The Gloriana Queen: Endurance, as the flagship of a pure grey fleet, lorded over this world in a suffocating silence.
Mortarion was the sole master of this silent void king. He and his Fourteenth Legion, equally silent, resolute, and unstoppable on the battlefield, were the only protagonists in this xenos extermination campaign, even though Horus was the one who initiated it.
The Primarch of the Luna Wolves Legion aimed to further unite the two brothers by his side through a joint operation, allowing Jaghatai and Mortarion to better integrate into his inner circle.
For this purpose, Horus even gave up the glory of this grand war. He only brought a necessary honor guard, about two hundred veterans from Cthonia, commanded by Sejanus and Abaddon. During this war, Horus and his two hundred warriors remained aboard the Endurance.
Unfortunately, for now, the Warmaster's efforts seemed to have little effect. Mortarion did lead his sons to clear out one xenos-infested star system after another, basking in the glory of conquering territories. However, Jaghatai Khan refused to join any joint operation plan,
and his reason was extremely sound: rather than having two completely different forces like the Fifth and Fourteenth Legions hinder each other in a forced collaboration, it would be better for him to lead his sons to harass the borders of the xenos empire. As for the so-called glory of conquest, if Mortarion was so fixated on it, Jaghatai had no intention of competing for it.
In the eyes of the Lord of Barbarus, there was no clearer act of cowardice than this.
This so-called Great Khan of Chogoris was afraid, avoiding, and unhesitatingly revealing his weak nature. This was only natural; he was merely a khan from a savage world, enjoying his fleeting time in smooth sailing. He had not experienced the suffering of Barbarus, and thus naturally lacked the noble qualities forged by hardship.
Mortarion didn't even bother to conceal anything anymore. Deep within the Legion flagship, his soft, hoarse words, like the poisonous mist that accompanied his every move, lingered throughout the room.
"You have chosen the wrong war ally, Horus, my brother. You have made a mistake."
"If you truly need a phantom to roam the edges of war, then you can certainly seek one within my Legion, though it won't be easy. After all, my sons are honorable warriors; they would never allow themselves to stoop to such a level."
The Lord of Barbarus's voice even carried a cold sneer, but Horus did not reply much. Just as the Primarch of the Luna Wolves maintained a rare silence, Garro's letter arrived promptly before Mortarion.
The Lord of Death was furious.
The Warmaster, on the other hand, breathed a sigh of relief.
——————
Garro hadn't expected his genefather to arrive so quickly.
Mortarion did not stay on his Gloriana Queen, but instead traveled aboard the newly commissioned battleship named the Fourth Rider. In silence, desolation, and astonishment, he arrived before his Battle-Captain, accompanied only by his most trusted sons and warriors.
The Pale King of Barbarus was clad in brass and bone-white armor, a light grey cloak draped over him, concealing his sharp, ominous gaze in shadow. His face was gaunt, most of it hidden behind the cloak and a large respirator, leaving only two eagle-like eyes peering from deep-set sockets.
A layer of toxic gas constantly swirled around him, churning and spreading with his slow breaths. It was a gift from Barbarus, Mortarion's last lingering affection for his homeworld amidst the burning galaxy and stars.
He stood there, first on the ship's towering bridge, and then in an instant, he was before his son. He emerged from a thin mist, like a guest awaiting a funeral and mourning, or perhaps a herald of death rushing from the other side of souls.
Garro looked up at the figure within the cloak: his father, his Primarch, his sworn liege.
"My lord."
The Battle-Captain spoke, his voice dry, with a faint tremor he didn't notice himself.
But the Pale King felt it.
Clearly, every tender part of his son's heart was trembling. Perhaps it was a fear long since purged, or something else—an instinct of self-preservation, inherent to humans as beasts.
Ordinarily, Astartes would not feel fear; they were symbols of pure wrath and judgment, spreading an invincible myth of war across the stars. But Primarchs were a superior creation; their every breath was anathema to the natural order of the world. Before these creations of the Emperor, nothing was impossible.
For example, the fear from an Astartes warrior, a pure animalistic instinct, an unthinking action driven by self-prespreservation, which even repeated indoctrination could not erase.
And now, Mortarion had captured it: he had captured his son's fear of him.
Two emotions bloomed simultaneously in his heart. First, he felt a hint of dissatisfaction and anger, a rage that was entirely justified.
He believed he had invested deeply in his Legion, his sons, and every Death Guard from Terra and Barbarus. He refused to be a failed mentor and father like his own genefather. Therefore, he poured his will into the Death Guard, guiding his sons to become the most formidable warriors in the galaxy, arming them all with truly correct ideology and resolve.
How could they fear him?
But then, or rather, at the same time, he felt a faint joy, an unspoken pride, a strange sense of acknowledgment and satisfaction. At first, it was just a gentle, moist breath, but soon it echoed like a breeze through every corner of his mind.
Of course, they should fear him.
After all, he would become Death incarnate.
Who wouldn't fear death? Who wouldn't fear eternal stillness and the silent scythe? Who wouldn't fear the judgment and execution that would eventually come?
He embodied Death, the ominous shadow with a scythe in the hearts of countless living beings. His Legion crushed one defiant fortress after another, annihilating the empires of sorcerers and xenos in the roar of cyclonic torpedoes. This was his destiny, his responsibility: to be a terrifying personification of death, urging true purity and reason to descend once more upon this mad galaxy.
At Galaspar, at Absolu, in every silent midnight, in every peaceful moment where he destroyed a sorcerous coven or a xenos empire, he would walk in the moonlight, his shroud of death always forty-nine paces behind. Each time, Mortarion would again query his heart, and the answer would always be the most resolute.
He would become Death, the one everyone revered, even his brothers would pray for his mercy in their hearts.
So, they should fear him.
It was only right.
Mortarion raised his head, looking at the Battle-Captain before him, a pure Terran Death Guard: Garro was not from the arduous and unique Barbarus, which inevitably left some flaws in his character, making him unable to fully grasp the true nobility and resilience of the galaxy.
But it didn't matter, this Captain possessed some excellent qualities, second only to those of Barbarans. His ability, his attitude, his steadfastness Mortarion remembered them all. That was why he could command a large company, and occasionally receive the Pale King's favor and trust as a Terran.
This was his due; Mortarion never suppressed the merits of his sons. He disdained to align himself with any tyrant.
He first hummed lightly, then stared at his Battle-Captain, his voice slow and exceptionally hoarse, like a viper slowly slithering across a dry beach.
"Garro, my son."
"You have conquered this world for me, and that is good. I had thought you would require my aid and assistance, but clearly, your strength and resolve have overcome true hardship."
"As I have always taught you, victory in every war stems from calmness and determination. And today, you have shown me the unwavering conviction you possess."
"Continue thus, my Battle-Captain, for the war is far from over. You will benefit greatly from your tenacity, I assure you."
The Primarch's voice was gentle, as he calmly and unhurriedly surveyed each of his sons, acknowledging their valiant efforts in the past day's battle.
Unfortunately, Garro was not one to indulge in victory and accolades. While almost every Death Guard fell into joyous silence at the Primarch's presence and affirmation, the Battle-Captain stepped forward, quietly lowering his voice so as not to interrupt his brothers' brief happiness.
"This was not a victory belonging solely to the Seventh Company, my lord, we received aid from the Dark Angels..."
He wanted to say more, but the Primarch's action rudely stopped him: Mortarion absently twirled the direction of the scythe in his hand, lightly wiping it, the snowy sharpness beneath his palm.
"I know, Garro, I know all of this. Your report has already explained everything in great detail, even eclipsing your praise for your warriors. Long before coming to this world, I knew everything here, both about the Dark Angels and that sorceress."
"You should not have allowed her to interfere in this battle that belonged to you, Garro. This was a wrong decision, a choice that tarnished the honor of the Seventh Company."
"My lord, I..."
Garro opened his mouth, but facing his gene-Primarch, he found he could say nothing. Although his reason told him this decision was not unacceptable, facing the Primarch's imposing presence and considering the traditions and history between the Legions, he remained silent for a long time, unable to defend his actions.
In the end, it was the Primarch's pale face that showed a brief smile, his words flowing in the air, causing the Battle-Captain to lower his head.
"I know what you wish to say, my Battle-Captain, I understand your thoughts. You are my warrior, after all, and I know you."
"You seek a better victory, a more perfect victory, to hold glory in your grasp while shedding less blood. You wish to protect your warriors, even if it means saving just one more life."
Mortarion spoke slowly and gently, but in an instant, his tone became hoarse again. He lowered his voice, and only the Battle-Captain could hear his next words.
"But, Garro."
"Listen carefully, for I will only speak these truths once."
"Never rely on sorcery. This is the last time I will tell you. Under no circumstances should you depend on the power of sorcery, nor should you trust a single word from a sorcerer, no matter how correct it may sound."
"Only reason, steadfastness, and determination are the currency of the galaxy. Even the most powerful sorcerer will fall before unwavering resolve. I have cut off countless sorcerers' heads, proving this point time and time again."
"Perhaps you believe that the use of sorcery simplifies victory, bringing less suffering and death. But, Garro, my Battle-Captain, remember my words."
"Hardship is a gift. Hardship is a treasure. Hardship is the greatest source of strength in the galaxy. It can elevate the weakest individual into the most resolute warrior. Do not shy away from hardship; it is not torture, but a necessary part of life's trials."
"Only hardship forges truly great warriors, just as only Barbarus is the greatest homeworld in the galaxy. My brothers grew up in soft and gentle environments, so they do not know this. That is why they are far inferior to me, and naturally, I will make you far superior to their boastful Legions. It begins with experiencing hardship. I will ensure every Death Guard understands the true meaning of war, rather than winning in pampered comfort through so-called conquest."
"Therefore, do not be superstitious about the so-called power of sorcery, my Battle-Captain. Perhaps this time it proved effective, but it is ultimately merely a shortcut, a filthy way to gain something for nothing. Have the heads of sorcerers severed by the Death Guard under my command not been enough? You should realize this point: when our grand army arrives, having broken through hardship and toil, their boastful sorcery is as fragile as ice shards under a scorching sun."
"Remember this, Garro."
"Do not make this mistake again. I wish to see an unstoppable Seventh Company, not a weak army that avoids battle and bloodshed through the lies of sorcerers."
"I trust you will not disappoint me."
Garro remained silent, bowing his head deeply, silently expressing his regret and shame, and his utter admiration for the gene-Primarch's wise words.
Mortarion gently raised a hand and patted him. Clearly, the gene-Primarch was satisfied and relieved by his son's repentant attitude. He was willing to forgive him, of course he would be willing to forgive. What father would truly be harsh on his own child?
"Now... take me to her."
"To see that sorceress."
"My brother Horus is very interested in her... hah, he's always so unserious."
——————
He followed Mortarion, as the Primarch's most trusted son and brother, staying close by his side.
Garro walked in front of him, or rather, in front of everyone, with Mortarion close behind Garro. They formed the first two in this procession, and he could only take the third position—for now.
He tried not to let his gaze linger too long on the gene-Primarch, nor to attract unnecessary attention. This was not difficult, because when the silver-haired mortal woman appeared amidst the black tide of the Dark Angels, Mortarion's full attention was completely captivated by this rarely seen powerful sorceress.
As a psyker, this woman was indeed extraordinarily powerful. Perhaps only Magnus or a very few of the most exceptional Librarians could compare to the psychic aura emanating from her. Not to mention, she was currently enveloped in a massive psychic roar, which might have been the result of a turbulent journey through the Warp, but at this moment, it looked nothing short of a provocation to Mortarion.
The Primarch of the Fourteenth Legion sneered openly, his sharp, pale voice echoing through the corridor.
"You are Johnson's sorceress? I never knew my brother had a hobby of keeping court jesters."
He laughed, a joyful laugh, this unbridled amusement continuing until Morgana truly stepped out from among the Dark Angels and performed a courtesy befitting an equal.
"A pleasure to meet you, Lord of Death."
She spoke with deference, yet everyone sensed a strange aura, and even Mortarion's laughter gradually ceased, his brow slowly furrowing.
Morgana's lips curved into a smile, and she continued, enunciating each word.
"However, before our formal discussion, allow me to thank you for filling a gap in my knowledge, Lord Mortarion."
"After all, before meeting you, I had no idea what a court jester was."
——————
The laughter ceased abruptly.
He stood behind the Primarch, and no one knew better what had happened. He had witnessed firsthand how Mortarion's relaxed, previously slack hand muscles had instantly stopped trembling, and then tensed up again, as if an elder had suddenly become a raging madman.
The Primarch's fingers tapped. While everyone else was stunned, he was stroking the handle of his scythe.
Mortarion fell silent, and with this dangerous quiet, some Death Guard began to load their weapons. This obvious action immediately affected the Dark Angels. After less than a moment's hesitation, the sons of Lion El'Jonson rushed forward to Morgana, placing her under the protection of the First Legion.
And what greeted them was Mortarion's wrath. He didn't directly attack, but under his furious glare, only Lady Morgana still stood proudly. She even met Mortarion's gaze, carefully admiring her own reflection in his eyes.
Mortarion snorted coldly. The Primarch's aura erupted completely at this moment. Even the most steadfast Death Guard behind him trembled involuntarily, yearning to kneel and submit once more, and the closest Dark Angels also trembled—not from fear, but from restraint.
And she was still unharmed.
What's more, when she clapped her hands, an invisible barrier instantly enveloped all the Dark Angels, rendering the Primarch's aura as useless as dust.
She smiled, and at that moment, he saw an invisible net that had unknowingly protected all the Dark Angels. He was certain that even the Death Guard's gunfire would be useless against those shields.
He confirmed one thing again.
This was a formidable character; neither Garro nor Mortarion, that fool, had predicted her true power.
But he was different; he had seen it.
——————
Mortarion ultimately did not attack.
Perhaps Morgana's words gave him no leverage, or perhaps engaging in conflict with the Dark Angels at such a time was unwise. In any case, after disregarding Horus's orders, Mortarion swaggered away, only his glowing eyes constantly flashing with a resentful color, as if brewing something.
And he finally seized his chance.
During the journey to the Endurance, he noticed the somewhat solitary mortal woman wandering through the corridors, admiring the scenery.
He stepped forward, offered a smile that was as friendly as possible, and extended a hand symbolizing friendship.
"Typhon."
"At your service, madam."
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