Chapter 237: Rumors, the First Gathering of Believers
After the Dark Angels' fleet arrived in this star system, the Hadeshound unit was redeployed to the main planet of Rust to avoid suspicion—especially since the war was nearing its end. There, they assisted the Mechanicus in restoring production.
Though the Hadeshound were the most inconspicuous auxiliary force—mere mortals with supporting roles on the battlefield—they were still granted access to the overall progress of the war.
And this war was almost over.
The Galasparans, who had just experienced the first war of their lives, seemed to collectively breathe a sigh of relief. Even though the missions assigned to the Hadeshound were still completed on schedule—or even ahead of schedule—people started to seek out entertainment again.
Rather than the crude dueling pits of before, the Hadeshounds were now far more interested in those strange, untraceable, and increasingly embellished stories. Having lived through two wars, they had plenty to reflect on—and plenty to share.
Among the many clearly dubious rumors, one stood out and captured the curiosity of these mortals more than any other—
"Hades, the Lord of the Underworld."
During breaks from construction work, dusty workers would sit around clutching cups of nutrient gruel, chatting as they rested. Whenever the atmosphere reached its peak, someone would suddenly lower their voice and speak in a hushed, mysterious tone:
"Hey, you ever heard of that one? The 'Lord of the Underworld'?"
If he was lucky and none of the others had heard of it, he could puff up with pride and proceed to dramatically embellish the tale.
If he was unlucky and someone else knew the rumor, then the two would end up fighting to outdo each other in retelling it.
"They say—just saying, mind you—that among the Death Guard, there exists a very special figure."
"You know, the one we all met—that officer who taught us how to drive the tank."
He raised a hand and gestured vaguely with a look of significance.
"Just to be clear, I believe in the Imperial Truth. Every Hadeshound does. This is just a rumor, a rumor, alright?"
"Oh, shut up and just tell us already!"
"Ahem—"
The man cleared his throat dramatically and lowered his voice even more:
"Actually... that officer is a god."
"Hoo—"
A wave of scoffing swept through the group. No one believed a word of it.
A god? That was just too ridiculous. Sure, some ignorant people might call the Astartes "angels," but any Hadeshound unit who went through Death Guard training knew better—Space Marines were still human.
"You might as well claim the Primarch himself is a god. I'd at least be more inclined to believe that. What kind of awful storyteller are you?"
The man didn't seem bothered by the pushback. Instead, he calmly continued, putting on a knowing tone:
"I've got proof. You can test it for yourselves right now."
"Listen up—if you clear your mind completely, have absolute reverence in your heart, and silently praise Hades... you'll get a real response."
"And I mean it—you have to really use your mind and your soul. And you have to think about that officer."
After finishing, he folded his arms smugly, waiting for everyone to try it out. When he'd first tested it himself, even he had been terrified—the sensation of helplessness, like it was seeping into his very bones, and the overwhelming pressure…
Compared to the confident storyteller, the others were more hesitant. "Is that for real?" they muttered. But with nothing else to do, many of them, driven by curiosity and doubt, began to try praying to Hades.
Idleness—it was always the first reason humanity turned to foolish rumors.
Less than a minute passed before someone suddenly cried out. Eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement, they looked around in confusion. After confirming nothing strange had happened nearby, their expression shifted into one of bewilderment.
"See? I told you. It's real."
The man, looking very pleased with himself, explained that this rumor could be tested and verified on the spot—and that was why it had spread so far and become the easiest to share.
"Wait… but if that guy really is a god, why did I feel disgust when I tried it? Shouldn't I have felt, I don't know, happier or healthier or something?"
"No, no… that man is actually—"
"You don't know the whole story,"
The man interrupted, clearly enjoying holding the others in suspense.
"I once met someone who truly believed in him—a woman from Squad 037. She said that feeling of powerlessness? It could dispel xeno psychic control."
"And get this—she said that man's name, Hades, corresponds to a divine title in ancient High Gothic."
"Hades—ruler of death and the realm of the dead. So of course if us living folk pray to him, it's gonna feel like dying!"
Seeing the crowd now staring at him with curious eyes, the man launched into an even wilder flurry of nonsense—half made-up, half cobbled together from hearsay, all of it poured out with enthusiasm.
Because it could be tested in real-time, the rumor of Hades spread rapidly among the Hadeshounds. Most treated it as idle gossip, something to pass the time. They heard it, shrugged, and tossed it into the back corners of their minds.
But the Hadeshounds were legion. And a few of them—those who had fought the Rangda and, by some twist of fate, broken free from the Rangda's psychic control—did not treat the rumor so lightly.
Some of these soldiers began to gather informally, sharing personal accounts, piecing together their experiences, and building their own theories and hypotheses—until the watchful eye of a certain Magos fell upon them.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Squad 037's rest camp.
The crude cloth tents thrown up on the minefield wastes were so dim inside they might as well have been night. The overly dry air washed away the stench of sweat that hung over the place.
It was free time now. Most people had gone out to shoot the breeze or train on their own—nobody wanted to stay in the tents steeped in the stink of unwashed bodies.
That suited her just fine. It gave her a rare moment of peace. Sitting on her collapsible cot, she was sorting through everything she'd learned so far.
All her current theories were built atop one solid axiom:
When you invoke the name of Hades, your mind will receive a response.
Beyond that, she had precious little to go on. She'd tried borrowing some books from the Death Guard's archives—what little access was allowed to the Hadeshounds—but the sheer poverty of her High Gothic vocabulary made the effort nearly futile.
One thing she was sure of: the Death Guard had concepts of the Lord of the Underworld and the God of Death, and the prevalent death-worship culture in the Legion gave her the confidence that her hypothesis wasn't entirely unfounded.
She tried to dig deeper into her memories, searching for more clues.
That man had shown up during their tank training exercises, she was certain of that. But all she could clearly recall now was his towering figure—far more imposing than anyone else. Everything else was a blur.
The light by the flap of the tent shifted slightly.
"Greetings. Do you have at least 3.5 standard Terran hours available at this moment?"
A flash of crimson suddenly filled her vision, and she nearly stabbed it with her knife in reflex.
Actually, she did try to stab it—but the Magos easily caught her hand with a mechanical limb and held her there without effort.
"Allow me a brief introduction—Korklan, a Magos working with the Death Guard."
She blinked in disbelief.
Normally, the Tech-Priests of Mars treated baseline humans with little more than mechanical coldness—but Magos Korklan was shockingly polite and patient.
Cautiously, she replied:
"Squad 037, Galasparan native. Margo."
"Well met, Margo. I'll be direct. I need your thoughts regarding the Lord of the Underworld."
"…Huh?"
The Magos's bluntness left Margo momentarily stunned. She wasn't sure if he was joking or if she had simply misheard.
"Sir? That's just my personal guess, and besides, isn't the Imperium—?"
"No."
The Magos cut her off cleanly. The chains on his shoulder clicked as he leaned in, pressing his face close to hers, clearly trying to force her to lock eyes with his mechanical gaze.
Those metal eyes—cold, lifeless—were glowing with a strange, eerie red light from deep within.
Margo felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end—but the Tech-Priest's mechanical arm still gripped her tightly, preventing her from backing away.
"I have seen daemons."
The Magos's flat, emotionless electronic voice rang out.
"If daemons exist in this universe, then so too must angels—and gods."
"That man… He knows of the daemons. He's familiar with them. He slays them."
Margo turned her head uncomfortably, trying to twist her torso away as much as she could—anything to get some distance from the Magos.
"But, sir… brave warriors can slay daemons too."
Magos Korklan suddenly released her arm.
"No. I misspoke."
"The correct description is: He annihilated them in an instant. He understands the operational laws of the Silent Mechanisms. He repairs. He uses. He knows the rules. He is the rules."
"He is a god. After observing Him at close range, I am certain of my hypothesis. He matches my narrow, technical definition of divinity."
"Be it His power to resist the Warp… or the intelligence that lies behind His manifestation."
"When He chose me as the first observer, I accepted this truth—and repented for my previous ignorance."
"And so, I began devoting myself more fully to the path He revealed—"
Korklan's mechanical eyes glowed with that eerie red light again, and his neck twisted at an unnatural angle as though to force Margo to stare directly at his face.
"Now—tell me, mortal: Why did you discover the Lord of the Underworld too?"
The pressure coming from the Magos felt almost tangible—like a wall crushing down on her. Margo could barely breathe, but she also felt a flicker of anger rising at the Tech-Priest's overbearing presence.
Tightly pressing her lips together, she forced out a few words:
"Because I prayed to Him. And He answered me."
The pressure vanished instantly, leaving only the faint scent of machine oil in the air.
"…That's it?"
The Magos stood there, almost dazed.
"For me, that was enough," she replied coldly, yanking her hand back. A deep red mark had been left on her arm.
Magos Korklan stood silently, deep in thought.
Why had his prayers never received a response?
Was it a lack of sincerity?
No. He needed more data.
Then he spoke again.
"Margo. Tell me the exact words of your prayer."
"'For Hades.' That's it."
"That's all?"
"That's all. But… you have to mean it."
The Magos fell silent.
And Margo knew—he was trying it for himself.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Korklan jolted like a system short-circuiting, shaking as if he'd been struck by lightning.
"Yes! This is it! This feeling—it's Him!"
He lunged forward and grabbed Margo's hands, shaking them vigorously.
"You've found the path to Him!"
Why hadn't the Mechanicus' prayers worked before? Korklan seemed to realize something at that moment.
Their invocations… had not addressed Hades directly.
They prayed to the Omnissiah, or the Machine God—not to Hades.
Even amidst the euphoria, Korklan's mind was already working through the implications of this truth.
He would not share this revelation with the other Tech-Priests. Not yet.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Half an hour later, Korklan and Margo sat side by side on her cot. The Magos was showing her every video clip he had collected about Hades—quotes, footage, even theological arguments for why Hades was a god.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Meanwhile, on the other side of the battlefield—
Whenever he was dealing with the Dark Angels, Hades always felt… off.
There was a subtle feeling, like fine threads brushing against his skin in the dark—weightless, fleeting, impossible to hold onto.
It was strange. He couldn't focus on it. Whenever he tried to concentrate, the feeling would vanish completely.
Only when he wasn't paying attention could he sense that something was wrong.
What exactly is going on…?
Hades pondered the sensation—but unable to come up with any rational explanation, he eventually gave up.
He checked every place he usually stayed, even called the Undertaker to inspect for Warp signatures—nothing was found.
Hades could only resign himself to thinking—
Maybe he'd been cursed.
Maybe someone was stabbing a little effigy of him somewhere.
But after cautiously observing the situation for a while, Hades realized that aside from that constant eerie sensation crawling in his chest, there weren't any other signs of misfortune.
So, for now, he shelved the matter.
That said…
Sometimes, in the middle of reviewing documents, he'd suddenly feel like someone was calling his name.
He'd snap his head up, only to find the room completely empty.
That kind of feeling...
If Hades weren't the type of guy who could punch daemons into mist with a single swing, he might actually have been afraid.
This strange, inexplicable feeling went on for some time—until a certain report landed on his desk.
Hades glanced at the cover.
It was a status report from the Grave Wardens, detailing the ideological state of the Hadeshound Auxilia.
Stamped at the top was a big red mark indicating that this report was to be reviewed and approved by Hades personally.
He silently flipped to the first page.
"The Hadeshound units participating in reconstruction are, overall, showing a good psychological recovery. Troops have begun organizing entertainment activities on their own, which has eased some of the postwar anxiety. However, certain rumors have begun spreading under the guise of 'entertainment'..."
Further down:
"In response, the Grave Wardens have suppressed these rumors and shifted focus to reward-based dueling cages as a controlled outlet."
Hmm…
Not bad. Hades thought.
Better to redirect than to suppress entirely.
Rumors were just idle chatter anyway—As long as the legion was stable and well-supplied, they could talk.
He took a sip from his cup and turned the page—
"The most widespread rumor: 'Hades, the Lord of the Underworld.'"
PFFFFT—
Hades immediately choked on his drink.
Wait. What?!
Frowning, he flipped to the next page, and there they were—words leaping off the paper:
"God."
"Divine response."
"Prayers."
All manner of heretical nonsense flashing before his eyes.
In a word?
Panic.
The good news?
It was just a rumor.
Very few actually believed it.
But…
Some of the details bothered him.
A storm of thoughts and possibilities rushed through his mind.
As the master of the Black Domain, Hades had no idea how others were experiencing its effects.
Could prayers actually receive a response?
Was such a ridiculous thing even possible?
Then why, in all the Mechanicus liturgies, in all the decades of ritual and chant—had the Tech-Priests never once spoken of a "response"?
Hades flipped rapidly through the pages.
Near the end of the report—he found an arrest warrant.
Some of the targets were flagged for restricted access.
The Grave Wardens were requesting his authorization.
Hades blinked.
And without hesitation, he signed his name at the bottom of the form.
<+>
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