My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 405: Those Still Standing and Fighting
Amid a stretch of utter silence, the fires of war crackled on.
Smoke rose slowly from the wasteland, heavy with the exhaustion of long battle, pale and feeble, returning to the mundane color of the physical world.
The prow of the Stormbird burned with thick, rolling smoke. Its crashed engines spun idly, and the hatch that had been brutally kicked open lay discarded upon the ground.
"Move! Hurry!!!"
Korklan ran wildly. At this moment, the Archmagos displayed a kind of disarray Argel Tal had never imagined possible in his lifetime. For the first time, Argel Tal realized that even a mechanical voice could fracture into something that sounded like sobbing.
Argel Tal clenched his teeth. He shouted after the Archmagos. The staff in his hand glowed faintly, and Ram's weary, enervated voice flowed through his veins.
"Wait!!!"
Argel Tal roared, "If you rush up there now, you'll accomplish nothing—you'll only throw your life away!"
Korklan let out a trembling, choking sound, as if struck by some invisible current in the air. The Archmagos suddenly collapsed to the ground. He muttered in low, broken whispers about the Lord of the Underworld, and for a moment he was no different from the crippled pilgrims prostrating themselves upon the earth.
Korklan's mechanical arms clawed violently at his own head, as if he meant to tear open his flesh by force.
"He is bleeding—He is weeping—He is fading away!!!"
"He is fading away!!!"
The Archmagos wailed, indistinguishable from madness. For a moment, Argel Tal began to wonder whether the world the Archmagos saw was even the same one he himself beheld.
In those mechanical eyes—what exactly was he seeing?
Argel Tal did not know. Perhaps, in truth, it was Argel Tal who had gone mad. After all, a daemon now dwelled within his body.
Because of the sudden turbulence of the Warp, the Word Bearers' vessel had only barely managed to approach Cadia. But merely drawing near was enough—the psychic energies spilling from the planet had already left many of the Word Bearers half-dead or half-mad.
Only those of iron will retained their sanity. And then, they were met with sporadic attacks from the ships of the Iron Warriors.
The enemy's offensive was weak. Under normal circumstances, the Word Bearers would not have even deigned to notice such attacks.
But now, their own ships were equally scattered and fragile, and most of their crew had already lost the ability to fight.
In that moment, both fleets were so weakened that a strange equilibrium emerged.
At the same time, Argel Tal sent distress signals to the nearby fleets of the Sisters of Silence and the Iron Hands. But he did not know whether the two Legions, caught in the very heart of the Warp storm, could even survive.
The Word Bearers' ships began engaging the Iron Warriors. Under Ram's urging and the faint guidance of the staff in his hand, Argel Tal and Korklan made the resolute decision to infiltrate Cadia alone.
Under normal circumstances, Argel Tal would have thought such a plan the product of a madman.
Now, he was that madman.
And yet, when the bizarre spectacle of Cadia was reflected in his eyes, Argel Tal understood—
The one who was mad was not him. It was this world.
He was not insane.
Neither was Korklan. He was simply too sorrowful.
This land—no, this terrain—resembled a newborn continent, as if it had only just formed, its soil still loose and raw.
Countless corpses protruded from the earth, as though they themselves were part of the soil. Upon their faded power armor, the Roman numerals IV and X remained faintly visible.
They advanced across this land. From time to time, Argel Tal saw human shapes writhing like insects—most of them Tech-priests.
They appeared to be in agony: bones shattered, steel supports melted, engines ruined. Upon their bodies lingered the final traces of that madness—
Blue feathers, like those of beasts and birds, sprouted from iron. Fungal growths crawled across red robes. Savage blood flowed. Skin had been flayed away by their own frenzied hands.
At first, Argel Tal had fired upon them.
Gradually, he became numb.
The closer they drew to the heart of the battlefield, the more of them there were.
He ran stiffly past those broken forms. Their dragging, divided wails made even Ram within his body recoil in discomfort.
+Those wretches… they were sheltered by that one!+
The Lord of the Underworld's mercy had allowed them to survive.
But was survival truly a blessing?
Argel Tal swallowed hard. His resolve to die here grew stronger by the second.
"Hey! Korklan!!!"
The moment the first daemon's silhouette appeared before them, Argel Tal shouted sharply,
"What exactly are you planning to do?! You can't save the Lord of the Underworld like this! You have to think about him!!!"
His mind raced.
"We need to find Lorgar! At least I do!!!"
The Archmagos's engines screeched to a halt. He let out a wail.
"To the main pylon!"
The roar of a cogitator engine erupted as the Archmagos forced himself into overdrive, drawing upon every fragment of memory and knowledge stored within him. Wisps of white vapor began to rise from above his head.
In a distorted voice, Korklan cried out,
"I can try—I can try to force the Blackstone pylons online! The Lord of the Underworld taught me! He taught me!!!"
His voice tore itself raw as he slipped into another spiral of collapse.
"He taught me perfectly, every last detail!!! So why the hell can I only understand part of it?!"
Argel Tal shouted back. He raised his bolter—daemons were charging toward them.
"Can you or can't you, Korklan?! Give me a straight answer!"
The sound of fabric ripping split the air as the Archmagos's robes tore apart and weapon systems rose into position, heavy guns spinning up.
After a burst of explosive firelight, Argel Tal calmly shifted his aim to a new target.
"Give me your Blackstone spears!"
Without the slightest hesitation, Argel Tal hurled two Blackstone spears toward Korklan. The aura of nullity clinging to them seemed to soothe the Archmagos for a fleeting moment. The mechanical lenses of Korklan's eyes flickered brighter. He was about to speak—
His electronic voice froze in the wind.
"What is it?!" Argel Tal roared. The daemons were already swarming toward them. He could hear Raum urging him to unleash the daemon's power.
"There's—"
Korklan stopped. Though his body remained motionless, his weapons systems continued to pour out fire, cutting down even more daemons than Argel Tal. Flesh burst around the Archmagos like fountains of gore.
"There's…"
Korklan stammered, "Someone is calling for reinforcements."
After enduring all of this—after witnessing everything—there were still those who remained standing and fighting.
. . .
"Blackstone Pylon in Sector D3 requesting reinforcements! Requesting reinforcements!!!"
Little Herila shouted. Blood streamed from beneath her short hair. Fine violet scales were growing across her face.
The null nature of the Blank, combined with the functioning Blackstone pylon, had allowed this portion of the Sisters of Silence to endure until the final moment.
But even so, a sufficiently violent Warp surge had struck the pylon, eroding the bodies of the Blank with overwhelming force.
The Sister-Commander raised her customized bolter in one hand and emptied a burst straight into the Greater Daemon before her.
Across her shoulders lay Charon, bleeding profusely from the abdomen. His breathing was now dangerously faint.
Around Herila stood countless Blanks still desperately holding the line—and countless corpses already fallen. Their bodies were twisted and grotesque, no longer resembling human forms.
Herila clenched her teeth. Blood seeped from between them. The vox-channel returned no reply.
What was she still expecting?
But she had already made her decision.
Hold this place. Hold it.
For the survivors, hope may already have vanished.
Victory. Survival. Those no longer mattered.
All that remained was to follow the Lord of the Underworld and fight until the very last drop of blood was spilled—to send every bolt round into the enemies of the Imperium.
And at the end, to shout the names of the Lord and the Emperor—and reserve the final bolt for themselves.
<+>
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