus's wounds knit shut.
Horus's face twisted into a sneer.
"The war between us will have no impact on the outcome of the campaign," he declared casually, turning his gaze toward the chaotic fleet battle raging around them. "Soldiers, ships, ammunition—these are the true measures of victory and defeat in war, not a duel between two generals... You are not worthy... nor am I."
Horus looked back at Mortarion and let out a contemptuous laugh.
"No. As a general, my Legion would suffer a significant blow without my command—but yours wouldn't, would it?"
Mortarion exhaled a cloud of toxic gas. "Of course."
He completely missed the sarcasm in Horus's tone—or perhaps he even wore it as a badge of honor.
At this moment, Mortarion's mind was racing, desperately trying to figure out how to reverse all of this—how to save Hades—how to kill Horus.
But just as Horus had said, Mortarion realized that the struggle here could no longer influence the course of the war.
They had unleashed a colossal war machine, and now it was hurtling forward on its own momentum, crushing everything in its path toward its final conclusion.
Victory or defeat here would not change the grand scheme. The decisive moves would be played on a much larger and a much smaller scale, but anywhere except here.
Mortarion took a deep breath. Since the Warp's concentration had already recovered, he no longer needed to suppress his psychic powers to prevent them from further thickening the Warp and restoring Horus's strength.
He could only trust.
Trust the Death Guard. Trust Vorx. Trust the White Scars reinforcements...
Trust Hades.
Trust... a xenos machine.
The most critical piece of this entire affair was a xenos. Mortarion thought with a pang of bitterness.
He turned his head, gazing through the viewport at his fleet.
Well done, Vorx.
Even if he didn't fight as brilliantly as Hades, Mortarion knew Vorx had given his all.
Mortarion turned back, his eyes fixed on Horus. His lips parted, a fierce fire igniting in his gaze.
"Thank you," Mortarion murmured.
Horus flinched in surprise, but Mortarion continued.
"It has been... so long... since I've fought a battle without holding back."
He had been bound by reason and the grander scheme for too long.
"I want..."
Mortarion recalled the extinguished flame of Garro.
"I want you to pay in blood."
Mortarion violently unfurled his wings. Upon the great wings, countless eyes stared unblinkingly at Horus.
. . .
"Oh, fuck."
Konrad Curze cursed under his breath. He was currently prowling on all fours in the corridors of the Vengeful Spirit, idly toy with the "corpses."
The "corpses" weren't dead yet, but Konrad knew they were already gone.
Muttering to himself, Konrad continued to crawl forward, shuddering once more.
"Gods..." Konrad whispered, "I can hear that Soul-Reaper's whispers again... The exact same words..."
He dipped a finger in the blood on the floor, sniffed it, and then licked it clean.
"Who pissed him off this time...?"
Konrad smacked his lips thoughtfully, then suddenly shot to his feet, threw his arms wide, and burst into laughter.
"At least it wasn't me! Fate, I swear!"
His laughter echoed through the deep corridor, reverberating in layers.
But his mirth didn't last long. Konrad whipped around to face Sevatar, who stood in the distance.
"Go back! Go back! Get out!"
Konrad waved his hand impatiently, signaling Sevatar to leave.
"Run! Run, my Sev! Mortarion, Horus, and I all together—have you forgotten what happened last time?!"
But Sevatar remained standing there, forever vigilant, yet still standing straight.
"I need to know what you want to do, my lord."
Konrad cackled.
"Go to my death," the Primarch said cheerfully. "I've only got one chance. I'm not working for Sanguinius anymore. He won't let me kill this, won't let me kill that—the Archangel has been looking at me the wrong way for a long time."
Once the situation in the First Divine Kingdom eased... Sanguinius's gaze, tinged with dissatisfaction, would fall upon Konrad Curze.
They were not of the same kind, Konrad knew. He was just a madman temporarily kept on a leash.
Sevatar did not move. "The Legion needs you, my lord. You cannot abandon us."
Before the words had even fallen, Sevatar tried to jerk backward, but he forced himself to control his instincts. Konrad Curze was gripping his shoulder, his breath reeking of blood and decay.
"Greedy Sev," Konrad said slowly. "You've already drained ten warehouses of my blood—enough to build the Night Lords' army for ten thousand years."
Konrad Curze leaned down. Sevatar could feel him trembling, but Curze's voice suddenly became steady and low.
"Jago Sevatarion, I want to give you a chance—a chance for the newborn Legion,"
"The Archangel only uses us as executioners. We lack legitimacy. Once this transitional period ends—once the First Divine Kingdom is inevitably brought to judgment—perhaps the Blood Angels can rely on Sanguinius's personal charisma to survive. The Dark Angels can rely on their unique status as the 'First.' But what about us? What about the Night Lords?"
Sevatar felt his shoulder armor creak under the immense pressure. His mind went numb—when had the Primarch ever become so lucid?
Curze's whisper continued, "When that time comes, we will be the greatest sacrifices, the cost and the offering pushed into the light. They will show no mercy. I can already see Guilliman's saintly, affectingly shed tears as he is forced to judge us—he will confess his actions in the dead of night, then use the Night Lords' previous sins to wash away his own hypocritical unease."
Konrad turned his head, snarling a dozen Nostramo curses in a flash, then shook his head and continued.
"There is no way out—unless the Legion can prove itself with something else—and this is the chance, the only chance!"
Konrad Curze said, "Though Mortarion is as nauseating as the Death Guard, so disgusting that a single glance makes me want to vomit, the Imperium simply favors this kind of trash, and this kind of trash is just good enough..."
Konrad paused, staring blankly at Sevatar.
"Enough loyalty," Konrad said in a low voice. Mortarion was not a man of the big picture. He would never be like Guilliman, who, even if his own brother directly or indirectly killed a warrior he admired, would still smile and converse with the brother who killed his warrior, no matter how heartbroken Guilliman might be, for the sake of the big picture.
But Mortarion would not do that—he simply wouldn't. Konrad had learned this firsthand.
But this also meant... Konrad was adjusting the human skin decorations and chains draped over Sevatar's armor.
Mortarion could be used.
The mere thought of using Mortarion brought back the memory of that day. Konrad shuddered involuntarily. But as he looked at Sevatar and the new recruits standing behind him, he fell silent again.
"I will win Mortarion's trust for you," Konrad said. "Mortarion and his Death Guard will be the only Legion able to operate without most restrictions after the Order is established. Go to them, alright?"
"Mortarion... Mortarion can..."
Konrad lowered his head in anguish, his forehead thumping rhythmically against Sevatar's shoulder armor.
He saw the scene from the council: Mortarion standing up, his figure stubborn and unyielding.
When the Pale King spread one of his wings, the one who remained standing in silence was Sevatar.
This would be the prophecy Konrad chose for himself—he would choose the path he desired—just as Sanguinius had.
Even if the price would be a far more agonizing end.
Sevatar's voice pulled him out of the prophecy just in time.
"My lord, there will be no New Order."
Sevatar said he knew Konrad was having another episode. Everything the Primarch said was predicated on the war ending quickly—but that was simply unrealistic.
"You fucking know nothing!"
"I'm going to die! I have to find a way to die!"
Konrad lunged forward, slamming Sevatar against the wall by the throat. Spittle and blood sprayed across Sevatar's face.
"My final order: Get out of here. The fleet will support the Death Guard, or else—"
Konrad raised his gun, aiming it at the Night Lord behind Sevatar. He knew the boy—a New Generation marine, still using Sevatar's gene-seed. Sevatar cherished him.
"Under... stood," Sevatar managed to choke out in High Gothic.
The next moment, he was thrown to the floor. Through the fading light of his oxygen-starved vision, he saw Konrad Curze sprinting away.
It looked almost like he was fleeing in terror.
Sevatar let out a bitter laugh.