Mathieu's Memoirs
[Holy Terra, State Religion's Top Secret Archives]
The candlelight flickered as Imperial Cardinal Mathieu, aged like withered tree bark, trembled as he placed a quill to parchment.
His hand was steady, though his eyes were cloudy. The memory still burned into his mind like a branding iron.
"...Future devout believers, whenever you read this Gospel of Saint Irene, you will see the wrath of thunder, and the grace of purification."
Mathieu paused, a strange expression playing on his lips—a mixture of amusement and suppressed laughter.
"But on that day on Bounty III, besides the sacred majesty, we also witnessed... a certain, unknown humor of His Majesty the God-Emperor. I think it was perhaps His Majesty's most merciless mockery of that desperate and dark era."
He sighed and continued writing:
"At that moment, even the demigods were stunned."
...
[Bounty III, Southern Hemisphere Battlefield]
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!!"
Motalian's voice echoed across the battlefield, no longer the somber whisper of before, but a roar filled with panic.
He frantically swung his scythe, trying to tear a passage back into the Warp through the void.
Normally, this would be as easy as breathing for him—a Demon Primarch.
But now, even as he slashed the Warp Veil until sparks flew, the gate to the Garden of Compassion remained firmly shut.
Not only that, the warp energy that had been flowing steadily to him was now like a water pipe cut off, becoming intermittent.
Through his spiritual vision, he could see that on the distant other side, the decaying garden he depended on for survival was being consumed by golden flames.
His loving father was busy putting out the fire and had no time to deal with this "little trouble" in the material universe.
"Can't escape?"
Eileen, carrying the massive Imperial Sword, floated over unsteadily.
She whistled as she looked at the Primarch, who was frantically searching for a way out mid-air.
"Hey, weren't you so arrogant just now? Saying 'no one can save you'—why are you trying to run away now?"
Guilliman stood behind Eileen, his Hand of Domination clenched even though he had just recovered. Calgar and Agman also led their company to surround them, completely blocking any escape route.
"You... what have you done?!"
Motalian turned around, his back against the invisible wall of air, his scythe pointed at Eileen.
"You cut off the path! You... you dared... set fire to the Garden of the Gods?!"
"Just getting rid of the dampness. Don't make such a fuss."
Eileen shrugged, repeating Old Huang's words.
"Besides, don't be in such a hurry to leave. Didn't you just say Robert was a 'tool'?"
A sly glint flashed in Eileen's eyes.
"Your 'filial son' Typhon has already been sent down by me, so don't rush. An old friend has been waiting for you for a long time and wants to have a good chat with you."
Motalian's heart clenched.
An old friend?
What friends did he have left in this galaxy? Only mortal enemies and adversaries.
"A charlatan, a vessel for the Corpse King!" Mortarian roared, his voice trembling with fear. "No matter what you summon, in this material universe, I will not yield!"
"Is that so?"
Eileen chuckled.
[Old Huang, go! Give him a good beating!] she shouted inwardly.
[Alright! Watch me!]
Old Huang's voice was full of confidence.
[Perfect for bringing that one out again. It'll definitely scare Mortarian so much he'll wake up from his dinner!]
Eileen took a deep breath, extended her right hand, palm down, and pressed it into the void.
"BOOM—!!"
The earth trembled violently. A pale flame, carrying the ancient smell of gunpowder, erupted from beneath Eileen's palm.
The entire arena fell silent.
Guilliman held his breath; he too wanted to know what his father would do to his fallen brother.
Mortarian gripped his scythe even tighter, his eyes fixed on the flame.
The flames subsided.
A figure gradually came into focus.
"My lord…?"
A groggy, nasal voice from a middle-aged man rang out.
Everyone stared wide-eyed.
In the center of the battlefield, where everyone's gaze had been fixed, within the pale white flames that symbolized the descent of a Heroic Spirit,
stood a…
a bald, middle-aged man in white pajamas.
The pajamas looked incredibly smooth, covered with hand-drawn portraits of figures wearing golden laurel wreaths.
He held a mug emblazoned with a double-headed eagle in one hand and was brushing his teeth with a toothbrush in the other.
He was even wearing slippers.
It was the projection of Nathaniel Garo's Heroic Spirit.
At this moment, this legendary company commander, the pioneer of the Grey Knights, stood bewildered, toothbrush in hand, staring at the hellish scene around him.
He blinked, seemingly still not understanding what was happening.
"Uh… My… My Lord… I thought you were just…"
Garo's face, which screamed "Who am I? Where am I?", wore an extremely embarrassed expression.
He looked again at the enormous, winged Mortarian before him.
"Traitor… Mor… Mortarian?"
Garo instinctively held his toothbrush horizontally in front of him, his other hand seemingly trying to cover the pattern on his pajamas.
…
"Pfft—"
A recruit in the distance couldn't help but let out a soft, choked sound, then quickly covered his mouth, glancing around at his fellow combatants in terror, as if he had just committed some heinous crime.
Calgar's prosthetic eye spun wildly, seemingly overloaded and malfunctioning.
Guilliman immediately raised a hand, covering his eyes and face.
"I didn't see anything… I suddenly saw nothing…" the Regent of the Empire muttered frantically in his mind.
Meanwhile, Mortarian, the one directly involved,
froze.
The face that had remained grim even when facing the Emperor's Sword was now twisted into a giant question mark.
Fear? Anger? Murderous intent?
Faced with that strange attire, all emotions were replaced by utter bewilderment.
What kind of strange witchcraft was this?
This was his so-called "old friend"?
Humiliation! This was a humiliation far more vicious than a knife wound!
"You... this is your trump card?!"
Mortarian pointed at the middle-aged man brushing his teeth in his pajamas, trembling with rage, his wings ceasing to flutter.
"You! You're deliberately humiliating me?!"
Eileen's face was also flushed crimson.
She screamed in her mind:
"Old Huang!!!!!"
"What the hell are you doing?! Where's all your bravado?!"
[Ahem...]
In her mind, Old Huang's voice sounded even more embarrassed than Garo's, tinged with guilt.
[Um... an accident, purely an accident.]
[You know, the warp signal is sometimes bad, plus I just finished working with him... which caused a tiny... slight deviation in the dialing.]
[This might be a fragment of Garo's heroic spirit from one morning when he wasn't fully awake... uh... don't worry about the details!]
"Get him away from me!!" Eileen screamed in despair.
[Change it now! Change it now! Disconnect!]
In reality—
"Pop!"
Like a soap bubble bursting.
The figure of Pajama Garo vanished into thin air instantly, leaving only a slipper on the ground, which then dissipated into specks of light.
The battlefield fell into an eerie silence once more.
Mortarian's hand, gripping the scythe, was still trembling. He felt as if he had been slapped hard across the face.
"You're playing me... you're playing me..."
The Primarch growled in a low voice, the rage in his eyes almost materializing.
"Enough! Whatever tricks you're playing! I'll—"
"Whoosh—"
Before he could finish his threat, a completely different aura swept across the entire area.
This time, the air became cold and chilling, carrying a strong smell of gunpowder and rust.
It was a quality possessed only by warriors who had endured countless bloody battles.
Eileen placed her hand into the air once more.
This time, her gaze was no longer embarrassed, but utterly serious.
"Let's try again."
"Boom!!!"
A pale white pillar of ghostly fire shot into the sky, burning a large hole through the poisonous clouds above the planet.
Amidst the raging flames—
A heavy, powerful footstep sounded.
Step. Step. Step.
A tall figure strode out from the flames.
Not wearing pajamas.
The newcomer wore a set of unadorned power armor.
The armor was scarred by battle: craters from explosives, scratches from chainswords, and patches of viral corrosion.
He gripped the Sword of Liberty, which also burned with pale flames.
He wasn't wearing a helmet.
His face, resolute yet weathered, was revealed. A prominent scar marked his bald head.
Nathaniel Garo.
Commander of the Seventh Company of the Death Guard. A survivor of the Eisenstein, reborn into the world of the living.
Mortarian's pupils instantly contracted to pinpoints.
This time,
he felt… pain.
A pain as if something had pierced his heart.
He recognized the face.
This was one of his most trusted sons—the one who, on Istvan III, disobeyed his orders, fled back to Terra with the truth, and utterly destroyed his "perfect betrayal" plan—the stubborn Seventh Company Commander.
Garo didn't look at anyone else.
Those eyes, burning with white soulfire, were fixed on Mortarian from the moment he appeared.
There was no roar, no howl.
He simply raised his sword and slowly walked, step by step, toward the demon who had once been his father, his Primarch.
With each step, his aura grew stronger.
Finally, he stopped ten meters away from Mortarian.
He slammed the Sword of Liberty heavily into the ground before him.
Gripping the hilt, he raised his head and stared directly at the monster whose face had been completely altered.
"Look at me, Oathbreaker of Barbarus, Mortarian."
Garo spoke.
His voice was hoarse, deep, and possessed a power that pierced the soul.
Mortarian instinctively tightened his grip on his scythe. He wanted to speak, to retaliate with sarcasm or curses,
but he found his throat felt as if it were blocked by something.
He could only look at Garo.
Into those eyes.
Those eyes held no fear, no worship, not even hatred.
Only one thing… a profound disappointment.
"Is this the… result you wanted?"
Garo looked around at the land shrouded in poisonous gas and decay, and at the inhuman, grotesque forms of the Death Guard.
"This is what you swore to pursue in the poisonous fog of Barbarus…"
Garo looked back at Mortarian and softly uttered the last two words:
"…Freedom?"
…
At this point, Archbishop Mathieu put down his quill and rose to walk to the window.
Under the dazzling lights of Terra,
he was once again immersed in the memories that followed—memories that were even more blasphemous and astonishing.