Chapter 323: The Three Primarchs, Together Watching the Exterminatus
In Mortarion's calm pupils, the beautiful radiance of the Exterminatus was reflected. Behind him, flames were roaring fiercely.
A verdant planet had vanished—along with the generations of Aeldari who had lived upon it, along with the primitive savages barely able to speak, along with those strange and ancient structures,
Mortarion sincerely hoped that all of it would be consumed in the fire of the torpedoes, leaving not a single trace in the universe.
He listened quietly to the ragged sound of Vulkan's breathing beside him, and to the heavy, forcedly steady breaths of Ferrus. The Lord of the Salamanders was burdened by his accursed compassion, while the Lord of Medusa kept stealing glances at Mortarion.
Mortarion stood motionless. It was hard to say whether Ferrus's behavior stirred any faint emotion within the Lord of Death.
Before his competitive brothers, the Lord of Medusa was clearly losing his composure—yet his awkwardness somehow evoked a sense of familiarity in Mortarion.
When he first met these two, had he himself performed any better back then?
…No matter. He had already walked that shameful road, accepted the grim fate that followed, and now gripped in his hand the scythe that would never yield.
And Ferrus? Even if he could not see as far ahead. Mortarion had never cared much for the brothers whose minds he considered flawed. His only task was to prepare gifts for their funerals when the time came. Yet this time, this strangely familiar scene stirred a rare curiosity in the Lord of Death.
He did not mind speaking a little more than usual.
Though Mortarion still held his own opinions regarding Ferrus's earlier tactical plan.
. . .
The three Primarchs stood silently before the observation window. The entire planet below looked like a bubbling sphere of magma, bright orange-red blisters bursting upon its surface—each bubble as large as a forest.
Mortarion, idly, imagined that perhaps the humans and Aeldari on the surface were like ants spinning and screaming atop those bubbles.
But that was unrealistic. When the warheads struck, their internal organs would be pulverized in an instant, and the planet's atmosphere would ignite in furious combustion. As pressure dropped sharply, their bodies would swell for a brief moment, their mouths and wounds bursting with sprays of blood and fragments of viscera.
Those close to the impact zone—the lucky ones—would be torn to shreds by the shockwave. Those farther away would, in the following heat, shrivel into dry, black stick-like forms. If one looked closely, one might still discern the gaping mouths, the frozen, stupid expressions of those who had no idea what had happened—their eye sockets hollow, the watery lenses long since boiled away.
Then those blackened sticks would sink into the crimson molten soup like peppercorns dropped into stew, merging completely into the planet's broth of extinction. They were nothing but insignificant seasoning—the main ingredient remained the great slabs of planetary crust.
It was brutal, yes—but to Mortarion, who had approved the Exterminatus, the only image worth dwelling on was of the little humans and Aeldari spinning and screaming upon the surface bubbles.
Perhaps Vulkan's imagination conjured far more—lovers embracing at the final moment, mothers clutching their children, tears of helplessness welling in the eyes of the old. That, after all, was why he almost never employed Exterminatus. His imagination was too good.
Vulkan's breath caught; he stepped back.
"These… defenseless people—they are all dead by our hands. We must remember this atrocity. The burden on our souls is not lessened simply because it was necessary."
Mortarion muttered, "That is no excuse for your sentimentality, Vulkan."
Vulkan stared fixedly at Mortarion—and strangely, in his eyes, both fire and tears burned together.
"You are wrong, Mortarion. Compassion is the greatest reason for our crusade. If our war is not for the sake of humanity—then that would be the gravest mistake of all."
Mortarion paused.
"The time you spend hesitating could have been enough to save another world. The time you spent doing things with mercy could be used to save countless more lives. Even if you insist on saving them, Vulkan, wouldn't you want to save as many as possible?"
Vulkan choked for a moment.
"That's true, my brother, but…"
His voice softened.
"I cannot bring myself to give up. Every life has the right to be saved—and to live."
Mortarion frowned. Ferrus watched them both. It was he, together with the Emperor, who had brought Vulkan back into the Imperium—and only Ferrus truly knew the depth of Vulkan's madness.
The Lord of the Salamanders had once thrown himself into the teeth of enemy fire, charging through a storm of shells and las-beams just to rescue a single enemy infant—and in that moment, had there not been a miracle, Vulkan would have surely died.
Even knowing that, Vulkan had still abandoned his warriors, abandoned the mission entrusted to him, and leapt into the flames.
Continuing this argument was meaningless. Rather than listen to Mortarion and Vulkan debate, Ferrus was more eager to speak privately with Mortarion—the Lord of Death clearly knew more than he was saying.
So Ferrus interrupted.
"Vulkan, the Legion must first accomplish the task the Imperium has set for us. Once that is done, you may lead your Legion as you see fit. But you must fulfill the Emperor's orders."
"It's only a reminder, Vulkan."
Mortarion fell silent at Ferrus's interjection, simply standing there, wordless, watching Vulkan.
Vulkan gently shook his head.
"I thank you both for your concern. I'm simply not made for this, my brothers. When the galaxy knows peace again, I'll return to Nocturne and be a blacksmith once more."
Unexpectedly, Mortarion let out a cold laugh. The Lord of Death drew out his words,
"A fine thought. If the galaxy ever sees peace, I'll go back to Barbarus and be a farmer, though I doubt I'll ever again have much to do with the cesspits of Barbarus."
Mortarion's laughter hissed through his rebreather, sharp and mocking. Perhaps he was laughing at Vulkan's naïveté—or perhaps he truly thought he had made a good joke.
But Vulkan took his words at face value. The Lord of the Salamanders replied carefully,
"Perhaps you could ask the Mechanicum for help? I don't much care for their soulless forges and cold-hearted industry either, but their technology is unmatched. Planetary agriculture would be nothing to them."
Ferrus couldn't help but feel exasperated as Mortarion's laughter grew louder.
"I'll do that, brother," Mortarion said with a faintly rising tone.
"Perhaps I can discuss it with Ferrus right now—talk about how we'll spend that peaceful, warless future of ours. I'm not too fond of the Mechanicum myself."
At Mortarion's words, the grief in Vulkan's heart—born from the Exterminatus and his brothers' rebukes—eased just a little. He managed a faint smile.
"May there be peace in the days to come," he said.
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