Chapter 466: This Time, Let the God Choose
"Truly," Karna spoke, his voice resonating with a solar heat that seemed to dry the very air. "You are still lying to yourself."
"I do not believe your tenure in this galaxy is long enough to grant you such insight," Mortarion replied. He had shaken off his brief stupor, though a fresh, deep wound now marred his pallid form.
"Insight?" Karna's eyes remained locked on Mortarion's face, never wavering. "I do not need to look. I know everything."
If slaying the creature before him would end the rot once and for all, Karna would have done so a thousand times over, and he was eager to do it now.
Every warrior on this field knew exactly what they were fighting for. But what of Mortarion?
He had orchestrated so much suffering, endured so much agony—for what? To escape one tyrant only to serve another?
The Unattainable Mountain. The Unbearable Toxin.
Was he seeking praise from the "Grandfather" who had finally shown His true, callous face? Or was he still waiting for an apology from the Emperor—the father he had cast aside?
He loathed these deeds. He hated this path. Yet he walked it anyway, face twisted in a permanent mask of bitterness, leading a legion of sons to their deaths. He suffered, and then used that suffering to punish everyone around him, all while posturing as if his every sin was a righteous necessity.
The Death Lord cast his gaze across the horizon.
In this moment, he felt a metaphysical link with every one of his scions. He saw them fighting across the broad ramparts of Calth, clashing with the fortress defenders.
Morarg, Necrosius, Dragan—they led their respective companies, storming the base of the walls. They ignored the trembling earth and the falling masonry, charging into the killing fields the Blood Angels had prepared with lethal foresight.
They were entangled with the IX Legion in the vertical shafts and grand staircases of the hive cities, piling corpses seven layers deep. They surged from trenches beneath the curtain walls, launching counter-attacks that showcased their iron will against the defenders' unparalleled courage.
More of his sons descended in drop pods through breaches in the void shields, or scaled the fortifications from siege platforms. The Plague Fleet was all but ashes now. Ground-based macro-batteries continued to fire, dismantling the increasingly fragile invaders. Siege engines collapsed in clouds of phosphex that illuminated the walls like a rising sun. Titan Legions stood as silent, hollowed-out statues under the lance-strikes of the fleet above, crashing into the earth like fallen gods.
It was a tragedy, but these machines and transports had fulfilled their purpose. Their massive husks provided cover for the "little men" advancing below. They did not die for a grand ideal. They died for him.
For Mortarion.
The XIV Legion fought on.
The enemy charge did not falter.
The Death Guard crossed the great bridges in swarms, an unstoppable human tide howling through the thick, chemically condensed fog. The sound of their movement was a sickening rustle, like a hive of insects or a shuffling horde of the parasitic dead.
They run toward death, Gabriel Seth thought, his hands gripping his massive chain-blade. Every movement they make is a spasm of agony, as if pure pain flows through their veins instead of blood.
The Death Guard were numerous, their bodies bearing the grotesque marks of Warp-favor. Even compared to Gabriel Seth—who was legendary for his height even among the Blood Angels—each of these traitors was exceptionally broad and heavy.
These foul turncoats advanced with the same mechanical persistence as the brothers Seth had already butchered on the flooded causeways. They maintained a rigid, archaic military formation. Some even seemed to consciously control their protruding bone growths, marching with a grim, familiar discipline.
The pale tide moved like an avalanche across the horizon, seemingly inexorable.
The Legionaries saw only the enemy, their gazes fixed through helms fused with their own necrotic flesh. Many were unrecognizable as Astartes, having become hunched, lumbering monsters. Their brows were swollen or shriveled with infection, and the arms that held their weapons were too mutated to be called human.
The monsters charged him like moths to a flame.
The Ultramar Auxilia maintained a constant rhythm of fire. Gabriel Seth, trusting the defensive line to his more stoic brothers, threw himself into the center of the horde.
VRRRRRRR—!
The chain-teeth tore through the air. His two-handed great-blade swept in a wide arc, carving a crescent of gore through the surging tide. Behind him, the rotary cannons of the mortals shredded the air around Seth, clipping away the smaller daemons and pox-walkers that swarmed the Death Guard. They exploded in bursts of foul ichor under the hail of lead and fire, only to be crushed by the advancing boots of those behind them.
The precise support fire provided Seth and his counter-charging Astartes a "comfortable" zone of slaughter. Behind them came the heavy armor—the Leman Russes, Baneblades, and Fellblades of the Auxilia. These iron behemoths pressed forward, allowing the "spears" of the Blood Angels to drive deep into the enemy heart.
If Khorne has made long-range fire unreliable, then we shall press our muzzles against their very faces!
But for every enemy erased by the saturation fire, ten more emerged from the ash. They stepped over their own dead, filling gaps in the line without fear, without hesitation.
Seth saw a Death Guard warrior struck by a volkite pistol. The man's arm was vaporized by the searing thermal discharge; his wrist and a rusted blade tumbled into the rubble, yet the traitor continued to advance, the radiation weapon in his other hand still outputting a steady stream of fire.
Another Death Guard had half his face and a horn shorn off by a Blood Angel's parry. He did not slow down. The hand swinging the massive greataxe did not tremble. It was as if pain was a luxury he had long ago discarded.
The silent charge continued.
Perhaps this was what the warlords of ten thousand years ago felt when they faced this army.
They were slow to react, their souls were withered, but they possessed a terrifying depth of combat experience and a staggering loyalty to their Primarch. They weathered fire that should have reduced them to atoms and closed the distance for the melee.
The massive walls of the hive shook under the weight of the full engagement. In the final seconds, Gabriel Seth discarded his empty volkite pistol and gripped his chain-sword with both hands.
He let out a roar—the battle cry of his Chapter—but it was instantly swallowed by the cacophony of clashing steel and ceramite.
From the moment the Death Guard struck, time seemed to dilate.
They were masters of the attritional slog, turning every exchange into a mire of endurance. They made every second of combat a peak of agony. Only a pure contempt for life allowed one to break free from their pace. They ground everything down to a crawl, dragging the entire world into their stagnant bog.
Seth recognized the trap. He tightened his grip and abandoned all thought of defense.
Gabriel Seth was a warrior of the highest order, equal to any Blood Angel who had ever lived.
He judged every Death Guard who breached the fire-line to be a master in their own right, augmented by death and the Warp, having finally found a purpose for their violence. These warriors had transcended the limits of the transhuman.
But Seth knew his true weapon was his mind—the legacy of the IX Legion, reinforced by the unquestionable will instilled by Karna's example.
Defend life. Eradicate the threat.
That focus made their assault as swift and hungry as a forest fire. Combined with the unified nature of their bloodline—a singular purpose that persisted even beneath the veil of absolute rage—this will was etched into their genetic core, honed by decades of the Burning Angel's tutelage.
Karna's teachings had stripped away Seth's fear of his own blood. It had annihilated the doubt born of the Red Thirst and the Black Rage. It had erased the notion that their genetic "flaws" were stains. They had conquered them, and now, they wielded them.
This mindset allowed Seth to enter a state of absolute focus. He could see his path clearly through the slaughter. Beside him, Sarpedon and Malakim Phoros did the same.
RIP!
Fresh blood instantly coated Seth's faceplate.
He cut down the fastest of the chargers with ease. It was a strange sensation—he could see the flickers of consummate skill from the veterans of the Long War, but they could not match the power of the bodies the Dawnstar Lords had provided, nor the intensity of their training.
It was like fighting a group of junkies who had once been strongmen; they had discarded the drugs, but their bodies remained poisoned by the memory of them.
Warp-corruption saturated every Chaos Marine, turning once-steadfast heroes into disjointed echoes of their former glory.
The iron tracks of the tanks rolled over them, advancing in lockstep with the Blood Angels.
"FOR HUMANITY!"
The roaring chain-sword left a deep furrow in the earth. Gabriel Seth charged.
In the name of Karna, forward!
He held his blade high, counter-charging the very heart of the enemy path. He erased a silent face from existence, then thrust the great-blade through a Death Guard's chest, heaving upward to bisect the traitor from gut to throat.
CLANG!
A chain-axe bit into his crossguard, sparks showering his helm.
With a backhand blow, Seth cleaved the axeman's head from his shoulders. He shifted his weight, slamming into a Nurgle daemon and treading it into the muck.
Flesh scattered; bone splintered.
In the name of the Angel, forward!
The massive blade bit deep into necrotic meat. Seth delivered an elbow strike that sent a Death Guard reeling, his head snapping back so violently it flew off the neck.
The centipede-like entity that formed the traitor's spine writhed in the air. Seth's sword, carrying the weight of the still-struggling Death Guard, swung in a wide arc, burying itself into another suit of withered yellow plate. The rotating teeth spat gore and shrapnel from the wound, tearing through carapace, soft tissue, and clumps of viral matter.
The iron fragments of the traitor's armor clattered to the floor. A rusted dog-tag, etched with the name Dragan, glinted in the firelight.
Suddenly, a scythe tore away a piece of Seth's pauldron. A blade slid across his ribs. Seth hacked a head from its shoulders, the momentum of his charge sending the skull flying into a nearby opponent, staggering him. He slammed his crossguard into the man's chest-plate, drove him to the ground, and impaled his vitals.
He swung again, splitting a skull until only a jaw and a wagging tongue remained.
In the name of Karna, forward!
Gabriel Seth leapt from the ground, soaring into the air. Around him, bolter rounds crisscrossed the sky. His vision was a kaleidoscope of tactical data and prophetic flickers—images of incoming fire and future kills blooming and fading in his enraged mind.
He spun in mid-air, drawing his great-sword back to its limit. The wind of his descent billowed the sacred vestments hanging from his plate. His golden eyes erupted with a white-hot light. As if guided by destiny, he found his mark. His hearts thundered; a searing heat rose in his palms as he crashed into the press.
Meat for the grinder!
He kicked forward, his greave snapping a power-halberd that lunged for him. With a single strike, he shat away the hands that held it. He hacked, used an elbow to hoist a charging Death Guard over his head, and hurled him onto a forest of spears made of the corpses of his own kin. He lunged, shearing through the neck and spine of a leaping daemon.
And then, he met his true opponent. Their opponent.
Morarg, the Plague Lord. Equerry to Mortarion.
CRACK!
Joints shattered.
Seth was struck with a devastating force in the first exchange. A masterful sweep from the Plague Lord snapped his left arm. Seth could only manage to shear through the cabling beneath Morarg's neck before a fist punched straight through his heavy faceplate.
Morarg hoisted him up with one hand, spun once, and hurled him across the battlefield. Tons of reinforced ceramite were tossed into the chaotic sky like a child's toy.
For Seth, the world spun.
Even though he was prepared—even though he knew these slaves of the Dark Gods had wielded world-shaking power for ten millennia—a flicker of disappointment touched his heart.
But disappointment was not despair.
BOOM!
The broken war-machine Seth had been thrown toward collided with a distant fortification, the reactor detonating in a blinding flash.
As if it were a signal, the golden-clad Sanguinary Guard raised the massive banners of the IX Legion and the Dawnbreakers. The counter-charge tore through the Death Guard lines. They drove their standards into the earth that should have belonged to the traitors. The sacred icons stood tall, snapping in the wind. The Red Tears of Baal represented the infinite hatred and vengeance of the Blood Angels, ready to descend in judgment.
"BY THE HOLY BLOOD!"
Every Blood Angel raised their blade, chanting the names of the two Primarchs. Their unified roar drowned out even the thunder of the armored column surging behind them.
The battlefield was a soup of smoke and blood-mist.
Sarpedon slammed into Morarg head-on.
The Elder—the warrior who had once stood against Abaddon on the walls of Terra—blocked the path of an equally ancient enemy.
Morarg let out an excited roar, but reality would not grant a traitor his heart's desire.
The Blood Angels swarmed forward, stepping over the half-kneeling form of Gabriel Seth. They tore their own opponents apart, their movements so fast that their own blood turned to mist in the air as they breached the toxic clouds to reach the greater foe.
This was the truth: there were always more behind him.
Warriors like him. Warriors better than him. Astartes. Mortals.
Brave. Fearless.
Endless.
Morarg of the Death Guard and his entire retinue were submerged in a flood of gold and crimson fire.
The elite Blood Angels cut down the high-threat traitors. The heavy vehicles specialized in breakthrough operations closed in, their tracks and cannons grinding the remnants into slurry.
Again. Strike.
The Belisarius Furnace knit his body back together. As strength returned to his limbs, Gabriel Seth leapt. He used the opening to drive his blade into the enemy's neck. Attacks aimed at him were parried by his peerless brothers. The chain-teeth roared, shearing through plate, churning through meat. Seth's axe-blade bit through Death Guard armor, and blood gouted like a fountain.
Slaughter.
Purge the enemies of Humanity!
In the name of Karna, forward!
FORWARD!
The tension in his hands slackened.
Huff! Huff! Huff!
Gabriel Seth stood up, supported by an Elder. He looked back.
The furrows his sword had carved into the earth lay far behind him.
Justice over evil—an old, clichéd story.
Morarg's advancing frame was frozen in time. His head rolled away. Blood geysered from the stump of his neck. Then, the body encased in its armor shuddered and collapsed.
It was that simple.
He knew.
In the moment it happened, he knew.
Only as time seemed to pause did Mortarion see the full scope of the Ruinous Powers.
What was it all for?
He had to admit it now: Karna was right.
It was self-evident.
When the spear pierced his body once more, leaving a mark that would not heal, the master who granted him this power seemed to hesitate. Mortarion could no longer even track the movements of his opponent.
This was the gap.
The Angel's expression had changed. Countless souls were converging upon him—those who had fallen since the start of the war were surrendering their essence to the Angel they believed in.
The face of the one conducting this power held only one thing: resolve.
The time had come!
"Why couldn't we use it earlier?" the Lion asked, reaching out to close a data-table where one of the values had reached zero.
"To prevent Nurgle from making the Death Guard the scapegoat," Ramesses explained, handing over a copy of the Warp Ritual Compendium he and the Eldar Farseers had drafted. "Think of it this way: we have a nuclear weapon. The opponent has three ways to block it. We had to remove the least important one first. The Death Guard returning to the fold was the Golden Geezer's hint—a rare moment of clarity. They don't have to serve as Nurgle's health-bar in the Warp anymore. Those guys know all the tricks of the Empyrean."
Ignoring Ramesses' blasphemous habit of grouping the Emperor and the Four Gods into the same calculation, the Lion finished the report. He understood.
"And now?" he asked.
"Now, it's our turn to set the examination for Nurgle. Two choices. He cannot refuse."
Ramesses smiled. His projection looked down at the vortex gathering on the planet's surface.
His gaze seemed to pierce through light-years of distance to settle on Mortarion.
"Watch closely."
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