Watching the proud First Captain of the Death Guard flee like a sniveling coward whose nose had been broken, without a word, was indeed amusing.
Morgan even felt that the low pressure she had accumulated in the Warp storms had dissipated considerably with his pathetic retreat.
She felt joy, a rather dark kind of "joy," like the rustling of withered leaves in the evening breeze, making a mocking sound.
She clearly felt it, that feeling was like witnessing tender grass, cut to the root, stubbornly sprout new shoots, their fresh green colors beginning to caress the passing breeze. Although they were still very small, very ethereal, and even invisible without close observation, they truly existed and were reviving step by step.
Morgan couldn't guess why her creator had chosen to almost eradicate her emotions, but it was clear that he hadn't chosen to completely wipe them out. After years of observation and personal practice, the Spider Lady was slowly rediscovering the profound mysteries she had deeply recognized but never truly understood.
This pale lady was not an utterly emotionless being; she possessed her own emotions, capable of discerning the true meaning of joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness. However, on the other hand, her emotions were incomplete. Love, hate, resentment, jealousy, and longing were all things she couldn't yet truly comprehend.
Emotions and feelings were never the same thing; the former was merely a slightly more complex product of life's instinct to seek advantage and avoid harm, while the latter was a truly man-made marvel, even the fundamental element that created society and civilization.
And at this moment, Morgan was merely a half-finished product who understood the former. Fortunately, with over a decade of continuous observation, categorization, summarization, and personal practice, she was genuinely cultivating her feelings: though they were still as fragile as young sprouts.
And now, she truly felt a trace of pleasure, the most despicable kind of happiness derived from witnessing the suffering of others.
This even improved her mood. She turned her head, choosing not to ponder what kind of reinforcements this sad little fellow could muster, as her recent confrontation had given her a general understanding of the so-called Lord of the Fourteenth Legion.
"Don't overestimate his danger, don't underestimate his malice."
Lion El'Jonson's assessment was indeed correct.
She even missed the Lion King of Caliban, missed his almost eternally solemn face and golden hair, missed his teachings, both intentional and unintentional.
She had indeed learned many things in the First Legion: the swordsmanship of Caliban, the methods and necessity of establishing secret societies, and that incredibly successful negotiation technique.
The First Legion was indeed a treasure trove.
She still remembered the times she spent learning martial arts with Lion El'Jonson: whether it was swordsmanship or unarmed combat, the Lion King had taught her with all his might, bringing her skills to a level he considered barely acceptable.
She had even gained a pen pal in the First Legion, Luther, one of her four current pen pals. During her time around Lion El'Jonson, they had cultivated this hard-won friendship through letters exchanged every two or three months.
Besides Luther, Morgan had three other pen pals. Their connections might not be stable, but this friendship, spanning galaxies and worlds, was indeed steadily building through thin yet infinitely expressive written words.
In a sense, all of Morgan's pen pals were important figures.
Ahriman: This goes without saying. Even after returning to Prospero, the letters from Magnus' beloved son never ceased. His souvenirs piled up into a small mountain. In Morgan's private room on the Unbending Truth, half of the bookshelves and display cases were filled with Ahriman's gifts. In his letters, he detailed his situation or proudly boasted about his recent promotions. Thanks to him, even from millions of miles away, Morgan remained perfectly aware of all the movements of the Fifteenth Legion.
Kylyphani: This pen pal was a true mortal, powerless, yet in a way, she was the wisest of Morgan's pen pals. Morgan had met her on Olympia, when Kylyphani was accompanying the Thousand Sons to the front lines of the Rendan War. The fleet had briefly stopped on the Iron Warriors' homeworld for a few days, and it was then that Morgan met this rather special noblewoman. By the time the fleet set sail again, they were already friends with a firm bond.
And the last one was the person Morgan was currently waiting for: he was a Souleater.
The most excellent of Souleaters.
Shadows descended, as the most colossal void battleship obscured the sun's light, enveloping the entire Fourth Knight in the deepest darkness it cast.
They had arrived.
It was the Endurance.
Horus was on board.
——————
Pain.
The pain still surrounded him.
Typhon gritted his teeth, forcing himself to walk normally through the corridors and grand halls of the battleship, politely returning the salutes of every Death Guard who greeted him.
He had to. He was the First Captain of the Fourteenth Legion, and his position compelled him to maintain a composed, strong demeanor at all times. Though rumors often claimed he had ascended to this position through his connection with Mortarion, Typhon himself dismissed such notions with disdain, even contempt.
Even if he hadn't known Mortarion, he would have climbed to this position...
And even higher.
"...Hiss..."
Damn it, this was no ordinary pain, but a psychic scar. How had he not known before that psykers could do this?
Typhon frowned, trying to recall what he had learned as a psyker, but this only made his frown deepen because he immediately remembered: he had never received any systematic psychic training.
On Barbarus, there was no safe place for a half-breed like him, human and alien, to study and experiment.
And by the time he finally reached the boundless possibilities of the void, he had encountered the most dogmatic and stubborn Primarch: under Mortarion's unconcealed witch-hunting tendencies, he even had to meticulously hide the fact that he was a psyker, let alone receive any systematic psychic training.
He even remembered that day, amidst the toxic fogs of Barbarus, he had offered his advice to Mortarion, who had by then become a hero to the entire world. As a friend, he carefully mentioned the power of psychic abilities: in his plan, with psychic powers, Mortarion could completely defeat his seemingly invincible alien foster father.
Typhon would never forget that moment. When his suggestion had barely left his lips, Mortarion, his so-called friend, had revealed such immense rage in that instant. He had merely glanced at Typhon, and it made him almost instinctively want to kneel or flee, never to appear near this terrifying monster again.
Mortarion then delivered a passionate lecture to his first friend, including denouncing the defilement of psychic powers and the treachery of aliens. But Typhon heard not a word; his head was bowed low, his mind filled with that gaze that had stripped him of all dignity.
It was... humiliating.
He was a psyker, but only just. He had none of the more advanced techniques, insights, or combat experience. Summoning a flame or a bolt of lightning was already his most powerful trick.
He shouldn't have been like this; he should have possessed greater power.
If not for that cursed command...
Cursed Mortarion.
He felt the pain again, a pain that even corroded his rationality and ability to organize words, as if it were a deliberate, potent poison fed into him. Of course, this was impossible; he had spent no more than five minutes with Morgan. Unless she had seen through him completely in an instant, that mortal couldn't possibly harbor any ill will towards him.
What on earth was going on...?
He thought, but he couldn't understand. His lack of psychic knowledge made him feel an ever-increasing agony.
Damn it... Mortarion...
His heart whispered, until he slowly walked to his room.
"Typhon."
A low voice entered his ears.
"I heard them say you went to see that witch, Typhon, I thought I told you..."
The voice cut off abruptly.
Typhon could feel the Primarch's gaze resting on him. He felt the breath, mixed with toxic gas, growing rougher and more serious.
Finally, Mortarion spoke again.
"Tell me, Typhon."
"Who did all this?"
——————
"Welcome, Lady Morgan."
"It's been years since we parted ways on Xana."
Sejanus, Fourth Captain of the Souleater Legion, the Shepherd God's most beloved and trusted child, leader of the Mourning Society, and also Morgan's fourth pen pal.
Years ago, he had visited the Dark Angels as an envoy of the Souleaters. Beneath the dark clouds of Xana World, he met Morgan, who was then idle. The two visitors, both with some free time, thus journeyed together. Their friendship formed exceptionally quickly and firmly. Even though the First Legion and the Sixteenth Legion were separated by half the galaxy, the correspondence between the two pen pals never ceased.
Therefore, naturally, when Morgan had found her footing on a Death Guard battleship, her first request was to contact Sejanus. Then, she had Zahariel command the remaining Dark Angels, while she herself, as the legion's representative, boarded the Endurance, where Horus currently resided.
In theory, Zahariel would have been more suitable for the position of envoy for the First Legion. However, when Morgan proposed taking on the role herself, not a single Dark Angel objected to this somewhat peculiar request.
Sejanus greeted his mortal friend on the bridge. Together, they walked through the corridors of the Gloriana, their figures casting two shadows, one tall and one short, on the walls.
The Endurance was an overly simple battleship; it even lacked ornamentation, for the Lord of Death from Barbarus was certainly not one for extravagance. Inside the battleship, only the Imperial Aquila and the Death Guard Legion's own barbed skull emblem could be considered decorative: the former, following Imperial custom, maintained a golden appearance, while the latter was made of nickel-iron ore.
What's more, as Sejanus led Morgan through the grand halls used to assemble warriors and issue commands, they didn't even see a single corner for resting. This was because in these halls, there would never be arguments or discussions; only the Pale King's orders would be conveyed to everyone, one by one, with an unquestionable authority.
Everything on the Endurance was a dim, yellowish color, because almost all of the battleship's lighting came from special Venetian blinds. Specially adjusted windows made the starlight entering the interior take on the same color as the Death Guard's homeworld, Barbarus.
Yet, even so, Mortarion never admitted to missing his homeworld.
The Souleater led the Souleater through this dim yellow light. They moved as if mysterious inhabitants walking through a valley, from a secluded kingdom existing only in scrolls. Both their minds were equally quick, and their continuous correspondence allowed them to keep pace with each other perfectly.
They talked about war, the eternal theme of the galaxy. They constantly jumped between topics, from the current war, to three legions of different styles, then to the Primarch Horus, the front-line situation of the Rendan War, and the missing Eleventh Primarch.
By the time they entered the conference room specifically prepared for negotiations, their conversation had been circling the missing Eleventh Primarch for some time.
"The Eleventh Primarch, or we can directly call him Mengel, as he declared his name to the outside world. However, few people use it; they prefer to call him the 'Pure One' or the 'Perfect One'."
"In a sense, he indeed deserves the second title. It is said that each Primarch represents an aspect of the Emperor, and the Eleventh Primarch, Mengel, clearly had more achievements beyond the aspect he represented."
"What aspect did he represent then?"
Sejanus chuckled.
"Science."
"The Eleventh Primarch, Mengel, symbolized the Great Emperor's aspect in the field of technology. He was most skilled at thinking with the purest rational thought, and his achievements in various scientific researches, especially biological science, were simply unparalleled."
"In this regard, his so-called perfect appearance and legendary deeds were merely what ordinary people cared about more. However, from another perspective, he was not truly perfect; he was always somewhat strict with his legion."
"Even Lord Perturabo once privately complained to our gene-father that he felt Lord Mengel was overly strict and ruthless with his legion, as if they were not his own children but a group of complete strangers. His attitude towards conquering worlds also drew criticism from many, but his achievements were indeed undeniable, and no one had the right to refute that."
"It sounds like you're not very worried about his disappearance?"
Sejanus smiled.
"If it were other legions or Primarchs, that would indeed be worrying. But the Eleventh Primarch and his legion are an absolute exception, because they possess a very special trump card: this is no secret."
"Would you care to elaborate?"
Sejanus lowered his voice.
"That is..."
"Bang!"
At that very moment, the door to the room was violently pushed open. A beast, brimming with infinite rage and resentment, swaggered in. His bone-white armor and gray cowl were utterly unmistakable; this iconic attire was only for a Primarch.
Mortarion had arrived.
His gaze swept across the empty conference room until it locked onto Morgan's position.
The Lord of the Fourteenth Legion furrowed his brow, murmuring words no one could quite hear, and slowly approached. With a flick of his wrist, a colossal scythe gleamed with a stark white light.
Morgan could hear Sejanus' uncontrolled, frantic heartbeat, but she herself showed no reaction, because the instant Mortarion burst in, Morgan could guess his intention.
Oh...
A cliche plot.
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