On the way back to the Reaper camp, Nyx and Mortarion walked side by side, conversing freely. Nyx could clearly feel that his newly acknowledged 'good eldest son' truly regarded him as a father — and trusted him completely.
Mortarion, who had suppressed his heart for so many years, who had trusted no one, poured out all his confusion and resolve. Honestly, Nyx felt that even if the Emperor himself came in person, Mortarion might not confide so much in Him.
This situation stirred a faint twinge of guilt in Nyx's heart... Well, Nyx admitted he didn't really have much conscience to begin with.
He regarded this outpouring of trust more as an excellent opportunity to get to know his brother and supplement valuable historical records of Mortarion's early development.
"Father."
Mortarion stopped abruptly. He fixed Nyx with a resolute gaze. "I wish to know what the outside world is like... And why Barbarus has become what it is now."
From the two books Nyx had gifted him, he had glimpsed the glorious civilisation humanity had once possessed. But this poison‑shrouded, barren Barbarus was clearly incompatible with that glory.
"Well... That is a long story, its roots reaching into a very distant past..."
Nyx immediately began recounting to his 'good eldest son' a concise history of the rise and fall of human civilisation. Of course, Nyx concealed and obscured the critical information Mortarion was not yet ready to learn.
But the rest was sufficient for Mortarion to understand the current state of the galaxy and humanity's dire circumstances.
After listening, Mortarion sank into a brief silence. His cognitive framework seemed to be quietly shifting. Soon, however, he raised his head again. An invisible restraint in his eyes appeared, in an instant, to be completely shattered. They now blazed with unprecedented depth and sharpness.
"Father. I think... I understand my mission now."
His voice was low and powerful. "In this galaxy, countless human worlds await liberation. Countless kinsmen struggle under the oppression of xenos..."
"So I want to—"
"So what do you want to do?"
Nyx asked with interest.
Mortarion's shift in thinking, in Nyx's view, was far simpler and more straightforward than Curze's. Though both had tragic pasts, the innate paranoia in Mortarion's character had forged an extraordinarily unyielding will.
"Well... I want to kill every last xenos who dares oppress humanity — grind them into waste!"
Before he had even finished speaking, the momentum around Mortarion abruptly surged. Even his robust form, already over two metres tall, seemed to rise further — buoyed by his escalating resolve.
Mortarion considered this declaration perfect, a clear demonstration of his determination. To Nyx's ears, however, it went click in his heart.
Broken. It seems I overdid it. I've turned Mortarion into a 'mad dog'.
...Ah, well. Better a mad dog than a paranoid standing on the tip of a bull's horn...
Nyx's expression twitched slightly. He immediately employed his powers to manipulate his 'yellow‑skinned' guise into an expression of appreciation and relief.
"Good son! Your father is most gratified!"
"Father...!"
Let us set aside this 'touching' scene of father‑son affection. Within the Reaper camp, Lasker paced nervously back and forth. Mortarion's delayed return made this faithful follower deeply uneasy.
"No. I must go to Lord Mortarion!"
Anxiety finally consumed his patience. Lasker grabbed his crude iron weapon and was about to rush out of the camp. A man seated nearby reached out to stop him.
"Calm yourself, Lasker."
His voice was smooth, slightly cold. "You must trust the Death Lord. Do not forget — even those xenos monsters cannot survive the passage of his scythe."
"Calm? How can you tell me to calm down, Typhon?!"
The one who spoke to dissuade him was none other than Calas Typhon. His face was gaunt, his cheekbones sharp as knives. His sunken eye sockets cast deep shadows in the campfire light.
Most striking was his bald head and his 'protective gear' — which had almost completely replaced his natural lips. Coarse black metal studs were pierced and stitched through both sides of his mouth.
This gave him a perpetually cold, unsmiling expression, as though he regarded everything with contempt. This was not decoration, but the legacy of a primitive, brutal protection Barbaran warriors used to survive the toxic mist.
At this moment, a restless, cold aura faintly emanated from his body — an unconscious release of his psychic power.
Due to Mortarion's overt antipathy toward psychic energy, Typhon could only restrain himself on ordinary days. He dared to ease his suppression only when Mortarion was absent.
"Do not worry, Lasker. Lord Mortarion will never fall before he accomplishes his great deed — to lead us Reapers in overthrowing those xenos atop the mountain."
Typhon's tone was calm, yet carried inexplicable conviction.
Seeing that Typhon would not accompany him, Lasker did not press further. He shot a glance at the other's seemingly indifferent demeanour; an inexplicable spark of irritation rose in his heart. He turned and swiftly headed toward the camp's perimeter.
The moment he reached the camp's edge, however, he encountered the returning Mortarion — and the 'yellow‑skinned' Nyx beside him. His guard instantly went up.
"Lord Mortarion! You're back! ...This?!"
Lasker's mouth fell slightly open. He rejoiced at the Primarch's safe return — but Nyx's inhuman appearance immediately put him on high alert.
"Do not be alarmed."
Mortarion raised a hand, cutting him off. "Go and gather everyone in the camp. Convene at the clearing. I will explain everything to you personally."
Lasker was startled by this. His gaze flickered several times between the solemn‑faced Mortarion and Nyx — who looked, despite everything, like a xenos.
Then, suddenly, he seemed struck by inspiration. An expression of instant 'comprehension' dawned on Lasker's face, mingled with faint excitement and reverence.
"Understood! I'll gather everyone immediately!"
With these words, he turned without hesitation and swiftly ran deeper into the camp. Seeing this, Mortarion nodded in satisfaction.
"Father. You must forgive their rudeness."
He turned back to Nyx and continued: "That young man is called Dura Lasker. A rare talent among us Reapers — especially in weapons‑crafting."
"...Indeed..."
Nyx watched Lasker's rapidly retreating back. He couldn't shake the feeling that, at the very end, the boy's gaze upon him had seemed... somewhat off.
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