Chapter 75: Are You All Crazy?
"You… you are… Mortarion?"
Fulgrim's hand gripping his sword trembled.
His mind buzzed as if struck by the Hand of Dominion.
Usually, in the laws of the Dark Gods, ascension is a one-way street.
Once a soul is branded with the mark of a Dark God, and the body is reshaped into a terrifying daemonic form, it signifies utter submission.
Even death is merely a return to the warp, a rebirth under the tutelage of a god.
As for reversal? Purification? Returning to a mortal body?
It was as absurd as retrieving ink from the sea and turning it back into clean water.
"This is impossible… it completely violates the laws of the high warp…"
Fulgrim muttered to himself, staring intently at the grey-robed brother before him with eyes that could see through the very essence of souls.
But the result disappointed him; he still found no decay or stench. Nor did he find Nurgle's repulsive mark.
Only the psychic glow of dawn flowed through Mortarion's body.
In an instant, countless images flashed through Fulgrim's mind.
The distant Great Crusade.
That was the first time he had seen his brother, Mortarion.
Back then, even after returning to the Imperium, Mortarion remained like a sombre, mould-ridden stone.
He always wore that unadorned, even somewhat rough, great cloak, coldly watching the flamboyant, extravagant Fulgrim, who loved cheers and praise.
That look in his eyes, Fulgrim would never forget.
The disdain for "weakness" and "ostentation."
"You are too pampered, brother."
That was what Mortarion had said to him back then.
"In this universe, only those with the resilience to endure the mud of the gutter and the poison gas of death are true warriors."
And he had only seen him as another crude and unappreciative brother.
The scene shifted.
At the investiture ceremony at Ulanor.
This was a glorious moment for the Imperium of Man, with all the Primarchs gathered together.
Mortarion remained in the shadows on the edge, like a mushroom ready to unleash poison gas.
He showed no interest in the investiture ceremony, even expressing disgust at the grand spectacle.
The scene shifted again.
Istvaan V, the Drop Site Massacre.
Mortarion by then had become even more sombre and ruthless.
He led the Death Guard, opening fire without hesitation on the Salamanders and Raven Guard who had once fought alongside him.
The ruthlessness with which he slaughtered his loyalist brothers was even more chilling than that of the infamous Angron.
And then—
the Battle of Molech, the rebel rally at Ulanor…
until the Siege of Terra.
Mortarion by then had completely changed.
He had become bloated and rotting, with moth-like wings sprouting from his back, and his respirator spewing poisonous gas powerful enough to corrode city walls.
He had become Nurgle's daemon prince, the very "warlock" and "slave" he had once hated most.
Yet he remained one of his most steadfast and stubborn traitors.
"How could you become like this?!"
Fulgrim shook his head violently, forcibly pulling himself out of these memories.
He looked at his brother before him—tall, clean-cut, with clear eyes.
The contrast made him feel nauseous.
"Ha! Mortarion, what a touching return story!"
Now that he had confirmed the identity of the person before him, Fulgrim's attitude turned vicious and cruel.
Slithering around his brother, his expression shifted to a mocking smile.
"Mortarion, you are a pathetic, spineless opportunist."
"Back then, for the sake of so-called freedom and truth, for the sake of not being a slave, you betrayed the Corpse-Emperor on the Throne and joined Horus and us."
"And now? For what?"
Fulgrim pointed his sword at Mortarion's grey armour.
"To survive? To avoid being burned alive? You have run back to being that mummified corpse's obedient little boy?"
"You think that by peeling off that rotting skin, the Corpse-Emperor's hypocritical Imperium will accept you again?"
Fulgrim let out a shrill laugh, a mockery of such naivety.
"Look at what you have done! Can you wash the blood off Istvaan? Have you forgotten the poison gas you so diligently released during the Siege of Terra?"
"Those mortals, the descendants of the Legions you slaughtered—do you think they would cheer like they had seen a saviour if they saw you?"
"No!"
Fulgrim leaned closer, his purple eyes filled with malice.
"They will only see the daemon who slaughtered countless worlds! The Lord of Death who brought despair and plague!"
"Even if you go back, you will be nothing but an outcast! A sinner to be purged at any moment! Your good brother Roboute is protecting you now only because he still needs you as a useful weapon!"
"Once you are no longer of use, you will be thrown into the galactic garbage dump like before!"
"Your actions are a joke, Mortarion. Jumping from one side to the other, and then back again. Ah, my pathetic brother, have you lived for even a single second… for your own sake?"
Faced with his fallen brother's soul-piercing mockery, Mortarion might have charged forward with his scythe in the past, but now, he did not display a demigod's rage.
He did not even raise an eyebrow.
He only coldly stared at Fulgrim's increasingly agitated, serpentine face.
"Are you finished?"
Mortarion's voice was as calm as a stagnant pool.
"Instead of trying to educate me, look at yourself now, Fulgrim."
He looked Fulgrim up and down—his massive serpentine body and four arms gleaming with the same mocking expression.
"Where is your proud… 'beauty'?"
Mortarion deliberately paused, emphasising the word.
"You have turned yourself into a giant snake that only wriggles its backside, and you think you are beautiful?"
"Look at the ornaments on your body, those screaming human skins. Is this your proud 'art'? Is this your 'sublimation'?"
Mortarion shook his head, his eyes filled with a pity that infuriated Fulgrim.
"I did go astray."
"I was deceived by that ugly false god, and blinded by that cockroach, Typhus. I admit it; I made a grave mistake, and I will always bear the guilt."
"But at least… I dared to admit my ignorance."
"I can still crawl out of this mire and scrape away the rotting flesh that this Dark God imposed on me."
Mortarion stepped forward, his giant scythe "Judgement" slightly raised.
"As for what the Imperium thinks of me…"
He sneered.
"That does not matter. What those mortals think of me does not matter either."
"I do not care what others think. I do not care if Terra judges me a sinner."
Mortarion turned to the side.
His gaze pierced the battlefield, landing on a spot not far away.
There, Guilliman knelt on the ground, holding the little girl's hand, watching the Apothecary wipe the blood from the back of her hand.
And the girl, her neck hunched, like a kitten caught doing something wrong, let the Apothecary do as he pleased.
Mortarion's cold grey eyes softened at this sight.
"She pulled me back."
Mortarion said softly.
"In my most desperate, most painful moment, when I thought I would never recover—"
it was my… sister who gave me a second chance.
And it was she who told me… there was still a place for me at the old man's table.
He turned back to look at Fulgrim.
His gaze sharpened once more.
Mortarion gripped the haft of his scythe tightly, the psychic energy on the blade surging uneasily.
"So, Fulgrim."
"Whatever happened before. Whatever others see me as."
"From this moment on—"
Mortarion's voice was resolute, like a vow.
"Who dares threaten my brother? Who dares touch my sister?"
"I will cut off their head, even if they escape to the ends of the galaxy."
"It is that simple."
—
Even Old Huang, who had been watching the drama unfold in Eileen's mind, could not help but whistle.
[Wow! Little Morty's words… are really tough.]
[This kid, although he used to be a bit stubborn, once he makes up his mind, he is incredibly stubborn.]
[Hahaha, little Eileen, you are going to be able to walk sideways in the galaxy from now on.]
Meanwhile, in the centre of the battlefield.
Fulgrim's mind went blank once again.
What did he hear?
Sister?
This word, for these Primarchs, was even more absurd than hearing "The Emperor is a little girl."
They were created. Twenty-one (though he could not remember two) sons.
There were never any daughters. And certainly no sisters.
When did that mummified corpse secretly have a daughter?!
Fulgrim's eyes widened as he pointed at Eileen in the distance, his finger trembling.
"You… you call this little girl… your sister?"
"Have you gone completely mad?! Mortarion! Have you been drinking too much of the Plague Lord's soup?!"
"She is just… a lowly mortal girl! Just a container reeking of the Corpse-Emperor!"
"You actually called her your sister?!"
Fulgrim felt the world had gone mad (though it gave him a strange thrill).
The most sombre, most aloof, most emotionally despised Mortarion had not only reverted to a physical body but had also become… sentimental?
The sheer absurdity almost made him laugh out loud, but he immediately suppressed it.
He saw Roboute Guilliman.
That dull, uninteresting brother who always had "reason" and "logic" on his lips.
Hearing Mortarion's words, Guilliman did not refute them.
On the contrary—
Guilliman looked up, glanced at Mortarion, and nodded.
The meaning in his eyes was clear:
Yes, he is right.
Then, Guilliman stood up.
He shielded Eileen behind him, and the Emperor's Sword in his hand blazed fiercely once more.
He stood side by side with Mortarion.
Two figures—one blue, one grey.
Two brothers who had once been irreconcilable enemies, fighting each other for countless years.
Now, for the little girl behind them, they stood on the same side.
Facing their former brother, now the daemon Primarch.
Fulgrim watched this scene.
Looking into those two pairs of eyes—equally resolute, equally filled with murderous intent—
he suddenly felt a surge of intense jealousy.
Not jealousy of Mortarion's return.
But jealousy of how his two brothers' focus on the girl surpassed their focus on him, their traitorous brother.
Even if that focus was diametrically opposed—love and hatred.
"Hahaha… good… this is wonderful…"
Fulgrim gritted his teeth, his facial muscles twitching.
"Since Mortarion, Roboute, you enjoy playing this ridiculous game with lowly insects so much…"
"Then I will grant your wish!"
"I will capture you and let you watch how I torture your… beloved sister… this will be my greatest pleasure in ten thousand years!!"
He violently swung his four arms, and Zarakynel the Calamity beside him seemed to receive some command; from the warp rift behind him, even more of Slaanesh's army of pleasure surged forth.
"Kill them all!!!"
On the other side—
Guilliman raised the burning Emperor's Sword.
Mortarion held the massive "Judgement" scythe diagonally before him.
"For the Emperor! For humanity!"
"For my sister! Die!"