Chapter 458: Mortarion: "Why Was the Lion Not This Obedient During the Heresy?!"
War itself has no meaning.
It has no meaning, no pattern, no depth.
It is a thing, not noble, nor should it be pursued with enthusiasm.
It chooses to convey itself to others in the most sudden, simple, and unambiguous way, like a punch to the face.
He is the method.
Bang!
The steel plates of the warship shuddered under impact, then tore open.
Bolter rounds? Plasma? Or those forbidden weapons whose names he couldn't even recall?
Vorx, Chaos Lord, Captain of Mortarion's 5th Great Company, was fleeing from one hiding place to another. His damp, slick body made him look like a maggot wriggling in a sewer, with barely a moment to catch his breath or ponder why he was there.
In a sense, perhaps being on those planets swallowed by flames would be safer. At least he wouldn't have to dodge collapsing metal structures while running back and forth on roads filled with gunfire, praying for a miracle.
Facing the Ultramarines was indeed dangerous, and he might even run into the Custodes, but at least there he could eat and drink his fill, and even watch Nurglings gnaw on mortal brains to pass the time.
But now, he could only choose to flee, savoring the hardship of escape and the terror before death.
He dared not recall what he was facing now, nor what was chasing him from behind.
The Death Guard Captain ran, kept running, darting in and out of culverts and tunnels bored by Nurgle daemons, using his slippery body to navigate and hide in these passages.
What was I thinking?
How did I unknowingly walk into a trap?
Vorx felt a wave of regret.
He was ordered to intercept another counterattack launched by Greater Ultramar.
Before that, his gene-father had warned him to be careful, to retreat when he couldn't hold on. His role was to delay, to let those Chaos warbands use their flesh and blood to buy more margin for error for the Death Guard's offensive, not to bury one-seventh of the Death Guard's strength here.
The result?
He was smashed to pieces.
This Legion was purer. Most of their energy was no longer diverted into politics, logistics, and other matters, transforming into a firmer commitment to a single goal, and at the same time, deadly precision.
First, the outer systems were raided while Vorx was conducting routine maneuvers.
Then, during the maneuvers, the enemy's dispersed fleet suddenly gathered with exaggerated execution, locked onto his position, and completed the encirclement.
The battle-hardened Vorx was arrogantly attacking Imperial territory, wanting to add another layer to his blessings, and fell into the encirclement before he could even react. Behind this Legion was a steady stream of supplies.
Now the situation had taken a sharp turn for the worse. Gunfire erupted inside his flagship; shouts and screams rose and fell. The echoes of dying creatures sparked with pure terror, making Vorx almost certain that where they were going was definitely not the Grandfather's garden.
So he could only run, run hard, without thinking about who was chasing him.
Don't look back.
They used to mock the Dark Angels as cold hunters, mock them for being played like fools by Typhus in the Obscurus Segmentum, mock their lack of achievements in the Siege of Terra despite their superior numbers before the Astronomican.
But now the hunter army was everywhere.
Vorx even saw many familiar faces among them.
Openly and honestly, after ten thousand years, they finally found the opportunity to openly set up a formation in Ultramar and fight the Death Guard.
And the result was the Death Guard shattering at the first touch.
The experience they were proud of, often used to mock loyalist Chapters, the creed of resilience under the gene-father's leadership, looked more like slowness and clumsiness in the eyes of these opponents. They could only collapse under the opponent's consummate skill and Ultramar's exaggerated logistics.
Hm, maybe count the Ultramarines in too.
He comforted himself so.
Suddenly, Vorx became nervous.
He quickly touched the passage that had grown emerald leaves, as if extracting nutrients from it, sensing something stirring above.
He picked up his weapon, his mutated eye carefully extending from the armor gap, looking at the corridor.
Fifty meters ahead, dense smoke produced by some high-heat weapon evaporating metal parted. Several figures emerged from the haze, advancing slowly, unhurriedly. They were all huge, the bulging shoulder silhouettes clearly marking them as Space Marines.
For a moment, Vorx actually began to hope their excessive height meant they were Space Marines blessed by the gods, but clearly, in the era of Primaris Marines, they were not.
There were thirteen of them, wearing the winged sword emblem of the Dark Angels, efficiently slaughtering every living creature they saw.
Precise, crisp. Talents considered top-tier even among Astartes were fully utilized. These were elites selected from battlefields countless other Legions had never known.
Nowhere to run.
This was the conclusion.
His tracks would be exposed.
Vorx retracted his eye, looked down at the floor blocked by roots, wondering if his slippery body could squeeze through the beams and find a way to the shuttle launch bay.
Then, one of the Dark Angels raised a fist.
The squad stopped.
Damn it!
Vorx subconsciously tightened his grip on his weapon. Looking at the broken claw emblem on the other side of that squad of Terminators, he couldn't muster the courage. He didn't believe the power in his hands could protect him from such a group of enemies, as if the power granted by the Plague God couldn't give him a shred of security.
Damn it, just a mere surgical upgrade allows these beings who should have drowned in the material universe to catch up with our bodies tempered in the Warp!
Vorx nervously scrutinized the situation, looking at the ornate script on their armor. Amidst jealousy, a subtle unwillingness inexplicably appeared in his mind.
If only it were me standing there right now, standing with the gene-father, obeying the gene-father's orders. No Typhus, no disaster that made everyone suffer. The Primarch still pursuing what he liked, instead of drifting with the tide because of his sons.
The Death Guard would also become equally brilliant and beautiful, exceptionally powerful, fighting for something greater.
Click~
The leader turned his huge helmet, aiming at him quickly, precise as a machine.
A pair of crimson lenses pierced the smoke, staring straight at the eye poking out from the growing branches.
Vorx felt like he had fallen into an ice cave.
He was silent as a cicada in winter. The extended eye didn't move, meeting the gaze, disguising himself as a small creature growing from Nurgle's biological wall.
If only I were really a small animal, maybe these executioners would let me go for being small enough.
Only a very short moment passed, shorter than a second.
Then, the Dark Angel lowered his fist.
Vorx remained in place, maintaining his original posture, trembling, daring not move.
He wasn't like this before. Before, he was calm, benevolent, and not lacking in the spirit of sacrifice. He respected everything about the Primarch, even if Mortarion decided their deaths on the ship back then, it didn't matter.
But why.
Annoying fear hovered in his brain.
At this moment, Vorx deeply felt his consciousness was completely twisted. The strong desire for life even twisted his calmness that he was proud of.
He saw me. He definitely saw me.
Even mortal eyes could see him at that distance, let alone Space Marines.
But why did they choose to ignore him?
Those things have no mercy.
They can't even understand what mercy is when facing enemies.
But what am I afraid of? I am a warrior, Mortarion's blade, the Siegemaster, his pride. How can I be afraid?!
Contradictory psychology scratched at Vorx's mind. This warrior who swore eternal loyalty to the Primarch because of Mortarion's salvation suddenly found he was not himself.
I—
Bang!
Just after a brief doubt, this Death Guard Captain, the former leader of the 'Lords of Silence' warband, exploded.
Drip~
This behavior is really something one can't get used to.
The Lion stepped aside from the slurry, letting his domain replace these rootless pollutions, stepping over the corpse that only had legs left.
An easy win.
Although these Death Guard spells were annoying, reminding him of those Khrave who had deep connections with the Warp, they were not difficult to deal with now that the Pentagrammaton was also countering them.
And probably due to the lack of supplies from the 30k era, the resilience of these Death Guards couldn't last too long in reality. This was the absolute gap in the volume of the political entities behind the two.
The Lion looked up. Through the corridor already burned through, he could see the Plague Planet ignited by phosphex Exterminatus below.
He was containing and pressuring Mortarion, forcing him to choose to crash into the area guarded by Karna.
Now this task was completed perfectly. If Mortarion didn't want to fight him, he could only fight Karna, or choose to retreat after wasting a lot of manpower.
Either decision was acceptable to the Dawnbreakers.
The Lion watched this howling soul being pulled into the forest, along with those Death Guards who died with him in this instant.
Don't get it wrong; he didn't possess the peculiar abilities of the Dawnbreakers. He couldn't do things like directly annihilating daemons without the help of those rituals or equipment he just learned not long ago.
But he had his own domain in the Warp, and there happened to be many people in the domain, even Watchers in the Dark. They could keep an eye on these guys falling into the Lion's domain.
Honestly, this matter hadn't always been a good thing.
The Lion thought again of the fear of those Caliban residents when they saw him, regretting his actions more and more.
Even though these residents forgave him quickly after he chose to admit his mistakes and apologize, choosing to accept the duties 'bestowed' upon them by their new life under his explanation and the help of his brothers.
In layman's terms, after Ramesses' initial investment and strengthening, they would act as daemons under the Lion, participating in the Great Game similar to the daemons of the Four Gods, killing other daemons entering the Lion's domain, forcing them to produce value, or making them become value themselves.
Ramesses would come regularly to convert those emotional powers into pure spiritual power, preventing the Lion from being affected by possible extreme emotions.
Although Ramesses said mercilessly that ordinary gods probably weren't as extreme as him.
The Lion's face darkened.
It was said that this brother had started a new round of research based on the data provided by the Laughing God, intending to crack the secret of the Eldar gods dominating Eldar faith without being backlashed. By then, even without these special brothers, the Lion wouldn't be affected by faith or emotions.
"Lion, ship silenced. Mission complete."
Merian, a Knight-Captain under Astelan, trapped on Caliban for a century by his orders. If history hadn't been changed, he would have become a prisoner of The Rock, dying in mad interrogation.
Now, Astelan was dead.
Luther was dead too, and the Chapter Masters of the Dark Angels.
They seemed exceptionally tragic before death, complaining about the Lion, complaining about Arthur, complaining about the Lion's methods, complaining about why Arthur couldn't appear earlier.
And others, those Dark Angels descendants coerced by the Chapter, they also paid the price more or less for their actions.
Yet he stood here, commanding those warriors who forgave him.
Hearing Merian's tone without any grudge upon hearing he still commanded the Legion, the Lion inexplicably thought of Ramesses, that brother whose appearance and aesthetics were quite déjà vu.
Ramesses had a saying that was sharp but indeed correct.
'You didn't go to military court as a war criminal only because you are a Primarch!'
The Lion's face darkened again.
He suddenly found that this universe was surprisingly tolerant of Primarchs. Many things unforgivable for ordinary people were acceptable to the victims when done by them.
And what did a Primarch need to do?
What was needed was for the Primarch to be firm in his heart, discover and recognize his own power, and then ensure not to be bewildered by the power of the Empyrean.
"Hm."
Before Merian reported again, the Lion responded.
"Gather the troops. Let's move to the next target."
He swung his sword. The surrounding forest opened again, leading him away from this ship.
With the help of the riddle-free Dawnbreakers, he was very clear about his power now. His natural intuition and pragmatic mentality allowed him to cleverly integrate these characteristics into combat.
The Dark Angels obeyed orders, recorded data, and tallied results. The Lion precisely and efficiently marked the actions of each team, and the Dark Angels members ensured they could be completed perfectly.
Ultramarines, Blood Angels, Black Templars... Warriors from other bloodlines integrated into it, helping each other, learning from each other.
Subsequently, the fleet left behind swathes of ruins and set off again.
Behind them were transport fleets and planets constantly pumping blood for this team.
The Lion—
This cold, terrifying, unfathomable, arrogant, disgusting guy.
How could he get along with the Dawnbreakers without friction?
If the Heresy had been like this, would the Traitors even bother fighting?
Just surrender directly.
Facing the battle line turning red in just a few months, such a gradually grim situation made Mortarion curse in his mind. Back when facing us brothers, I didn't see you, the 'Firstborn of the Emperor', being so dedicated.
"Phew~"
Throwing away this headache-inducing question, he immediately asked the Nightbringer if he could stop the inferior creation he spoke of.
"If I create an opportunity for you, can you stop the Lion?"
"Naturally."
The Nightbringer said arrogantly.
From Mortarion's perspective alone, these Primarchs were just extensions of those Ruinous Powers, putting on a shell of the material universe. Even the power they possessed was loathed and unwanted by their own masters.
Referencing their attitude towards the so-called fifth god, other Primarchs were just extensions of that fifth god.
Even if just a shard, the Nightbringer was confident in dealing with such enemies.
Such things were far inferior to the Eldar gods. In the war with the Old Ones back then, these creations were just food they grabbed at will to suck souls.
If you really want to deal with him, changing to Khaine would be more appropriate.
"I need you to stop him. No need to interfere with his command. Just make him and his fleet unable to intervene in my war for a month."
After speaking, Mortarion's cold gaze fell on Calth, guarded by the Burning Angel Karna, a thorn in his eye, a spike in his flesh.
Regarding this C'tan Shard who came to the door on his own initiative, Mortarion also knew his demands.
The C'tan Shard noticed the current state of this universe, and the situation where some betrayers were declining but still lively. He was obsessed with strengthening power. For the Nightbringer, who subconsciously refused to merge other shards after being pitted miserably by the Deceiver, the only thing that could maximize his power was his scythe thrown into the Warp by the Eldar back then.
Only these Warp creations he loathed in the past could help him.
The Nightbringer wasn't sure if these guys shaped by countless extreme emotions of the War in Heaven would fulfill their promises, but paying a little combat power to get such an opportunity was fine.
"Acceptable."
The Nightbringer agreed.
As long as he wasn't asked to deal with those four wicked things, he could accept other choices.
After all, although the scythe symbolizing his power and authority, which even the waves of the Warp couldn't destroy, was precious, he couldn't let this shard lose its life.
Although theoretically, the concept of death didn't exist for C'tan, being shattered into powder and thrown into the Warp was no different from death. Wanting to recover was equivalent to the probability of building a castle with wind and sand.
"Hm."
Mortarion raised his hand. Thick grey gas pumped out of him with this movement.
Mortal servants fell in an instant. Their deaths turned into nutrients. The surrounding Death Guard, after enduring a brief baptism of death, all scrambled to avoid it.
This paused his movement.
Death again. Death not recognized by the Grandfather.
The 5th Company was annihilated.
Connection broken, sons disappeared, souls completely gone.
Can't wait any longer.
Noticing the surrounding Death Guard, except for Morarg, subconsciously retreated three steps, Mortarion clenched his fist.
Compared to the initial sadness, he suddenly couldn't muster any emotion now.
This made him even more panicked.
He could feel himself becoming indifferent, accepting death just like convincing himself to continue serving the Grandfather.
Massive death power seeped out of his body.
"My Lord!"
Morarg spoke up.
Miraculously, the indifferent emotion no longer gnawed deeply at him. Mortarion's fatigue lessened slightly. A simple call soothed the voice lingering in his head, as if responding to his prayer.
Can't wait any longer.
Mortarion quickly let go of Morarg's hand, which had been eaten away to the bone by the death power he released.
The Nightbringer examined this guy who had difficulty controlling himself, suppressing the greed to devour him.
Honestly, if the Primarch was really at this level, even if he was just a C'tan Shard now, without the intervention of higher-spec power, he might really be able to deal with it.
So, what to do next?
Mortarion quickly concentrated his thoughts, constantly recalling the names of those sons in his mind, and then analyzing the battle situation.
Ku'Gath was afraid of him now, protecting the Godblight on another ship; the Nightbringer would behead the Lion, thereby breaking the military deployment of this sector; he, wrapped in death, would find and slaughter the bloody angel, and then rule Macragge.
The Death Guard would descend on that land. They would break the Fortress of Hera, take Guilliman from the Corpse Emperor, and burn this sanctuary of the Ultramarines to the ground.
Morarg looked around.
With the continuous death of Nurgle's side including daemons, believers, etc., the power Mortarion now mastered became stronger and stronger.
Nurgle loathed this powerful force. As a vessel, Mortarion accepted this gift.
Similarly, a large number of Nurgle daemons manifested through this, gradually replacing those absent members. The number of these daemons was so amazing that even Mortarion marveled at Nurgle's handwriting. Their bloated bodies piled up on each other, squeezed into a lump in the gathering area, condensing into dark green mold spots on the pale floor, standing here as if forced by a greater power, observing the Death Lord with fearful eyes.
They all faced trouble. As the Plague Fleet approached Macragge, the situation worsened. The fire in the Grandfather's garden burned more and more vigorously. Even now, one could still see the bright light rising in the sky. Even pressing so much pain on those worlds constituting Macragge's defensive barrier, they couldn't completely cross the final limit.
They still needed the flesh and blood of the largest number of intelligent lives in the galaxy to complete certain things—
Such as truly breaking through this defense line.
They were still strong, still accepted the gaze of the god.
Then do it.
I have the help of my sons. I will be the winning side.
Mortarion looked at his palm, sniffing the power he gained from the death of countless sons. The death of his sons was like a constantly torn wound, making him stronger while also hating all this more.
He looked at Calth, at this solid barrier he had to attack.
He would shatter it!
Macragge would be theirs soon.
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