My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 455: Before That Day
"Unbelievable." Angron said, the clear skies of Macragge reflecting brilliantly off his pauldrons as he stepped into the preparation chamber. His World Eaters moved forward to make the final adjustments for the Lord of the Red Sands.
"In the end, we still came to this."
Outside the chamber, the banners of three Legions—royal blue, radiant white, and dark green—fluttered in the air.
He raised his arm slightly in mild surprise as a hunched old man slowly emerged from beneath it.
Malcador coughed.
"In the Master of Mankind's plans, this was always a possibility—mortals are too narrow in their vision. They cannot comprehend his tolerance."
If anything, when it came to the Emperor's authority, the Master of Mankind's bottom line was… lower than they imagined.
"A loose federation," Malcador said, hiding beneath his hood as he let out a dry chuckle. "If one day humanity ceases its infighting and truly understands cooperation, then I think he himself would most wish to see a more relaxed system."
Nineteen Primarchs.
They were not merely generals, but born leaders. From the very beginning, the Master of Mankind had left multiple contingencies for himself.
And now, with the Astronomican extinguished and the Warmaster missing, aside from the Legions still operating independently across various regions, this vast empire's control over its domains had become little more than a name.
For some worlds, this might even be good news—after all, it meant they no longer had to pay taxes.
To those planets, the Empire's meaning had always been the arrival of Mechanicum Tech-Priest to reshape their worlds… and crushing taxation.
This was not something the Master of Mankind wished to see, but it was something he had no choice but to do.
This was their sin—his, and Malcador's—a necessary sin.
Malcador thought this without much heaviness. He had long since accepted it.
He chuckled, only to break into a cough. From the corner of his eye, the Imperial Regent saw Roboute Guilliman approaching. The young "regent" looked somewhat tense, and months of relentless labor had already left streaks of gray at his temples.
Malcador smiled. Old fool, this really does feel like retirement, he muttered inwardly.
But the old companion on Terra, as before, gave him no response.
If not for the current situation… Malcador thought. If this were a reality where the Imperium's grand endeavor had been completed, where humanity no longer faced the threat of the Warp, how wonderful that would be.
He would stand in the shadows beside the Emperor, smiling as the new generation took up their burden.
Roboute Guilliman, Angron, Mortarion—though they still retained traces of immaturity in certain aspects, after months of working together, Malcador believed they were capable of bearing the weight of a nation.
If this were truly a ceremony of succession… if this were truly the moment for us old men to let go…
The smile at the corner of Malcador's lips gradually faded. He let out a soft sigh.
Reality remained cruel.
This chaotic situation—how long would it last?
A year? Ten years? A thousand? Or another ten thousand?
Malcador did not know.
He only knew that at Cadia, now encircled layer upon layer by the forces of Chaos, those powers would not simply give up.
Malcador did not know the exact situation at Cadia, but since the disorder of this universe persisted, it proved one thing—
"Hades" had not yet perished.
According to the last report he received, the White Scars and the Raven Guard had arrived at Cadia at the final moment.
They were now the two Legions holding the line against Chaos, striving to preserve "the Lord of the Underworld."
But… the White Scars excelled in rapid strikes and reconnaissance, while the Raven Guard specialized in stealth and sudden assaults. Neither Legion was suited for grinding, frontal warfare.
Cadia was still in grave danger.
Malcador frowned as he thought of this. That was precisely why they needed to reach Cadia immediately—but the Four Gods knew this as well. They were doing everything in their power to erase all routes leading there.
Malcador sighed.
He was still putting Mortarion through intense training—pushing this Primarch, who was unwilling to face reality, to recover his full strength as quickly as possible.
Mortarion's psychic potential… that might be their only hope of reaching Cadia.
As for establishing a "Second Provisional Government," it was a reluctant measure forced upon them by their current predicament—meant to maintain stability and prepare for the large-scale war that might follow.
They could not focus solely on reaching Cadia while ignoring regional stability.
As the old man pondered this, the two Primarchs—who had been discussing the ceremony and making final preparations—shifted slightly.
Mist began to seep slowly from beneath their feet. The Deathshroud, who had long been waiting in the preparation chamber, gathered together of their own accord. Seven of them stood in formation, leaving a large empty space at the center.
"Here already?" Angron spoke in a relaxed tone.
In response came a rather irritable-sounding hiss.
White fog surged upward like a fountain from beneath them, quickly rising taller than even a Primarch.
Gradually, shifting shadows began to take shape within the mist.
"Oh," Angron commented, folding his arms, "That doesn't look like a living person."
Hearing this, Roboute Guilliman shot the Lord of the Red Sands an incredulous glance. But Angron seemed completely certain.
A hand suddenly thrust out from the fog. Pale armor covered in patches of withered, dead moss emerged, mist curling around it. The hand clenched, and a long, curved, razor-sharp scythe formed within its grasp.
A tall, gaunt figure materialized from the fog.
"Sounds like you're eager to find someone to chat with, Angron." A hoarse voice rang out.
"My suggestion? Spill more blood and make more of your little whelps to pass the time rather than trying to contact me every day."
Angron grinned as he watched the figure gradually become clear.
"I'm just bored, brother. You should learn to relax once in a while."
That was what he said—but in truth, from beginning to end, the Lord of the Red Sands was only confirming one thing in his own way:
Whether Mortarion would become increasingly inhuman as a result of this "change."
Not in appearance—Mortarion had already been disqualified from humanity on that front. Angron meant in personality.
Having experienced the Emperor's possession within the Great Rift, he knew exactly what that felt like. People would cease to be their original selves. They would be swept away by something more powerful, more primordial.
If one's will was not strong enough, their original personality would be dissolved.
Angron was deeply concerned about this. In some sense, he did not want Mortarion to completely become some kind of "higher-dimensional" being in terms of personality.
Fortunately, the Pale Lord who emerged from the mist cut through that possibility with his sharp words.
Angron felt relieved. Although after their last meeting he had sensed something was wrong with Mortarion, through his persistent attempts to check in on him, Mortarion's attitude had rapidly shifted back to what it used to be.
In any case, Angron had nothing better to do. Idle as he was, guided by his own abilities, the Lord of the Red Sands had begun actively paying attention to the mental and emotional well-being of those around him.
Mortarion, of course, was his top priority.
The Pale Lord's face—like that of someone dead for seven hundred years—emerged from the mist. He looked somewhat different from the last time they met, as if, like the fog itself, he had no fixed form.
But no matter what, he looked utterly dead—perfectly matching the image of Death in the minds of the local populace.
An empty cloak concealed most of the Pale King's body—or perhaps there was nothing at all but mist beneath that cloak.
As for those wings…
Angron's gaze drifted uncertainly before finally settling on Mortarion's back—
Ah. Folded together, mimicking the shape of a cloak.
The Lord of the Red Sands' evaluation was simple: from a distance, acceptable. Up close… better not look too closely.
Not suitable for close inspection.
Downright horrifying even.
Beside him, Roboute Guilliman frowned and cautiously circled around Mortarion.
Mortarion stood there with complete confidence, not believing in the slightest that there was anything wrong with his "disguise."
"…Alright," Guilliman said, "Good thing I arranged your position in advance. Mortarion, you don't mind standing somewhere more… out of the way?"
The Pale Lord responded with a scoff, which Guilliman took as tacit agreement.
Mortarion remained where he stood, slightly spreading his wings with visible distaste, allowing his sons to dust them with powders for camouflage and coloration.
For a moment, silence settled over the room. Each of the three had their own thoughts.
Then suddenly, Mortarion spoke:
"Malcador, the Warp has been unstable lately. You should come take a look."
Beneath his hood, Malcador raised his eyes and looked at Mortarion.
"You can distinguish the routes within the Warp now?"
"No," Mortarion replied bluntly, "It's the Warp itself, it has changed."
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TN:
Man~ There are now 2 Segundus Imperium, the first one is Sanguinus + Lion + Konrad in Ball, and the second one is Mortarion + Angron + Roboute in Ultramar.
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