My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 406: Hades of the Death Guard
"All men must die: some deaths are weightier than a mountain, others lighter than a feather."
To die on the battlefield is the final destination of every warrior; noble souls find their rest there.
But he cannot rest yet.
He cannot bear to sleep.
This story needs no witness, but when he departs, they will all know he was here.
———
In Hades' eyes, the whole world dissolved into a blur of gray—dappled light and shadow, black earth and pallid sky indistinguishable from one another.
His chest hurt, though the pain had long since become numb.
Hades breathed raggedly. He needed oxygen—only an endless supply of it could keep him burning, burning without restraint.
Burning, to incinerate it all.
His chest rose and fell. The dried, cracking web of corrosion spread from where the Plaguefather had cast it down. A sharp, bone-piercing spike was lodged within him, touching his organs with each breath.
The wound had scabbed over, but Hades knew the spike that pierced his heart could not be pulled free. To remove it would mean another catastrophic hemorrhage—and he could no longer endure such blood loss.
In a daze, Hades recalled the Aeldari ambush on the plague world, remembered the farce aboard the Vengeful Spirit.
At least he was used to this kind of heart-piercing pain.
His body was used to it as well. That was why he still stood here—why he could still fight.
Forcing his eyes wide, Hades readied himself. The two pistols taken from Trazyn had long been lost in the chaos of battle. Now he possessed only a single scythe.
But the good news was—a single scythe was enough.
He felt its heavy weight in his hand. Obituary, once easy to wield, had grown unbearably heavy. The sound of his shattered gauntlet rang out; his armor had clearly reached its limit.
Weariness. Endless weariness enveloped Hades.
He longed to collapse forward, yet the faintest thread held him fast. Hades followed that thread—and what he saw at its end stunned him.
Not… not fragments of a dragon, nor the boundless dark.
They stood there.
They—the Death Guard.
The vast, endless ranks of the Death Guard stood like a silent forest, gazing at him.
Watching him.
Instinctively, Hades swallowed. In his unfocused pupils was reflected that gray-white sky—and the figure striding slowly toward him.
The white-green forest moved, metal clashing softly. Deep within it stood a familiar figure: the Lord of Death, the Pale King, Mortarion. His heavy breathing rasped beneath his rebreather mask.
"Endurance," The Lord of Death spoke, his hoarse voice carrying as his resolute gaze gleamed from beneath his hood.
"Warrior, this is the only blessing I grant you."
A broken sound escaped Hades' throat; blood welled up as he tried to speak.
Is this… is this what every Death Guard sees before death?
Led by their primarch Mortarion, the Death Guard were the most silent and solitary of the Legions—masters of holding the line in frontal warfare. Countless white-and-green armored warriors marched wordlessly into battle.
On battlefields of extreme intensity, they would survive to the final moment—and fight to the final moment.
And now, the Imperium, humanity, needed Hades to fight to the very last second.
Hades looked toward the figure charging at him. At the brink of his limits, he felt a faint strength slowly well up within this battered body. The corner of his mouth curled into a self-mocking smile.
Perhaps becoming a Death Guard was the most correct decision he had ever made.
It was that decision that allowed Hades to stand here—never falling.
What a pity. This time, it truly was farewell.
…Barbarus.
The shrieking cables lashed toward him. Hades silently raised his scythe to defend. His speed was no longer what it once had been. He had grown slow—clumsy.
He wished to swing his furious scythe at the enemy, yet he knew that was not the optimal solution for the beast called "Hades."
He wished to erupt once more—but the explosive strength that once belonged to him had long since burned itself out. He no longer possessed the reflexes that struck fear into his foes.
Hades had burned fiercely—until only his original, unadorned core remained.
Hades reminisced. He remembered every time he had fought shoulder to shoulder with the Death Guard. He remembered Mortarion's style of battle. He remembered every defense, every strike, every silent acceptance of the enemy's assault.
Vashtorr's shriek pierced his eardrums. Blood flowed from Hades' ears as the overwhelming tide of cables lashed toward him alongside the artisan's hammer.
Faintly, Hades sensed that Vashtorr still carried a remnant of his own power—but he was far too weak now to perceive it any further.
The torn cords of Hades' throat trembled. He drew his scythe back. A heavy crash erupted, sparks exploding as the artisan's axe locked against his weapon, stopping mere inches from his chest. The spray of sparks burst across Hades' face.
Hades knew what they said about him in private.
He was not a "qualified" Death Guard.
Or rather, he did not resemble one.
His thinking was closer to that of the Ultramarines; his combat style more akin to the White Scars; even his smooth, diplomatic manner resembled the Luna Wolves.
Hades knew this as well.
He was unsuited to the Death Guard's way of war. In the eyes of others, the Death Guard were always the passive defenders—slow, even clumsy—absorbing the enemy's assault before swinging their scythes when the foe had grown weary.
To fight a Death Guard meant the battle would become unbearably long, grinding, monotonous.
Hades was not that kind of man.
Or at least, he once believed he was not.
The battle style of Hades, the Lord of the Underworld, had always been rapid offense and rapid defense—striking unexpectedly.
He would always erupt at the moment his enemies believed him exhausted. And Hades had never borne any psychological burden in employing stratagems and tricks mid-battle.
Thus, from beginning to end, the martial techniques he studied, mastered, and applied were those he had gleaned while dissecting the Death Guard's rare surprise assaults.
The Lord of the Underworld developed a combat doctrine uniquely his own, refining and perfecting it through contact with other Legions.
But now, Hades understood—understood profoundly—that he could no longer use his former techniques.
The scant stamina he had left would not support such willful aggression.
At this very moment, the wisdom of the Death Guard—of Mortarion—shone brightly.
The combat methods Mortarion devised had originated atop the peaks of Barbarus, born to confront the breathlessness and exhaustion brought on by that poisoned world.
Though the Lord of Death refined this art during the Legion's later era, its original essence had never changed in the slightest—
The resolve to fight alone to the very end in the face of certain doom.
Hades let out a heavy breath. That resolve—he had long since made it his own.
Vashtorr attacked like a mad beast. The former master of the furnace now resembled a stray hound; the power that once filled his frame was gone, his steel-reinforced wings torn and ragged.
After a storm of such magnitude, survival alone was fortune enough. To stand upon the battlefield, Vashtorr too had paid a price.
If Hades could have seen Vashtorr clearly, he would surely have laughed—mocking this creature who trafficked with Chaos.
But alas, Hades was now in an even more wretched state than Vashtorr.
He fought on, feeling Vashtorr's fury. Cables sharper than steel speared toward him amid countless sonic booms; arcs of lightning crackled and surged.
Bathed in the hateful glow of the furnace-fire, Hades swayed unsteadily, as though about to fall once more.
In that instant, Vashtorr raised his artisan's hammer again. Savage arcs of lightning flared upward, shining with a radiance utterly unlike his earlier strikes.
"If you wish to live, then defend against the enemy's attacks to the utmost of your ability."
Mortarion had once said this, leaning upon his scythe as he instructed the people upon the farmlands of Barbarus.
"But…"
The Lord of Death had paused.
"If you know you cannot survive, or if you deem victory worth more than life, then deliberately reveal a flaw. Trade wound for wound. Trade blood for blood."
Trade wound for wound. Trade blood for blood.
A frigid gleam flashed through Hades' eyes.
Vashtorr leapt toward him, the warhammer howling through the air. At the same instant, the keen whistle of a scythe cutting the air rose from beneath the Lord of the Furnace—
Rip. Rip. Rip!
The Furnace Lord's cables pierced his armor first. Flesh burst apart, fragments scattering. Hades did not utter a sound; the scythe in his hands had already replaced his roar.
Reflected in his eyes was Vashtorr's enraged face. The Lord of the Furnace bellowed in fury, but Hades could hear nothing.
Hooked scythe.
The war-scythe that had been meant to block Vashtorr's strike abruptly shifted its trajectory!
In that instant, time stretched unbearably long—
A heavy surge of feedback crashed into him. The sound of Terminator plate shattering transmitted through bone, but Hades no longer spared it a thought.
He felt the tremor through his gauntlet as the razor edge tore through profaned metal. Brilliant firelight burst from within Vashtorr's body, and the Furnace Lord's expression twisted as if releasing a shrill, agonized scream.
In a flash of lightning and steel, the hammer smashed downward—
—and the scythe swept upward.
The new pain had not yet caught up to Hades. Savagery flared in his gaze. He wrenched the scythe closer, closing the distance. His right hand released the haft and shot forward—
Clack
The warhammer struck the ground, falling limp and pale at Hades' feet.
Obituary remained embedded within the Furnace Lord's body. As Vashtorr struggled, metal ground against metal, sparks flickering weakly.
Hades' face was expressionless. Fresh blood spilled from the corner of his mouth. His right arm was extended straight ahead, fingers clamped around Vashtorr's throat.
Vashtorr gagged, cables across its body detonating wildly, stabbing toward Hades. At the same time, its talons raked across his armor, leaving shrieking gouges.
+…You…+
The strangled words forced themselves from its throat.
+…You… monster…+
It stared at the creature wearing human skin.
How? Why—why?!
Why could anything survive the assault of the Four Gods—and still continue fighting?!
He should have collapsed! He should have been dying! He should have hung like an overripe fruit, ready to be plucked!
No. No, no, no—how could this be?!
The Four had spared him only for the final sacrifice. Before that moment, Vashtorr could reap its profit—but why, why—
Vashtorr struggled frantically. Hades had clearly stopped attacking before. It had smashed the artisan's hammer down upon him countless times.
But now—
The hand gripping its throat grew colder.
No—he could not kill it. Not unless this monster used the Black Domain. And he could not use it. Yes—he could not!
Vashtorr burst into manic laughter.
Of course. At worst, it would merely be banished back to the Empyrean. It would not perish.
As it laughed, the thrashing cables drove themselves into the Terminator armor—yet the monster clutching its throat did not move an inch.
Vashtorr stared into his eyes. The desolate darkness within them made it tremble. Fear—fear crept upward like bone-eating maggots.
Hades gazed at Vashtorr calmly.
He knew what he had to do.
The silver-white metal shimmered faintly.
How does one grant true rest to a warp-born being who commands "Machinery" and "Artifice"?
The last remnant of power left within the shard of the Void Dragon began to keen—a hatred born of the material universe itself, an anathema to warp creatures and to powers of similar dominion!
As if realizing something, Vashtorr's struggles intensified violently. Its tattered wings beat against Hades, metal crashing in sharp bursts.
From afar, one could see only the thrashing Vashtorr—Hades entirely obscured behind those battered wings.
More strength… more…
Hades felt the earth trembling beneath his feet. New enemies were coming. He did not have much time.
In Hades' grasp, the metal of Vashtorr's neck began to twist and rupture with a shrieking crack. Silver liquid metal spread like branching fissures from its throat—
+No—no no no no—NO!!!+ Vashtorr shrieked, +There is a place for me in the future! This is not how it ends!!!+
But as it struggled, great chunks of machinery began to fall from its body—cleaved nearly in half from below by the scythe.
Silver-white star-god metal crawled upward. As it spread, even the distant future Vashtorr could perceive was slowly swallowed by encroaching darkness. In terror and despair, it watched the river of its own destiny gradually run dry.
Only at this moment did Vashtorr truly understand what the God Forsaken is.
Why he was feared.
Why he was watched.
Why he was targeted.
A being of the warp, unbound and unfettered, felt for the first time a primal terror carved into the deepest layers of its soul—the instinctive fear of annihilation itself.
Vashtorr shrieked. Explosive fire burst from between mechanical components. At the final instant, the Lord of the Furnace decisively chose self-detonation in an attempt to escape—
"…Hss."
A faint, almost inaudible sound slipped from Hades' lips.
BOOM!!!
Crack!
A silver blossom detonated at the blasphemous creature's throat. Hades released his grip without expression. The mechanical corpse fell apart, massive chunks crashing to the ground.
Upon Cadia, the Lord of the Furnace lay scattered in pieces at the feet of the Lord of the Underworld.
This time, Hades smiled—from the bottom of his heart.
. . . .
Mars
Before the statue of the Lord of the Underworld, the Fabricator-General Jin, deep in prayer, suddenly shuddered.
Something had happened.
Jin immediately lifted his head and ceased praying. At the same time, an order from Malcador arrived through his communications.
A hiss issued from the engines of Jin-306. An ominous premonition surfaced in his thoughts.
Korklan… Jin thought.
You are at the Lord of the Underworld's side right now. If anything has happened to him… I will never forgive you, Korklan.
At the same time, across countless forge worlds, Archmagos buried in ancient tomes or directing manufactorum floors paused in confusion. Artisans devoted to creation looked up from their work, glancing around as if searching for the source of some subtle shift.
Someone had changed something.
They did not yet realize it.
But one day, they would know that on this day, someone had offered them the most sincere of blessings.
. . .
Barbarus
A low, muffled thunderclap rolled across the sky.
Mortarion, who had been hunched over his desk for three straight days, slowly raised his head.
Why had he felt this faint unease these past few days?
Pale light streamed in through the window, falling across his desk. Mortarion gazed thoughtfully at the scene outside. Dark clouds churned above the skies of Barbarus.
Rain was coming.
Wind heavy with moisture swept through vast fields of corn. The stalks bowed slightly, revealing between them small sacks of blessed grain hanging upon a black statue.
The farmers in the fields lifted their heads. Unconsciously, they looked to the sky—toward the direction of that distant star.
Cadia was shining brightly.
<+>
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