"Truly ugly."
Mortarion stood before the viewing deck of the Endurance, delivering this cold judgment upon his homeworld.
The orange-yellow sphere floating in the void looked like a massive lump someone had forgotten in the material universe. Mortarion instinctively recoiled in disgust.
How had his homeworld ended up like this?
"It must've been that Father of Decay's doing, fuck your mother!" Typhon unleashed his fury, fully demonstrating his talent for coarse language profanity.
Since Caelan would never like a world like this, they hated it by association.
Homeworld?
If father doesn't even like you, what kind of homeworld are you?
Might as well blow it up!
Caelan gazed at the orange-yellow planet and sighed softly. "Perhaps a few thousand years ago, she too once possessed a beauty that could intoxicate the soul."
Human civilization was almost always like this.
During the Golden Age, every human colony world existed for a reason, either habitable, a marvel of technology, or a curiosity worth preserving.
Humanity had always cherished Terra. Until the Age of Strife, she was a beautiful blue-green world. Mars as well.
But in just a few thousand years, humanity had turned it into a dried-up monstrosity.
The Emperor had the power to restore Terra, but his attention had to remain on the crusade. His time was too limited, and the cost of reshaping Terra was too great. Rational thought would never allow Him to waste precious resources on Terra, even if she was humanity's cradle.
Barbarus was different. She was a Primarch's homeworld.
A Primarch would never view things through pure rationality, and the Emperor would show his sons a bit of favoritism, indulging their small acts of willfulness.
Typhon stared at his ugly homeworld, his voice low and resolute. "Teacher, we'll make her reborn. I swear it!"
Mortarion slowly turned his head and looked down at Typhon.
'You swear? On what authority?'
The Death Guard was his Legion. The Mechanicum had come for him. Every resource was obtained because of him. On what grounds were you making promises to his father and stealing his lines?
Mortarion said coldly, "Typhon, it's time for your surgery."
Typhon fell silent at once, then murmured, "Teacher… will I die?"
The Death Guard of Barbarus were all undergoing Astartes implantation surgery, yet many of them had long since exceeded the standard recruitment age.
They were granted this honor and permission to consume such resources only because they were the Primarch's companions.
Even knowing that the mortality rate for adult implantation was terrifyingly high, none of the Death Guard hesitated. Not a single one regretted it.
Only by becoming Astartess could they continue to walk alongside Mortarion.
Typhon should have undergone surgery with them, but his procedure had been delayed.
Caelan reassured him with absolute certainty. "No."
Hope instantly lit up Typhon's dim eyes, his voice trembling with expectation. "Really?"
"Have I ever lied to you? Don't worry, you'll survive."
Caelan was extremely confident.
The limits and mortality rates of Astartes surgery were meant for ordinary mortals.
But was Typhon an ordinary mortal?
Anyone who had a name in Warhammer was no ordinary mortal.
Caelan had never seen someone with a name fail implantation surgery.
Studying Typhon's tense expression, Caelan suddenly chuckled. "You're worried about your xeno genes? Relax. There are plenty of people in the human gene pool who are far more 'alien' than you."
Typhon asked quietly, "Really?"
Caelan smiled. "Of course. If we applied the strictest standards, the Imperium would probably have no true humans left."
The Astartes were the Emperor's masterpiece, but not everyone was qualified to become one. Without restrictions, the mortality rate would exceed 99%.
Even after age limits and genetic screening eliminated 99% of candidates, and despite increasingly refined procedures, the death rate still wasn't zero.
Because 30K-era human biology was just too bizarre.
Genetic similarity between humans was only about 25%. Legions relied on this 25% of the baseline human genetic sequence to select candidates.
Which meant that even with a 100% pass rate, only 25% of a candidate's genome actually met requirements.
The remaining 75% was a minefield of uncontrollable variables, undetected recessive mutations, epigenetic abnormalities, and even seemingly harmless non-coding sequences could trigger organ rejection or gene-seed collapse.
30K human genetics was a mountain of spaghetti code, no structure, nothing but bugs.
The fact that this program still ran was a miracle. Touching it carelessly would only cause total system collapse.
Trying to decode the remaining 75% was pure fantasy.
Human genes were terrifyingly inclusive, filled with fragments of xenos DNA, Aeldari, Orks, and all kinds of known and unknown species.
Many of those xenos were long extinct; even their original templates no longer existed. Even if those genes were once beneficial, cross-interaction inevitably caused mutations, made worse by Warp contamination, muddying the waters, rendering mutation patterns utterly chaotic.
Controlled experiments require controlled variables. Human genetics had nothing but variables. You couldn't even assemble a control group.
The Emperor would never allow precious time and resources to be wasted on this genetic garbage heap. Once humanity ascended into a psychic species, convergent evolution would naturally purify the genome, transforming all humans into 'New Humans.'
Any attempt at genetic purification beforehand was a waste of time and resources.
Astartes surgery, at its core, was forcibly installing an external plugin into this pile of broken code, and somehow making it run better than before.
From a compatibility standpoint, Astartes technology work was nothing short of a bioengineering miracle.
The gene-seed system functioned stably with only a 25% baseline match, like erecting a tower that pierced the heavens atop humanity's crumbling codebase.
Yes, there were age limits. Yes, implanted organs contained non-human genes. Yes, human biology was riddled with bugs to the point that even Apothecaries often couldn't identify the cause of rejection.
But Astartes technology still deserved the title Mother of Genes.
She got the MVP.
Erda? Erda was a mere bystander, winning for free.
Typhon's worries were completely unnecessary.
"Then… Teacher…" His voice trembled slightly, unease flickering in his eyes. "When I wake up from the surgery… will I still be able to see you?"
He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
This steadfast warrior now looked like a child afraid of being abandoned; even his breathing was cautious.
Everyone misunderstood him. He was not afraid of death. The unknown fate on the operating table was not terrifying. What he truly feared was waking and not seeing that familiar figure.
That was why he delayed the surgery. He knew Caelan would leave eventually, but he hoped it would be after his operation.
Caelan's lips curved in a gentle smile. He reached out and ruffled Typhon's hair. "It might take a few years, but I promise you, I will come back."
Typhon's eyes reddened slightly. He nodded firmly. "I understand, Teacher!"
"Mortarion, I'm ready for surgery!"
Typhon raised his head, his gaze devoid of any reverence for his future genetic father.
Mortarion lowered his eyes slowly, coldly fixing his stare on Typhon.
After a moment of silence, he forced out a single word: "Good."
He would assign the finest Apothecary to personally operate on Typhon and make sure he was looked after.
…..
"Lie down." Zadar Crocius gestured to the operating table.
"You'll be the last to undergo surgery."
Typhon met the giant's gaze without fear, his tone firm as he corrected him. "I am the last of the first batch of ascendants. But I will never be the last from Barbarus."
Crocius looked at him apologetically. "I meant no disrespect to the warriors of Barbarus. If my words offended you, I apologize."
Typhon's tense shoulders eased slightly. A stiff smile tugged at his lips. "You don't need to apologize. Maybe I'm just being overly sensitive. I should apologize instead."
Barbarus was the Primarch's homeworld and would become a primary recruitment planet for the Death Guard. Barbarus-born Astartes would soon outnumber Terrans.
But there was no irreconcilable conflict between them, because Mortarion treated them all equally.
Whether Terran or Barbaran, they were all his sons.
Since Caelan never distinguished between the origins of the Primarchs, neither would Mortarion.
Things went smoothly until Crocius picked up a knife.
Lying on the operating table, Typhon swallowed. "Are you… opening my chest? Can't you at least use anesthesia first?"
He had read the surgical briefing. The second heart was the first implant, simple and self-sustaining.
But going straight in was a little terrifying. Shouldn't they anesthetize him first?
Crocius gave a low chuckle. "Don't be nervous. The surgery hasn't started yet."
"Then why are you holding a knife?"
"To shave your head."
"…What does shaving my head have to do with surgery?"
Crocius explained. "The Ossmodula, the Omophagea, the Catalepsean Node, many implants are connected to the brain. Not shaving would affect efficiency and safety."
Typhon reluctantly accepted the logic, though his fingers still brushed his hair. "But those come later. Can't we wait?"
"Trust me, shave early, enjoy early!"
Without waiting for Typhon's answer, Crocius pressed him down onto the table with one hand.
This was a task personally assigned by the Gene-Father himself, no mistakes allowed.
…..
"Father… when will you leave?"
Mortarion gazed into the void beyond the viewport, keeping his voice low and controlled.
Caelan replied gently, tinged with reluctance. "Soon. Jaghatai has split his forces into twenty columns and is sweeping the Palatine Empire. More than half has already fallen. At this pace, he'll unify Chogoris within a month."
Mortarion stared at Barbarus, though his thoughts were elsewhere. "I've taken advantage of him."
Caelan should have left long ago, but Jaghatai's campaign wasn't over, so he returned occasionally.
Yet those returns had grown fewer, from daily to weekly.
Once Chogoris was settled, the next departure might be final.
He was the seventh. Jaghatai the eighth.
Who would be next?
Would it be the Primarch of the Ninth Legion, the brother his father never met, but loved the most?
Perhaps.
The Ninth Primarch returning ninth, it was a beautiful number.
Just like the fourteenth's Primarch returning seventh.
He was lucky. Perhaps his brothers were, too.
Mortarion stood in silence, emotions surging.
Endure. Restrain.
Be obedient. Be understanding.
Even if he wasn't his father's favorite, he would never be a disappointment.
He admitted he felt reluctant about parting, but he would never envy his brothers.
They all deserved Father's guidance equally.
"Father," Mortarion said solemnly, "when you return, you'll find a reborn Barbarus."
"I'll cleanse every inch of this world of Warp poison!"
"And my Legion, I'll make them worthy of your ideals. Every warrior will become what you hoped for!"
Caelan smiled softly. "You never needed to prove anything, little Mo. You've never disappointed me."
"What makes me proud is not what Barbarus or the Death Guard may become, but who you remain."
Mortarion straightened, his voice deep and resolute. "I will hold true to my heart, Father. This is my promise."
He had never disappointed Caelan.
Nor had his brothers.
They all stood at the same starting line.
Standing still would never earn approval; they had to become stronger.
Holding true to one's heart was simple, but impossibly hard.
Even the Master of Mankind hadn't held true to his.
Yet if preserving humanity was his core belief, then perhaps he truly had remained unchanged.
Worthy of being his father.
May his brothers do the same, especially the first to return.
Konrad Curze.
Horus? Who's Horus?
In Mortarion's eyes, Horus existed solely to fill a slot and make him the seventh primarch to return.
Surely the others thought the same.
Only Konrad Curze required vigilance.
…...
"Father of Decay, fuck your mother!"
Garro's roar tore through the dawn's miasma. Soon, others joined in, beginning their thousand-fold morning prayer, echoes rolling through Barbarus's valleys.
A thousand recitations would leave mortals hoarse and bleeding. Typhon survived only thanks to psychic power.
Astartes, however, just felt unsatisfied.
Yet prayer wasn't their only duty.
They shouldered farming tools and tilled the land.
Winter passed. Spring came.
Life returned to toxic Barbarus.
The air was still lethal, but the Death Guard were used to it.
Their third lungs filtered the poison effortlessly.
Compared to the underhive, this was nothing.
At least the gas here only burned your lungs. Underhive stench killed without filtering.
It was planting season, but the young men of the resistance were in orbit undergoing gene surgery.
So the Death Guard Astartes took up the task by their father's order.
No matter where they served, every year they had to farm.
They were warriors and farmers.
They shed their heavy armor, lived and ate with Barbarus's farmers, and walked to the fields each morning with tools in hand.
Garro tugged at the old ox barely reaching his waist, trudging through the furrows, shouting at the Techmarine who had half his body buried in ancient machinery. "Brother Watt, can you fix it or not?"
"Don't rush! Give me more time. I'll fix it!"
Watt was the only one still in armor, not out of pride, but because he was trying to repair the machines.
The mechanism was simple. The cogitator scans showed all systems normal. Promethium fuel was added, sacred oil applied.
Yet the machine refused to work.
So Watt concluded the machine spirit was displeased, and sang binary hymns.
Nothing.
The machine spirit ignored him.
Under the stares of his brothers, Watt snapped and kicked it with his armored boot. "Get up and work, you useless piece of crap!"
BOOM.
The engine roared to life. The ancient cogitator glowed red.
"Password accepted. Unit N, activated!"
Watt regretted the kick for a moment, but seeing the machine awaken, he fell silent.
'…That worked?'
.....
15 chapter ahead in [email protected]/DaoistJinzu