My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 453: Comparisons Make You Furious
Sevatar stepped back. In the shadows of the cell, the Great Angel walked toward him expressionlessly, blood staining the corner of his mouth—
Sanguinius turned without hesitation and left. The Great Angel looked… not in good condition, yet he still seemed capable of fighting.
Sevatar froze where he stood for a second, then decisively plunged into the darkness of the cell.
Sanguinius's footsteps paused briefly.
"Keep your… warrior in check, commander." The Great Angel spoke, leaving Sevatar crouched beside Konrad Curze behind him.
Candlelight flickered across the Great Angel's crimson pauldrons as the Primarch strode out of the dim prison corridor. Baal's pale light spilled in from the doorway, making the Primarch squint slightly.
Sanguinius did not turn his head. By the door, arms folded, hood drawn, leaning against the wall, the Lion was waiting for him.
Sanguinius did not smile. He remained cold-faced; the scent of blood made him imposing without anger.
"Have you decided?" the Great Angel asked.
Hidden beneath his forest-green hood, Lion El'Jonson nodded. But the Lion seemed to sense something. He hesitated, one hand resting casually on the sword at his waist.
"…Your condition isn't right, Sanguinius."
Sanguinius's face remained expressionless, like a sculpture. Baal's sunset cast a gorgeous glow slowly across his features.
The sun sank. Night approached.
The Great Angel's lips moved slightly, but he said nothing.
At last, he turned away. He drew the spear from his back and spread his wings. Messages from his sons in the vorx told him he needed to keep fighting.
"Lion, you're too sentimental."
The words drifted down lightly with a falling white feather. The Lion straightened from the wall in surprise. The words he had not yet spoken caught in his throat.
The Lion clicked his tongue in confusion, frowning deeply as he stared at the rapidly departing figure.
Much later… he would come to understand that at this moment, the Great Angel had already stepped into that war-torn dark age.
Friendship, self… at this moment, only the Great Angel praised in song remained—Sanguinius.
Unsteady footsteps sounded. Lion El'Jonson gripped his sword. Emerging with the night was a limping Konrad Curze, supported by Sevatar.
The Night Haunter's eyes reflected eternal darkness.
The Lion sneered, openly drawing his blade and pointing it at Konrad.
To his surprise, Konrad ignored the provocation. After madness, a rare clarity lingered in his eyes.
"…He killed Horus." Curze's soft, hoarse voice rasped, tinged with blood.
Lion started. "Konrad, do you know what you're saying?!"
This time, Konrad did not lapse into madness. He hissed softly in disbelief.
"…He… he chose the safer future—even if the price was blood on his hands."
The Great Angel knew it was real. The Great Angel believed it was false. Curze murmured to himself. It did not matter, because the Great Angel had made his choice without hesitation, forcing the future's possibilities to their minimum.
But he chose… for himself, the most painful road.
A path only the strongest soul could walk.
He pushed his closest friend into the abyss, while he himself was raised upon a pedestal, sealed beneath layers of faith.
Curze muttered: Mortarion had shown him a future freed from fate, while Sanguinius had shown him a future that chose fate.
Konrad panted, shaking his head unconsciously, slipping back into confusion.
"Atonement…"
"…How mad… even sinners in hell must work…"
Muttering, he limped away, ignoring the Lion, carefully supported by Sevatar.
Lion El'Jonson paused. Not gifted with prophecy, he might never understand the pain of the two prophetic Primarchs.
He watched them leave in confusion—one vanishing into the sunset, the other into the night. They seemed to have reached some kind of ceasefire.
A temporary respite.
The Lion muttered a curse in Calibanite. He raised his hand, and from the shadows of the structure emerged a group of Great Angels in winged helms.
"Back." the Lion King said. And so he led his Dark Great Angels, disappearing into the darkness as well.
. . .
"Nice weather today." Angron said with a smile. He leaned out from Guilliman's office, bright sunlight pouring down from the blue sky. The Lord of the Red Sands was in a good mood today, grinning as he watched the birds wheeling in the air.
Or rather, most of the time, Angron was in a good mood.
Even though the situation wasn't particularly optimistic, Guilliman sighed softly and set down the documents he had been reviewing.
The Astronomican had not yet been relit, and wars both large and small were still raging throughout Ultramar. The Ultramarines, together with the Death Guard, were cleansing those plague-ridden worlds.
Having learned from previous experience, the Lord of Macragge no longer dared relax in the slightest. For a time, four hospital worlds were established within the Ultramar sector, and to prevent agricultural worlds from being attacked again, Guilliman approved the construction of five backup agri-worlds.
Guilliman also conducted a temporary recruitment drive, drafting those in the reserve academies who were immediately ready for surgery. Soon, ten thousand new recruits would enter the Legion.
At the same time, he lowered the academy pass rate by ten percent. In the future, the Ultramarines would expand once more.
Backed by the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, Roboute Guilliman, unlike other Legions, did not require resource replenishment from the Imperium—especially equipment from Mars.
Thus Guilliman could now expand freely without worrying about supply issues or Terra's approval.
Out of certain political considerations, Guilliman attempted to discuss the matter with Malcador. Malcador's response was an eye roll.
After returning, Guilliman immediately began recruitment.
With the expansion of the Ultramarines and the passing of the early chaotic period, the borders of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar began to expand further on the star charts.
With the Pale Lord guarding them, the Ultramar sector remained relatively stable.
The Death Guard's cleansing of plague worlds also went smoothly. Although the Ultramarines observed some casualties within the Death Guard, the Fourteenth Legion had little complaint about it.
Guilliman sighed again and took a sip of steaming tea—tribute from a hive world they had just liberated.
Amid white mist, the Ultramarines, together with the Death Guard, executed those mad cultists and psykers. They raved in confusion, seemingly unable to understand why they could no longer commune with their gods.
Mortarion's evaluation of this was:
"Anyone who believes in gods is an idio— (censored)."
His weak voice echoed through the white mist. The accompanying Ultramarines glanced at the Death Guard around them—who carried as many as seven backup knives—and at the Pale Lord, who could appear and vanish within the fog at any moment…
They tacitly maintained a high level of political awareness and kept their opinions to themselves.
Guilliman sighed once more. New battlefields, new enemies—the Ultramarines would quickly adapt.
"You've been pretty down lately, Guilliman?" Angron's voice sounded.
Guilliman frowned and took another sip of tea.
"I'm still worried something like last time might happen."
Angron raised an eyebrow. He knew Guilliman was referring to the illusion.
"You're too tense," Angron said with a smile.
"Among the top five psykers in this Imperium, two of them are here with us. If we still can't handle things…. well, I can't imagine how bad other battlefields must be."
Guilliman let out a sigh.
"May our brothers be safe. May the glory of mankind endure."
Angron's expression immediately turned serious.
"The glory of mankind endures," he said. "We should have faith in our brothers. They are Primarchs, just like us."
Angron relaxed again.
"Cheer up, Guilliman," the Lord of the Red Sands said. "Lately you've practically become a pessimist—no one would blame you. Mortarion and I both trust you enough to watch our backs."
The volume of documents from an entire sector—there was only one person in the galaxy who could process them all within the required time and ensure everything ran smoothly afterward.
It was a sea of paperwork Angron wouldn't even dare to imagine. Guilliman, without sleeping, finished it all in a single day. For a moment, Angron felt as though he saw Hades back in the Maelstrom, roaring as he dealt with endless files.
The difference was that Hades had been filled with grief and fury, while Guilliman exuded a calm confidence.
They couldn't do without Guilliman. Angron realized this deeply. Otherwise, they would have to rely on slow, corrupt, and occasionally even fallen mortal officials to govern.
Logistics could not fail—not every battle could be won by a single boarding action.
Guilliman smiled and took another sip of tea, as if taking a halftime break.
"Malcador has approved the provisional government."
Angron rested his hands on his hips and yawned.
"No surprise. We've already been doing it—just without the title."
Guilliman paused.
"What do you think?"
Angron spread his hands.
"I don't have any exceptional political acumen, so I probably can't give you a satisfying answer, but I sincerely hope you'll give me a different title. Based on appearances, I think you're more suited to being a figurehead than I am."
"You want to handle the paperwork?"
"Never mind."
Angron laughed awkwardly and decisively skipped over that self-inflicted humiliation.
"But you still need to persuade Mortarion to show up. Won't his appearance scare the mortals?"
Guilliman clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them.
"Malcador has already agreed. Mortarion will make an appearance… as for how, I suppose that's between him and Malcador."
Angron narrowed his eyes and looked at Guilliman in disbelief.
"You really…." The Lord of the Red Sands dragged out his words, "think someone like Mortarion would care about his personal image?"
"Malcador will make him care." Guilliman replied indifferently. His break over, he returned to processing documents.
Angron let out a long sigh. This was what a politician was like.
Absentmindedly, he wrote the number "7" on the windowsill. A wisp of white vapor rose from his fingertip, and Angron idly poked at the mist as it began to dissipate the moment it appeared.
<+>
<+>
<+>
<+>
<+>
Tn: I updated the story daily, but if you want to see more chapter of this story ahead of time, please go to my Patreon.
Latest Chapter: Chapter 490: Slaanesh Decides to Go Have Some Fun[1]
Link: https://www.patreon.com/Thatsnakegirl/posts/my-life-as-death-160784510?collection=602520[2]
[1] https://www.patreon.com/Thatsnakegirl/posts/my-life-as-death-160784510?collection=602520
[2] https://www.patreon.com/Thatsnakegirl/posts/my-life-as-death-160784510?collection=602520