Chapter 98: Son of Death
The Imperium established rigid parameters governing wealth disparity between worlds at varying stages of development. This ensured no single individual could amass absolute dominion over entire star systems.
Such measures served not merely as economic policy, but as bulwarks against the corruption that inevitably followed absolute power.
To accelerate humanity's expansion beyond the Solar System, Malcador and the High Lords reduced the stringent requirements for Rogue Trader licenses.
Countless souls departed Terra with dreams of fortune burning in their hearts. They carried the Emperor's light into the galaxy's darkest reaches.
Construction of the second celestial computer proceeded with clockwork precision under the unified efforts of Tech-adepts from across the growing Mechanicum.
With Terra-Bar One's computational assistance, every project within the Solar System achieved unprecedented efficiency rates.
The inaugural Microcosm project neared completion—a modest realm with spatial dimensions measuring merely ten thousand meters in diameter.
Though small in scale, this achievement represented humanity's first tentative grasp of divine creative power.
Once the technology matured and production costs decreased, the Imperium could mass-produce pocket dimensions. They could hide vital assets from the predatory gaze of the Ruinous Powers.
Second-generation battleships, incorporating technologies harvested from alien realities, had completed theoretical modeling and design phases. Production would commence shortly.
These vessels boasted capabilities far exceeding their predecessors—advanced energy systems, superior weapon arrays, and enhanced defensive matrices.
Their deployment would dramatically accelerate the pace of galactic conquest.
More significantly, Imperial shipyards had begun preliminary construction of celestial-class vessels.
Should these endeavors prove successful, humanity would possess the capability to traverse intergalactic distances.
Quantum sensing arrays formed the core of communication towers now deployed across hundreds of star systems radiating outward from Terra.
Real-time Imperial communication networks bound these worlds together in webs of instantaneous coordination. As infrastructure projects expanded, more systems would join this growing matrix of connectivity.
Beyond mere construction and research, specialized organizations flourished under Malcador's patronage.
The Night Watch recruited Blanks from across Imperial space. They trained these soulless individuals to combat threats ordinary mortals could not comprehend.
The most promising would join Daemon Hunter units, dedicated to preventing Warp contamination from poisoning human civilization.
Children displaying psychic potential were transported to Psionic Academies, where master instructors taught them to harness their gifts safely.
These facilities prepared specialized personnel for future expeditions beyond the galaxy's borders.
Those psykers who proved incapable of maintaining control faced neural inhibitors or confinement within specialized containment facilities. Mercy and necessity walked hand in hand.
Despite these achievements, the Emperor found himself dissatisfied with the pace of progress.
"Development remains… insufficient," He murmured, golden eyes reflecting the weight of cosmic ambition.
His vast intellect possessed technologies that could revolutionize entire sectors of human knowledge, yet the Imperium's absorption capacity and industrial base proved inadequate to the task.
At this glacial pace, when would galactic conquest be achieved? When could humanity stride forth into other realities?
After a moment's contemplation, the Emperor suppressed His frustration and returned to governing His growing domain.
Progress, however slow, remained progress. Once educational systems matured and adequate talent reserves accumulated, the assimilation of alien technologies would accelerate naturally.
While the Emperor methodically organized the Great Crusade and developed His burgeoning realm, in a distant corner of the galaxy, there existed a world called Barbarus—a planet perpetually shrouded in noxious miasma and blessed by the plague god Nurgle.
Cruel Overlords ruled this cursed sphere. Their forms bloated with disease and corruption.
Humanity cowered in the lower altitudes, choking on toxic vapors while serving as chattel for their monstrous masters.
They endured existence as slaves, their lives measured in degrees of misery.
"The harvest season approaches once more," rasped a voice from within swirling green fog.
"Only through offerings of fresh flesh and mortal souls can we continue receiving our patron's blessed gifts."
Through the pestilent haze shambled a grotesque figure—a Plague Overlord whose bloated form wept foul-smelling ichors.
His decaying flesh provided host to countless flies. Their buzzing formed an obscene chorus of corruption.
The Overlord gazed toward a distant human settlement and smiled with rotting lips.
He gestured languidly, his voice carrying sickly-sweet tones. "Go forth, my children. Taste fresh meat and drink deep of mortal terror. Let their screams echo across this blessed realm."
From behind the abomination emerged shambling horrors—plague zombies crafted from human corpses. Their forms leaked toxic vapors as they lurched toward the village.
These creatures felt no pain and possessed terrible strength. Their only limitation was their ponderous gait.
Soon, desperate cries pierced the settlement's tranquility. The walking dead showed no mercy or emotion. They existed solely to obey their creator's commands, slaughtering every living soul they encountered.
Against such horrors, the villagers wielded only torches and farming implements.
People fell screaming beneath rotting claws. Their blood painted crude dwellings in abstract patterns of violence. Despair settled over the community like a funeral shroud.
At that moment, a towering figure burst through the settlement's perimeter like an avenging angel.
The giant carried an enormous scythe. He wielded it with the precision of death incarnate as he carved through the shambling horde.
"Stay back!" A farmer swung his mattock at an approaching corpse.
The creature felt no pain. Its putrid hand seized the tool and shoved the man sprawling. He watched helplessly as death lurched toward him.
A blade sang through poisonous air.
The razor-sharp scythe described a perfect arc, severing the zombie's head in a single stroke. A towering silhouette looked down at the fallen man with hollow eyes.
"Are you harmed?" The giant's voice carried depths of sorrow and determination.
The farmer shook his head mutely, awe rendering him speechless.
"Mortarion!" A child's voice called from behind a woman's skirts, excitement overcoming fear.
This was indeed the Fourteenth Primarch, Mortarion, stolen from the Emperor's laboratories by the Ruinous Powers and cast down upon this plague world.
After his abduction from Terra, Mortarion's gestation pod had crashed onto a Barbarus battlefield still reeking with fresh carnage.
Dismembered corpses littered the landscape for kilometers in every direction.
The victorious warlord, the Pale King, discovered the crying infant amid the slaughter.
His first instinct demanded the child's immediate execution, yet he paused. Ordinary humans could not survive in Barbarus's toxic atmosphere, much less cry out with such vigorous health.
Intrigued, the Pale King claimed the child as his own. He bestowed the name Mortarion—"Son of Death."
The warlord subjected young Mortarion to countless experiments, testing his tolerance for increasingly potent toxins. Upon confirming the child's extraordinary resistance to corruption, he resolved to forge Mortarion into a Plague Overlord surpassing even himself.
Mortarion learned warfare from earliest childhood. He battled undead legions, daemon spawn, and alien creatures. None could stand against his growing might.
Such existence continued until the day Mortarion received orders to massacre a human village that had defied tribute demands.
Listening to mortal screams for the first time, confusion stirred within his transhuman consciousness. Some fundamental wrongness troubled his thoughts.
After witnessing humanity's suffering, Mortarion fled his foster father's domain.
Descending from the toxic peaks, the disguised Primarch tasted prepared food for the first time. He experienced genuine human contact and heard laughter—not the mad cackles of his warlord patron during victory, but pure joy untainted by corruption.
In that moment, Mortarion understood with perfect clarity: these humans were his people, and the Overlords were enslaving his own kind.
Consumed with remorse, Mortarion swore sacred oaths to eliminate every warlord on Barbarus and deliver his people from bondage.
Despite his noble features, Mortarion's pallid complexion and hollow gaze inspired terror among the villagers, who saw only another mountain monster.
Yet he persevered. He patiently built trust through simple acts—harvesting grain, mending tools, demonstrating his humanity through deed rather than word.
Today presented his opportunity to prove worthy of their faith.
After confirming the farmer's safety, Mortarion turned toward the remaining enemies. His scythe carved through corrupted air, bisecting three zombies in a single devastating stroke.
Putrid ichor sprayed across the ground, filling the air with nauseating vapors.
No undead creature could withstand him. He moved through their ranks like death personified. Each swing of his weapon claimed multiple foes.
The villagers watched in amazement as this pale giant single-handedly destroyed horrors that knew no fear of death.
Armoured or enhanced, large or small, every enemy fell to his relentless blade.
When silence finally returned to the settlement, Mortarion stood amid piles of putrid remains, his scythe dripping with the essence of corruption.
Yet in his hollow eyes burned something the villagers had never seen before, hope for liberation from their cursed existence.
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