Chapter 281: Hades: Fuck
Hades casually plucked a fruit from the basket before him, lounging in ease as he chatted idly with Abaddon.
Once again, it had to be said—the Luna Wolves and the Ultramarines knew how to treat their guests right!
Besides the two of them chatting on the sofa, on Abaddon's side sat Sejanus, immersed in his battle reports, while Sevatar leaned against the wall, eyes shut in feigned rest.
Although everyone present could sense Sevatar's vigilance, at their level, perpetual alertness was nothing less than a necessity for survival.
Hades too kept his Black Domain active at a low concentration, spreading it over the entire chamber and even part of the long corridor outside.
None of these men had much psychic potential—except Sevatar. But the Prince of Crows constantly suppressed his powers, leaving Hades uncertain whether the other was aware of his anomaly.
"Tell me, Hades," Abaddon said casually, "how would you fight this campaign—hypothetically speaking?"
Sejanus glanced briefly from his reports at Ezekyle before returning to his reading.
Hades' hand paused mid-reach toward the fruit bowl. For some reason, something felt off, though he couldn't quite place it. Maybe Sevatar's armor cleanser just smelled different from theirs?
"Well, if it were me…"
Hades cast a lazy glance toward the map on the table.
"This civilization is highly unified. They've optimized their planet's resources quite thoroughly."
Biting into his fruit, he muttered, "Burn their farmland. And their granaries."
"What?"
Abaddon blinked in surprise.
"Their cities rely on two continental breadbaskets," Hades explained, tapping the map.
"They've devoted vast plains to staple crops, ensuring basic sustenance."
"According to the intel, they're on the verge of harvest season. Which means their current reserves should be at their lowest."
He circled a section of the map marked Agricultural Zone.
"Compared to vital structures, farmland is fragile, it's impossible for their military to protect them against outside malice at all times."
Still gnawing on his fruit, Hades continued:
"Set it all ablaze. Let a fire rage across half a continent. Keep watch for when they try to replant, then dispatch raiding parties to harass them."
"And that's it. Leave a single regiment here. They'll surrender on their own. If they don't make peace with the Imperium and purchase food to survive, nine-tenths of their population will starve first."
Abaddon opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Sejanus spoke instead:
"If the fields aren't restored, even with reserves, their supplies would vanish quickly under such numbers. It's… a perspective."
Hades waved dismissively.
"That's the flaw of a unified planet-wide civilization. With no wars for ages and centralized management, they plant all staple crops on the most fertile, mechanized plains. Around cities, it's only cash crops and seasonal produce."
"They had never spared a thought for what happens if their core farmland is burned."
He muttered, almost to himself. But it was inescapable: large-scale agriculture, with all its mechanization and industry, made it… all too easy to destroy.
The transport, preservation, plundering, or outright destruction of essential supplies had always been a crucial aspect of war—often outweighing guns and bullets themselves.
If it were soldiers, that would be one thing—warriors understood how to survive when supplies ran dry.
But if it were civilians—civilians with no sight of future relief—
Hades quietly swallowed the fruit pit in his mouth. Hive cities might endure, but these highly developed human civilizations… they had never tasted such suffering.
With shortages biting hard, so long as the Imperium maintained a standing offer of truce, their lofty pride would collapse on its own.
Hades tilted his head up idly—only to find Abaddon staring right at him.
"What?"
"I was thinking," Abaddon spoke slowly, "we could raise the priority of farmland in our planning."
Hades spread his hands.
"Sure, we can. But I doubt anyone will actually use that trick. It's a fringe tactic, not all that practical."
"I was speaking half in jest."
Though from the look in Abaddon's eyes, Hades could tell his offhand remark had been taken seriously.
So he dropped his casual smile, fixing Abaddon with a flat look.
"I was joking."
Hades enunciated each word clearly.
Before Abaddon could reply, Sejanus' voice cut in:
"Ezekyle, Father summons us."
Hades blinked, shifting his gaze away, then gave a lazy grin.
"Duty calls, gentlemen. I'll see you on the battlefield."
The two Luna Wolves gave Hades and Sevatar a solemn farewell, and soon the chamber held only Mortarion's Deathshroud and the black-armored bodyguards of Curze.
Hades still couldn't quite tell one Night Lord from another—their armor markings were too obscure for him—and with everyone helmeted except Sevatar, he wasn't even sure whether Shang were among the bat-winged figures.
After a moment's thought, he asked:
"Not going to sit for a bit, cousin?"
Sevatar's eyes opened, his gaze lingering on the sofa for a few seconds.
Hades offered him a disarming smile.
"Our Legions haven't worked together before. Might as well get acquainted—it'll help when we're fighting side by side."
So Sevatar sat, though with more caution than Hades, who had all but claimed the Luna Wolves' guest chamber as his own.
The closer he drew, the sharper that faint unease in his gut grew—but Sevatar's face betrayed nothing.
"Commander of the Death Guard, Hades."
"First Captain of the Night Lords, Sevatar."
Hades flashed a sly grin.
"You were listening earlier, weren't you, cousin? If it were you, how would you fight this war?"
Sevatar paused.
"I follow orders. I don't create them."
"All right then. What about the Night Lords? I'd just like to understand your combat doctrine."
Hades glanced at the fruit basket but refrained this time, it would be better for him to not take a snack mid-conversation with Sevatar.
"For example—the Death Guard. If Lord Horus didn't forbid it, we'd likely use inhalants. So I'd remind you to keep your helmets sealed, and better yet, upgrade your respirators."
"There are always rookies who hate wearing helmets."
Sevatar's tone lightened slightly.
"I thought your sort preferred phosphorus weapons. Burning farmland—that was a clever idea."
"In truth, we use phosphorus as well—you know this." Hades dropped his voice.
"But with Horus watching, it'll almost certainly be forbidden."
"They love binding themselves with mercy."
Sevatar folded his arms with a mocking edge.
"And yet you tell me this so freely, cousin? You're not afraid we might count ourselves among the merciful?"
Hades silently pointed at the string of skulls adorning Sevatar's armor.
"At least the Ultramarines wouldn't use those as decoration."
The two locked eyes—then Sevatar chuckled, as though reminded of something amusing.
"Forgive my bluntness, but your way of introducing yourself left quite the impression."
Hades glanced again at the fruit basket, his indifference plain. Sevatar could tell—he really did like that basket.
It had been a long time since Sevatar had seen anyone so forthright. Among the Night Lords, such a man wouldn't last long.
Hades went on:
"It's necessary. If we don't spell things out before a war, people will come running in the middle of the battle, furious, demanding why we're using certain weapons."
"My answer? They never said we couldn't."
Hades' words brought back memories—times when the Night Lords had fought alongside other Legions. Again and again, their father had been put on the defensive, facing the wrath of other Primarchs.
It had been the same nearly every time.
But this time—
"We don't often employ weapons that endanger allies," Sevatar said suddenly.
Hades gave a knowing smile. "Then what do you use?"
"We use fear."
Sevatar's voice was calm. "We let fear shatter the walls in men's hearts. We show them that behind surrender lies an abyss of terror without end."
Hades studied him, as if piecing something together. But Sevatar read no anger in his gaze, no revulsion—only calm.
"I think I understand now why you're not among the merciful," Hades said quietly.
"But the Death Guard are no saints either. If you are determined to use your methods, tell us. We might assist you—or at least, support you."
That—was utterly, utterly unexpected. Such an offer of cooperation between Legions was unheard of.
Sevatar wanted to press further, but stopped himself. To probe more would be rude. Such a promise, if not foolish, could only come from someone with true authority in his Legion.
But beyond that, what shocked him most was Hades' generosity toward the Night Lords. It was too much.
He began to suspect Hades' intent.
Hades, however, remained composed, indifferent—every few seconds his eyes strayed back toward the fruit basket.
He was still testing.
Sevatar smiled. On the Prince of Crows, the expression was ghastly. He reached for a fruit from the basket—
Plump, radiant, enticing—like the hollowed-out righteousness of the Luna Wolves themselves.
"Thank you for your courtesy, cousin."
Hades' face lit up with delight. Sevatar had taken one. That meant he could—Hades naturally reached as well, murmuring the polite words,
"No need. We all fight for the Imperium—"
Hades' pupils shrank to pinpricks. Within the Black Domain, a blazing inferno came hurtling toward him—
Instinct drove him upright, seizing the obituary scroll, compressing the Black Domain—
"Run—!"
No. Too fast. Far too fast!
At the last instant, the figure was upon him, almost as if it had teleported.
"Kh—!"
Hades coughed blood.
Shuddering, he looked down. A power claw had pierced clean through his chest, clutching a heart that still beat.
[What monster are you?! Stay away from Sev!]
A shriek ripped through his ears from behind. Agony tore at his neck.
Darkness swallowed his vision.
And in the very next heartbeat—everyone's sight went black.
Screams erupted! Konrad Curze flung Sevatar aside with a shriek, bolting with terrifying speed—
Hades, trembling, forced every ounce of strength just to keep a sliver of light in his vision. No—he couldn't unleash the Black Domain here. He couldn't.
Gritting his teeth, he tried to compress it tight around himself. He caught sight of Curze, fleeing, weapon raised. Damn it—damn it all—
[Hades!!!!!!]
Mortarion's voice tore through every eardrum. A heartbeat later, the Lord of Death's massive scythe split the heavens, cleaving straight toward Konrad Curze—
And in the reception hall, as he faced Abaddon and Sejanus, Horus Lupercal's expression sank into despair.
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