Empty Seats at the Dining Table
"My power…"
Mortarian clenched his fists. The surging, decaying divine power, the heavy weight that once could crush adamantite, was gone.
This body was terrifyingly light. Beneath the skin, no venom flowed—only golden psionic veins pulsed with quiet energy.
"What did you do to me?" he asked, staring at Eileen. "This body… this isn't flesh and blood! It's burning… it's just a sorcerer's shell!"
"You've got good taste, kid," Eileen (Old Huang) said, nodding knowingly. Her tone was calm, almost clinical, as if repairing a broken machine.
"Your original body—your 'hard drive'—was already infested with Nurgle's corruption. Even the underlying code was rotten. I had to rebuild it."
She pointed to the black residue pooled on the ground—the remnant of what she had stripped away.
"If I hadn't extracted your soul and cleansed it of Nurgle's mark, a moment later you'd have turned to ash, like that conch shell."
Eileen reached out and touched Mortarian's forehead lightly.
"Right now, you're like the living saints. This is a temporary psionic vessel I created. It's not as durable as before, not immortal—but at least…"
Her fingers slid down his cheek to his neck. The respirator was gone.
"At least it's clean. You don't have to rely on poison gas to survive anymore."
Mortarian froze.
Clean.
The word was foreign. From Barbarus to the Great Crusade to the Plague Wars, his life had been wrapped in gas, radiation, and decay. He had believed his armor and the toxins were the source of his power.
Now, stripped of that shell, he felt not coldness—but a relief he had never known.
"Stop daydreaming, Mortarian."
Eileen's tone sharpened. Her imposing aura pressed down again.
"I know you're not convinced. I know you hate me. You think I used you as a tool, that I'm biased, hypocritical. Words won't convince you. Then… see for yourself."
"Buzz—"
Her glowing fingers touched his forehead.
Darkness filled Mortarian's vision. The battlefield, scorched earth, and smoke vanished.
In its place was a dimly lit strategic hall. Holograms hovered above polished floors, depicting star systems.
This was the Great Expedition, ten thousand years ago.
At the center stood the golden Emperor, resolute and commanding. Around him were Primarchs—Horus, Dorn, Sanguinius. On the holographic star map, a sector shrouded in green, poisonous fog glimmered.
"Father," Horus said, booming through the projection, "this sector's environment is extreme. Biochemical toxins can corrode Terminator armor. Perturabo recommends attrition."
"Or let my Seventh Legion fortify and advance," Dorn said flatly. "Casualties may be high, but we can endure."
Mortarian observed. He remembered this battle—the Fourteenth Legion's glory and suffering.
When the Emperor gave the order, he had felt resentment. He believed he had been made the garbage collector again.
But now, from this perspective…
The golden figure shook his head.
"No," the Emperor said. Cold, decisive. "Rogge, Horus. Even if half your legions die, they cannot survive the toxic fog."
His finger pressed on the star map.
"Only the Fourteenth Legion. Only Mortarion."
"Why?" Horus asked. "It's just poison gas…"
"Because he is one of my most resilient sons," the Emperor replied. His gaze fell on the Death Guard insignia. A trust Mortarian had never known shone in his eyes.
"I didn't send anyone else because I believe… only my son can emerge safely from that hell. He is my greatest asset."
The projection shattered.
Mortarian gasped. He looked at Eileen.
[Understand, idiot.] Her voice echoed in his mind.
[Back then, Old Huang—the golden-haired guy—was rational, almost cold. He couldn't say pretty words. He believed you would understand that entrusting you with the hardest task was the greatest recognition.]
[But he forgot… you don't seek recognition. You're just a child sulking in Barbarus's shadow, wanting your father's praise.]
Mortarian's lips trembled.
"But… Barbarus…"
He clutched at the knot in his chest.
"You stole my revenge… made me feel like trash…"
"That was my fault," Old Huang's voice admitted plainly.
"No excuses. I was hasty. I just wanted my son to survive the mountain of death, to see the galaxy. I didn't want him to die before he even began."
Eileen patted his arm, unable to reach his shoulder.
"I overlooked that for you, revenge mattered more than life. I stripped you of honor. I was arrogant as a father."
Mortarian trembled. Ten thousand years of struggling against Chaos, nearly killing Guilliman, all to prove himself—collapsed under a single truth: he had been seen, acknowledged, and understood.
"I… I…"
The mighty Primarch, unmoved before billions of demons, was now speechless.
"Old Huang… was proud of you, Moth—uh… Mortarion," Eileen said, stepping forward to grasp his massive hand.
"Even if you hated him… even if you went astray… even if you became grotesque… you tried to protect those under your care. I acknowledge you."
"You were never just a tool."
Her golden eyes met his tear-filled gaze.
"You were Old Huang's most tenacious, courageous, heartbreaking… child. Now, the chains are broken. You… are free."
"Boom—"
Something shattered in Mortarian's mind—the walls of resentment, the armor of inferiority he had worn for ten millennia.
Tears filled eyes that had long ceased to produce them.
"Father…"
Eileen smiled faintly.
"Words alone aren't enough. He needs compensation."
The battlefield vanished.
Mortarian found himself in a warm, bright hall. Wooden floors, yellow lamps, the scent of wheat.
"This is…" he whispered.
A black door bore a simple sign: [Motalian's Room (A whole-house fresh air system has been installed for you)].
"This was reserved for you," Eileen said, hands behind her back.
Mortarian's gaze fell on a long, sturdy wooden table. Twenty-one chairs, each engraved with a name.
[Lion Eljonsson], [Chagatai Khan], [Forgrim], [Rog Dorn], [Horus Lupecal]… and [Motalian].
Two empty seats waited silently.
The table overflowed with food: roasted lamb, vats of mead, steaming bread, even synthetic city blocks from Hive.
Mortarian's voice trembled.
"This is mine… no, this is the scene the golden figure dreams of."
A golden figure approached the head of the table. He pulled out a chair, stroked its back, and smiled bitterly.
"I've fantasized about this countless times. When war ends… when humanity survives… we'll sit here. Listen to the barbarian Ruth boast. Watch Dorn and Perturabo argue. Hear insights from your numerology."
"Instead of sitting on that damned throne, watching ghosts slaughter each other."
"This is my compensation to you, Mortarian."
He pointed to the chair.
"Even if an illusion… a place will always be reserved for you."
Mortarian could hold no longer. He knelt before the chair with his name.
He wept. Not as a demon, not as a Primarch—just a child finally coming home.
"Father… I was wrong… I was really wrong…"
The aura of despair vanished. A pure, resilient psychic light re-ignited in his new body—the indomitable spirit of the Fourteenth Legion.
Eileen patted his back gently.
"It's never too late for a child to return."
The illusion faded.
Mortarian knelt on the sand before Eileen, performing the deepest form of submission—a gesture reserved for the Great Crusade.
Guilliman stood silently beside him, as he had ten thousand years ago.
But the moment of tenderness lasted less than a minute.
"Rumble rumble rumble—!!!"
Plenty III shook violently, more than ever before. The clouds darkened to pitch-black.
Overwhelming malice pressed from the heavens.
It was divine rage.
"Hmph…"
Eileen's golden eyes snapped toward the sky.
"That old fatso… gone mad."
[Damn, Old Huang is furious. Not just his burned house, but… I stole his favorite collectible.]
A gigantic, rotting green hand appeared in the sky, enough to cover half a hemisphere.
It was Nurgle's gaze. His wrath sought to crush Mortarian, Guilliman, and the mortal girl who defied him.
[Eileen! Hold Robert! Protect Guilliman!]
The Emperor Sword ignited again, flames shooting into the sky.
Eileen looked down at Mortarian.
"Stop crying, you crybaby."
She kicked his leg.
"Old Huang wants you up and working!"
"Mortarian! This time—"
She tossed the Emperor Sword to him.
"You yourself—go shatter your shackles!"
Mortarian's head snapped up.
Tears were gone.
The cold killing intent of the Lord of Death rekindled in his gray eyes.
But now… the blade pointed skyward.