Barbarus. In Nyx's eyes, this planet was savage and desperate — far exceeding even Curze's homeworld, Nostramo.
Here, there was no endless sin and eternal night. Only the infinite toxic mist, slaying all life.
Under the psychic dominion of the xenos overlords, the entire planet's developmental trajectory had been completely warped. Technology had been suppressed to a swamp of the Stone Age, barely able to crawl forward. Psychic power had replaced temporal progress, becoming the cornerstone by which the mountain lords maintained their rule.
Pity there was no Psychic Primarch Emperor here. Imagine: a group of primitives clad in animal hides, having only just mastered the most superficial techniques of iron smelting, seeking to challenge a psychic xenos capable of directly manipulating supernatural forces — this was akin to granting an impotent second son of a base commander the Four Supreme Insults.
It was no exaggeration to say that to cleanse the xenos on Barbarus, at the very least, an Astartes must join the battle. And Mortarion's adoptive father, Necare, was a xenos overlord well‑versed in psychic energy. His terror was such that he had torn apart all challengers except Mortarion.
In the original historical trajectory, almost no one could contend with him directly — save Mortarion himself, possessing the strength of a mature Primarch.
Yet Mortarion did not slay his adoptive father to avenge his people. At that time, Mortarion had already defeated his adoptive father, but just as he was about to deliver the killing blow, the Emperor arrived.
Then, as is well known, the bane of Mortarion's existence was dispatched by the Emperor like a stray dog on the roadside.
This also caused Mortarion, unable to complete his vengeance, to harbour a deep resentment against the Emperor — laying the foundation for his future as an absolute paranoid.
As for the 'technology' brought by Nyx's plan, it was based on the considerable experience he had accumulated on Nostramo.
He knew that, under Barbarus's current conditions, it was pure fantasy to conjure high‑tech energy weapons from thin air. He needed technology that matched the planet's needs.
Nyx was confident that, with his remarkable wisdom, he would achieve a technological leap — elevating Barbarus from the Stone Age directly to the level of the Iron Age, and even the Middle Ages.
...Why not keep climbing further, you ask?
Well, Nyx was still in a weakened state. If his strength were fully restored, he could play the role of 'mighty god' for Mortarion right now.
For the moment, in Nyx's vision, every Reaper warrior should at least be able to wear uniform metal armour and wield fine spears and blades — like nameless medieval dragonslayers charging at xenos.
In his view, the outcome of this war of liberation — the defeat of the xenos overlord Necare — was nearly inevitable. The only variable was the number of casualties this war would exact.
So why not choose a more direct approach? Launch an Egg‑transformation operation and create a batch of Space Marines?
This was largely constrained by the objective conditions of the Reaper members themselves, and Nyx's subjective considerations.
At present, most Reaper members were still in a state of chronic malnutrition, early‑stage recovery from illness, and extremely weak physical foundations. Though Nyx could safely carry out the transformation surgery, the enhancement effect from the modification would be significantly inferior to that on Nostramo — and the cost to them would be extremely high, yielding very low returns.
Furthermore, the exceptional candidates Nyx had his eye on for transformation still required longer observation and testing.
Especially the 'seeds' of Mortarion's future company commanders — their loyalty might be beyond question, but the object of that loyalty... was better left unasked.
Yes. That greenskin fat uncle was, at times, more appealing than a big blonde.
In conclusion, for now, they had not yet made contact with Father Nurgle.
Though the planetary environment of Barbarus itself was almost a prototype of Nurgle's garden, when Nyx carefully sensed it, Nurgle's rancid stench was almost entirely absent.
Nyx understood perfectly well that beneath this calm lay a deeper scheme.
Barbarus, long before Mortarion's arrival, had been selected by Nurgle as the crucible for His chosen.
And here, one must mention Nurgle's first chosen, the true 'Primarch' of the Death Guard — Typhon, or his present name, Typhon.
This future 'Lord of Flux' would become the direct driving force behind Mortarion and the XIV Legion's eventual descent into the abyss of Chaos. But now, before anything had happened, he could only be considered one of the Reapers' earliest members — possessing diluted xenos blood and latent psychic abilities.
Mortarion's antipathy toward psychic powers, and Typhon's own pride in his status as a 'Reaper', had led him to long disdain any desire to join Father's extended family.
Yet the corruption of Chaos was infinitely patient. When a Chaos God chooses you, only a Primarch has the right to refuse.
Barbarus's ordeal of pain and plague had not caused Typhon to simply hate disease. Rather, it had twisted his perception: he saw the continuation of life within decay. Nyx believed that Typhon's cognitive corruption was most likely a long‑term contamination by Nurgle.
Since Nyx's arrival, he had clearly sensed Typhon's almost undisguised attention — and his inferiority.
This was not simple suspicion, but rather a natural distrust and rejection rooted in his very essence. As though, in Typhon's perception, Nyx's very existence made him uncomfortable.
Yet this deep‑seated revulsion and strong discomfort revealed some contradiction when he attempted to think calmly.
At this moment, Typhon — who had been training the recruits — stopped. He stood in silence, his gaze piercing the dust rising from the field, firmly fixed upon Nyx, who was conversing with Mortarion in the distance.
His mind whispered: you should be grateful. What Nyx had done had brought unprecedented hope and supplies to the Reapers on the brink of despair, greatly reducing the casualties in the coming final battle. This was an indisputable fact.
But another voice in his heart was like an abscess clinging to the bone, coldly reminding him that behind this goodwill must lie some hidden motive. The golden radiance was too perfect, too easy — utterly untrustworthy.
...What should I do?
He yearned to trust his heart. If he could, how he wished to go to Mortarion and express his divisions and doubts.
Yet he raised his gaze and saw that Mortarion's attention was wholly occupied by Nyx's figure. In that gaze was complete trust — and a kind of... fervour he himself had never received.
"Stop thinking about it, Typhon."
He gripped the training pole tightly in his hand. His knuckles whitened slightly, as though persuading himself: "So long as it benefits the Reapers, so long as it brings us victory... it doesn't matter whose power we use. It's all good."
...It doesn't matter whose power we use. It's all good.
He averted his gaze. Once more, he fixed his eyes upon the gasping recruits before him. His hoarse cries rang out again — even colder, even more insistent — as though he sought to dispel the last remnants of distracting thoughts.