My Life as A Death Guard (Warhammer 30K Male MC)

The Endurance, interrogation chamber.

Now.

<+>

The cramped yet hollow interrogation chamber was bathed in glaring light, illuminating everything. The dazzling white light tried its best, yet the darkness still clung to the room.

It wasn't people exploring knowledge—it was knowledge hunting them, consuming those who came to understand it.

The Primarch sat at the cold interrogation table, silently digesting everything.

Heavy breathing, breathless gasps teetering on the edge of suffocation, sputtered through the laboring toxin filter of his respirator.

Mortarion slouched like a corpse, his hood concealing what little of his eyes could still face the outside world.

Despair and fear were his cage and chains.

Confusion. Fear. Fear. Fear. He was nailed to the sharpest cliff of Barbarus, as a plague eagle tore at his flesh.

The awareness of the entity above never once turned away; its gaze remained upon him. He was the chosen unfortunate, the favored cursed.

The Garden's master adored his toy.

He… He was Its— No. No, no, no!!

He was Mortarion, the liberator of Barbarus, the leader of the Fourteenth Legion. He was himself. He was not those beings. He was not those beings!

He was human!

Mortarion clung desperately to his identity. He was still here. Nothing had happened yet. He hadn't been taken—

But despair… Despair pleased It greatly.

He blinked.

<+>

Mortarion stood still. The dim lights aboard Endurance illuminated the corpses at his feet. Around him, there was a hushed sound—the growth of bacteria, the revelry of viruses.

No Astartes remained at their posts. Disease had struck them all. An endless proliferation of festering corruption had overrun their bodies.

Bloated forms strained against the confines of their power armor. Pus oozed faintly from the seams. Their aimless twitching—was it pathological, or were they struggling against their fate?

"Father…"

Father!

The towering Primarch bent down, trembling, wracked with pain and weakness as the sickness ate away at him.

"Father… kill me… please, kill me…"

Gently, Mortarion reached out, removing the glove from his power armor. His pale, skeletal hand rested lightly on the neck of his son.

"I'm sorry."

Death was the last kindness Mortarion could offer.

But the mantle of death had been stolen from him.

He had never truly understood death.

The neck twisted at an unnatural angle. No blood spilled, only a murky, viscous liquid seeped out. He didn't die. No, he was already a corpse—trapped within his own body.

The hollow, milky eyes of the fallen marine locked onto Mortarion. From his throat came a raspy, wet sound—choking cries.

No, no! Don't look at me like that!

Mortarion rose abruptly and fled, nearly stumbling in his haste.

He was a coward. He had abandoned his sons, his warriors. He could do nothing for them.

The endless torment stretched on, unending. It was eternal.

He surrendered. Yielded. Bowed. Anything to grant his sons a tomorrow.

<+>

Mortarion stood there, gasping for breath as though suffocating. Despair wrapped a black cloak around him. He was alive, but utterly broken—

No. No, Father. Don't kneel. Don't kneel!

Don't kneel—you promised us you would free everything!

Father, Father, Father!

<+>

The searing burn returned, pulling him back.

The Primarch opened his eyes, blinking at the blinding light. He blinked in confusion.

Was it an illusion? The future? Or reality?

Hades looked at him.

"Are you alright, Mortarion?"

Mortarion didn't answer. Like a sleepwalker, the Primarch rose from his seat. The chair scraped against the floor, its screech echoing sharply.

Father. Father. Father!

Mortarion shook his head, dazed, and walked toward the door.

Hades quickly followed, reaching out to touch him lightly. Fortunately, Mortarion's soul still gleamed with pure, radiant white.

But why had he stood so suddenly? What had Mortarion just seen?

The moment Hades stepped out into the hallway behind Mortarion, he immediately found his answer.

The corridor outside the interrogation chamber was now a sea of white and green.

People. Nothing but people.

Kneeling.

Kneeling Barbarus-born mortals.

Those who had glimpsed the edge of the truth.

"Don't kneel."

Mortarion's raspy voice echoed through the corridor, spreading ripples of sound.

But no one moved.

Countless Death Guard, clad in full armor, knelt silently with one knee to the ground. Boltguns, melta weapons, chain scythes—they lay in mute submission.

While Hades had been explaining the Warp entities, the visions Mortarion had experienced, the despair he had felt, seeped through his psychic link with the Death Guard.

They had all seen that future.

Mortarion, and his entire legion, had seen a glimpse of their ultimate fate.

To rot within the filth.

Some veteran Terran Astartes barely managed to hold their ground, trembling where they stood. But the Barbarus-born, who had followed Mortarion since the planet's liberation, immediately abandoned whatever they had been doing and ran to him.

They felt their Primarch's despair.

"Stand up. Don't kneel!"

Mortarion roared, his voice booming through the corridor.

But the kneeling knees didn't budge an inch.

The bond between Astartes and their Primarch was unbreakable, tied together by their very souls.

Especially when an Astartes truly reveres and loves their Primarch

The emotions and state of a Primarch are faintly perceptible to every Astartes.

Barasine stood at the end of the corridor like a gatekeeper. Moments ago, The Endurance had seemed to transform into a swamp filled with pulsating flesh, where despair and sickness spread into every corner.

But the visions soon dissipated, leaving only the cold, indifferent walls of The Endurance behind.

Barasine was the first Death Guard to recover. His chest ached with suffocating pain and despair.

Realizing what might happen next, Barasine immediately ordered all nonessential mortal crew members to retreat to their quarters and remain on alert. He then summoned the hardened veteran Astartes to take over defensive duties.

Even some of the Terran-born Death Guard arrived, drawn by the massive emotional fluctuations of their Primarch. Unlike the others, they did not kneel but stood stoically at the edges, like loyal knights guarding their liege.

Mortarion's furious shout echoed through the corridor, yet no one left.

Was this a silent plea for help, or a desperate cry for salvation? Or perhaps both?

Mortarion suddenly turned around, slammed the interrogation chamber door shut, and strode back to the table. Sitting down, he buried his face in his hands in despair.

Hades, who had witnessed the scene in the corridor, swallowed nervously.

It wasn't just Mortarion. The entire legion, connected psychically to their Primarch, had been exposed to the same vision.

This time… it seemed he had made a grave mistake.

But… Hades frowned in confusion. He didn't recall ever being so reckless.

No—this wasn't the time to doubt himself.

"Mortarion?"

Hades asked cautiously.

Mortarion let out a feeble grunt in response.

He understood why his sons had knelt. They were begging him—pleading with him not to kneel.

Begging him to stand tall, to lead them.

But… he couldn't.

Just as he couldn't when he was that weak boy thrown from the cliffs by Necare.

The tactile memory of his son's neck lingered on his hand.

"Mortarion, let me continue telling you what I know."

Hades's voice broke the silence. It was urgent, yet earnest.

"The Warp entities aren't invincible. They are bound by the rules of the Warp, and their existence is repelled by the physical world."

"Rather than physical destruction, they excel at corrupting minds. As long as one maintains firm resolve and rational thought, they cannot easily sway you."

"Moreover, even those entities that manifest in the physical world can be banished back to the Warp by destroying their physical forms."

"We can fight them. They are not unbeatable."

Mortarion didn't move.

"What… what was that scene just now?"

Hades swallowed again.

"That was a vision."

"But if we continue down this path… that is the future."

So that's what it was.

Mortarion prided himself on his materialist worldview. But the sudden vision, the overwhelming despair—it all felt so real.

"You knew about this all along?"

Mortarion's abrupt question made Hades stiffen.

"Yes… I've seen similar visions before."

Mortarion glanced at Hades before lowering his gaze.

"Then why are you still here? Following me—a Primarch destined to be consumed, leading a doomed legion?"

This comrade, who had stood with him until the summit, Hades—if he had learned the truth aboard Emperor's Dream, why had he not chosen to leave?

Hades fell silent.

"Because I know that the future isn't set in stone. We still have the present to hold onto."

His voice was resolute.

"Perhaps we can't save everything. But at the very least, we can save ourselves."

Mortarion looked up at Hades.

"So that's why you sought out the Librarium, isn't it?"

Hades stood firm.

"Yes."

"We still have a chance to act."

"Before everything comes to pass."

<+>

Terra, Imperial Palace

Moments ago.

<+>

A torrent of administrative tasks flowed in. Sitting on his wooden office chair, he monitored various data streams, reviewed countless documents, and organized the information into packets. Stamping them with his sigil, he sent them off.

The sheer workload was unimaginable to others, yet the elder handled it with diligence.

However—

Bang!

The sudden noise came from the bookshelf behind him as a doll shattered.

Startled, the elder turned. The intricate flow of information abruptly halted, clogged at this moment.

A black-painted doll had split apart.

Malcador sighed deeply.

Emperor, my master, my dear friend… did you truly choose wisely?

He had never seen such an incident arise during a legion's integration phase.

The flow of information resumed once more. Malcador sighed again, dispatching a special classified order from the palace.

<+>

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