My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 407: That Final Moment
Perhaps this had always been a dead end.
Now, it was the hour for brilliant stars to fall.
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Blazing fire erupted from the head of a Greater Daemon. Then came a chain of thunderous detonations. A grotesque mechanical behemoth sped across the wasteland, muttering fragmented, broken chants.
Korklan ran.
All of the Magos' auxiliary limbs unfolded at once.
Clawed metal feet stabbed viciously into the earth. Beneath him, blasphemous daemonic flesh was crushed and driven into the ground—but the Archmagos did not slow in the slightest.
Argel Tal sprinted behind him. Hardened, scale-like flesh spread across his armor, and voices from the Empyrean echoed through his form. He had grown stronger—more terrible as well.
An insect-like mechanical monster skittering across the earth.
A half-man, half-daemon Astartes.
At this moment, it was hard to say which was more grotesque—their strange pairing, or the advancing tide of Greater Daemons ahead.
They burst through a cloud of droning flies. A bloated, pus-leaking daemon rode atop them, charging forward as its greatsword cleaved toward Korklan—
The Magos' Omnissian axe snapped upward.
In the next instant, something burst like an overripe fruit.
Korklan roared. His grip upon the Omnissian axe was steady and powerful. Without hesitation, he swung toward the next target.
"Filth!!!" he bellowed.
His scanning arrays reflected the loathsome entities before him. Behind him, artillery systems hissed to ignition.
"I've seen you, I've seen you before!"
Explosions flared violently, bathing the Archmagos' cold metallic form in red. Amid smoke of flesh and flame, Korklan appeared robed in the most vivid pigments the world could offer.
Upon the Omnissian axe, the head of a Greater Daemon of Nurgle slid slowly free.
"In the name of the Lord of the Underworld—you do not frighten me anymore! I was taught all of this long ago!" Korklan howled.
At this moment, the Archmagos seemed to understand that this place would likely become his tomb. Yet what burned within his engines and soul was not fear—but a relentless, forward-driving madness.
Everything here matched the Lord of the Underworld's teachings.
Korklan finally understood it all.
This was the world He had seen.
This was the world He had always faced.
Now, a hellscape far surpassing the one from years ago unfolded before him—daemons advancing in ways that defied logic and law, each step eroding the already crumbling reality of Cadia.
He had always known.
What He once described to Korklan had been but a single corner of this hundredfold painting of madness and hell.
Korklan began to laugh.
He was right.
Anyone—anyone who possessed even a shred of reason—would feel the tremor from the depths of their soul upon first witnessing such a sight.
And only then would humanity truly understand what possibility the Lord of the Underworld had brought them!!!
And it was precisely because of this—
—that He must die.
—that He must pass!!!
To those blasphemous beings, the very existence of the Lord of the Underworld was itself a sin!
Korklan's thoughts trembled. In despair, he prayed silently to the Lord of the Underworld as he ran forward without regard for his life.
Drawing upon the anti-psychic accumulations of countless years, he brutally tore open a path of blood through the ranks of the Greater Daemons with his own body.
Argel Tal followed closely behind the Magos, who charged like a maddened bull into the daemon lines. The Archmagos' furious firepower and the dim aura of blackness surrounding him temporarily suppressed the tide.
They ran.
They passed through an ocean of daemons, racing toward the towering pylon that pierced the heavens.
In the distance, the shattered remains of a Titan loomed faintly against the ashen sky.
Argel Tal swallowed.
The staff in his hand guided him onward.
The Word Bearer realized that his destination might not be the same as Korklan's.
. . .
Little Herila fought on.
Bright blood sprayed from her wounds. Her armor shrieked as it fractured. Scales shimmered faintly beneath the broken plating.
But she continued fighting.
The Imperium had forged her into a weapon of war.
Her existence had meaning only in this—
To fight for the victory of the Imperium.
Even if she could not win, even if she would ultimately fall in battle, every bolt shell she fired into the enemy would lay one more brick in the Imperium's final victory.
And when that day came, those who still lived could return home. Back to their own worlds. They would not have to fight anymore. They could sit upon the edges of their fields, gazing lazily at the sky.
Barbarus was a semi-agricultural world. In the years that followed, little Herila always believed that her days on Barbarus had been the most peaceful of her life.
Running through the fields with her younger brother Had. Sometimes listening to their grandmother recount stories of the past, tales of the Barbarus resistance.
Then they were taken away by Lord Hades.
Her brother Had became a Undertaker of the Death Guard.
She followed Nera to Terra to study.
The training of the Sisters of Silence was brutal. Some never survived it. But that was only training. In the long years of war that followed, the people around her changed again and again.
Little Herila endured.
Under the leadership of the Lord of Death and the Lord of the Underworld, the people of Barbarus had their own steadfastness.
Later, by order of Imperial Regent Malcador, she finally returned to Lord Hades' side, not as a child of Barbarus, but as a blade.
A blade wielded by the Lord of the Underworld.
And a blade must possess the resolve of a blade.
Herila struck sharply.
Blood sprayed beside her dagger. In the next instant, the bolt pistol braced beneath the jaw of a purple-skinned Greater Daemon erupted in searing flame.
Another daemon's whip tore through the air toward her—
But in the next heartbeat—
BOOM!!!
Brilliant, blazing fire ignited before her eyes. Through the curtain of flame, the silhouette of Archmagos Korklan emerged, axe in hand.
The firelight flickered across Herila's face—her lips curved upward in disbelief, yet faint relief.
Korklan. The mechanical madman known to every Sister of Silence.
"Let me into the main pylon!!"
The Archmagos' distorted vox-call crackled through the air.
Herila flashed several rapid hand-signs. The formation of the Blanks parted. Korklan, carving his way through the daemon ranks, passed smoothly through the final defensive line formed by the soulless warriors.
"He is not an enemy." Korklan's voice followed immediately after.
Argel Tal—who had been targeted by the Sisters' bolters—suddenly halted.
But the muzzles did not lower. They remained fixed coldly upon the Word Bearer—he looked as though a daemon had possessed him.
Argel Tal clenched his teeth. He raised the staff in his hand, now radiating golden light.
"In the name of the Emperor and the Lord of the Underworld, I came guided by them! I am here to help you!"
Behind him, the tide of daemons was endless.
Argel Tal had no choice but to turn and defend again. In the last instant before he looked away, he saw Korklan's figure slip into the Blackstone pylon—
"Korklan?!"
Argel Tal roared in fury.
The Archmagos strode into the pylon. His cognitive engine burned violently. For the last time, he transmitted a distress signal to the Sisters of Silence fleet.
Argel Tal's shout vanished beneath the howls of daemons.
Korklan lifted his hand. Leaning against the inner entrance of the Blackstone pylon, Charon raised his eyes.
"That Word Bearer," Korklan said,
"He carries the Emperor's presence upon him. He came for you, not for the Lord of the Underworld."
Charon looked at Korklan. Dried blood stained the Custodian's abdominal armor. Years of working alongside the Sisters had made him familiar with the Archmagos.
The Custodian drew a deep breath. He staggered slightly as he stepped out of the pylon.
Korklan saw the penetrating wound through the Custodian's abdomen.
He knew they were preparing to leave this place.
From the beginning, the Archmagos had understood that Argel Tal's destination was not the same as his own.
The Archmagos and the Custodian brushed past one another.
Korklan walked firmly toward the exposed circuitry within the Blackstone pylon. The entire structure was currently dormant.
He needed—
He needed to restart it.
Korklan's cognitive engine ground and shrieked.
He did not even know whether it would matter.
On a battlefield of such magnitude, could activating a single Blackstone pylon still change anything at all?
But this was the only remaining method the Archmagos could think of—the only way left to aid the Lord of the Underworld.
Korklan had once witnessed a miracle upon Barbarus.
A towering pylon had granted the Lord of the Underworld immense power.
Facing the exposed circuits, Korklan extended his auxiliary limbs. Countless delicate instruments unfolded and gleamed. He realized his hands were trembling.
He remembered—remembered the scene the Lord of the Underworld had once demonstrated before him. In the very heart of the battlefield, He had repaired a Blackstone pylon, and in doing so saved all their lives.
And now, it would be Korklan who must recreate that miracle.
He trembled.
On a battlefield, precision mechanical repair was far more difficult than combat.
He did not know whether this would be futile.
He did not know if he could make it in time.
He did not even know whether he could accomplish this at all.
Within his soul, Korklan cried out the names of the Lord of the Underworld and the Omnissiah.
What answered him was only that faint, weakening sensation—a constant reminder that the Lord of the Underworld was dying.
There was no guiding transmission from Him.
No pale-green current of power to assist him.
Nothing but that slow, creeping frailty.
He had once descended in might, generously aiding every warrior of the Imperium.
But now, His most devout follower could not receive even the slightest fragment of inspiration.
Korklan—the most faithful of believers—received no help.
No hint from the true master of these Blackstone pylons.
No enlightenment from the Omnissiah.
Nothing.
Now was the moment of a mortal man.
Korklan trembled.
He began to restart the circuits. His cognitive engine roared. He recalled. He calculated. He analyzed. He created.
And in those very acts—in that reclaimed authority over thought and creation—he found true freedom and strength.
This was the right the Lord of the Underworld had granted them.
Soft cutting sounds filled the chamber. At the same time, the weary voice of the Custodian came through Korklan's comm-channel.
"We will proceed to the main battlefield with Argel Tal."
"Korklan—"
The Custodian gazed at the staff in Argel Tal's hand, faintly glowing with golden light. For a fleeting moment, he seemed to glimpse the Emperor's towering silhouette.
It is Him.
This is His command.
The Custodian's lips parted slightly.
"Repair the pylon as quickly as possible. You must make it to the final moment."
"Overload the pylon directly. Suppress the warp as much as you can at that instant."
"This is our last hope."
. . .
Lorgar was weeping.
It seemed everything was already too late.
His steps grew slower—heavier—yet he had still arrived.
Lorgar trembled faintly as he looked upon the God-Forsaken One before them.
He was exactly as Lorgar had imagined.
Black armor, mottled with scars, faintly glowing with emerald light.
He breathed in silence, the executioner's scythe curved in His grasp.
Yet He swayed—unsteady.
Perturabo raised his weapon first and charged.
There was no technique. No finesse.
They no longer needed such things.
They had already crossed into the final distance.
They had already stepped into the final moment.
The radiance surrounding the God-Forsaken One had been stripped away. The ritual meant to target Him had regained its power.
If He slew even one of them, the final curse would descend.
And if He fell in battle against them, then at the instant before His death, Lorgar and Perturabo would strike one another with their final blows.
It was a ritual—symbolizing Betrayal, Domination, Manipulation.
They still sat high above, watching their puppets perform this exquisite drama.
It would replenish Their strength.
It would signify Their victory.
Unless…
Lorgar thought—
Unless something could interrupt—or disrupt—this process…
The warp churned, roaring like a tidal sea.
He watched as the God-Forsaken One raised His scythe, bracing against Perturabo's charge.
Blood and sparks burst outward.
The Lord of the Underworld spat blood.
In His eyes burned the final flame.
His scythe trembled beneath Perturabo's hammer, shrieking with sharp metallic friction.
Perturabo's body had long since reached its limits. He was far from the strength of his prime. In Lorgar's eyes was reflected the sight of the Lord of Iron beginning to falter.
Within the Empyrean, a soft, indulgent laugh echoed—tinged with faint displeasure.
No…
No…
Lorgar thought this as he felt the distant call—the voice of his most loyal son, Argel Tal.
Argel Tal had not yet arrived.
No… it could not be…
Lorgar shook his head almost imperceptibly—but his body had already begun to move.
He raised Illuminarum and walked toward the Lord of the Underworld.
No… no…
Lorgar met the Underworld Lord's gaze. The dying beast now burned with its final flame. Fury blazed in His eyes—fury directed at the traitors of the warp.
The scythe swept down past Lorgar's side. Perturabo's hammer struck from behind the Lord of the Underworld.
"No…"
Lorgar murmured.
He heard Their mocking laughter. A graceful hand rested upon a bowstring, slowly stroking it.
"Don't…"
The word forced itself from Lorgar's lips.
Argel Tal—Argel Tal—God-Emperor—save this… save this all…
"…don't kill… me…"
Lorgar struggled.
His movements slowed further.
The scythe fell.
Blood sprayed.
He fell backward—but remained far from death.
And he saw the Lord of the Underworld turn that scythe toward Perturabo.
The Four had not chosen him.
The slender hand upon the arrow began to loosen.
In that moment, many things happened at once.
Far away, surrounded by a host of Greater Daemons, Argel Tal glimpsed a familiar color—
Behind him, Charon suddenly shoved the Word Bearer forward. Argel Tal was thrown ahead, while behind him Custodian Charon and Sister of Silence Herila were swallowed by the ocean of daemons.
"Father!!!"
Brilliant golden light erupted alongside Argel Tal's scream.
Without hesitation, he hurled himself forward—throwing the staff blazing with radiant light toward Lorgar—
. . .
Inside the Blackstone pylon, Korklan froze, trembling.
The Blackstone circuitry had been burned out by the earlier warp surge.
Unless—unless something could serve as a conductor to reconnect it.
Just one instant…
Korklan thought.
He had already set the pylon to overload.
He needed only one instant.
But that instant would annihilate every soul near the pylon.
The Archmagos reached behind him.
He grasped the Blackstone spear—the residue of the Lord of the Underworld's Black Domain still clinging to it.
Korklan moved through the pylon's interior, finding the broken circuit.
He imagined the Lord of the Underworld's teachings.
Then, he raised the Blackstone spear high and drove it down into the severed conduit!
The Blackstone pylon screamed.
. . .
Lorgar caught the staff.
Tears streamed down his face, glittering beneath the golden light.
In that instant, he saw his father.
The God-Emperor stood before him, watching.
Without hesitation, Lorgar cried out his final words:
"God-Emperor—I offer my last fragment of pure soul to You, in exchange for the Lord of the Underworld's survival! In exchange for the eternal survival of mankind!!!"
He initiated the sacrifice first—a sacrifice to the God-Emperor.
In the next heartbeat—a spinning head.
Golden light.
Distant darkness exploding all at once.
Slaanesh released the bowstring, an enraged cry escaping Their lips.
The ritual was broken.
It was over.
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