My Life as A Death Guard

Death Guard Fourth Horseman, Now.

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Blinding white light from the screen cast a ghastly glow along the edges of Mortarion’s armor. The command room was as dark as midnight, with only the intermittent flashes of red and green indicator lights breaking the gloom.

The toxic mists of Barbarus settled quietly at Mortarion’s feet, slowly spreading outward.

Through his respirator, the Primarch’s quiet rasping breath could be heard.

Mortarion stared at the screen before him. The filthy hive-world, choked by its own pollution, rotated slowly in the void.

Fear.

He could smell it—the fear of the oppressed below.

Tyranny had turned its people into property, reducing them to nothing more than crops awaiting harvest.

Tyranny tormented humanity with fear, crushing their minds and spirits beneath nightmarish power.

Just like Barbarus.

He had once been ensnared in that same nightmare of fear, stumbling through the torment of his foster father, enduring each passing day in a haze of suffering.

But no more.

Mortarion stared at the screen like a corpse, his murky amber eyes unblinking.

He would bring justice.

He would end fear.

This so-called order, shielded behind layers of planetary defense systems, would be torn asunder by the Death Guard.

Day after day of studying and analyzing had revealed the outline of a strategy—

He needed a single, decisive strike.

Seize the enemy by the throat, then crush it.

From previous intelligence, Mortarion had identified a fatal flaw in this regime:

Each tier of command was entirely dependent on the orders of the one above it—no command meant no action.

If the supreme ruler was eliminated, the entire system would collapse immediately.

Moreover, the absolute autocracy of the Order meant that their ruler would be bound to their throne, unable to flee.

That made their target all too clear.

The Death Guard would drive straight into the heart of Galaspar’s primary hive-city—Protarkos.

Mortarion narrowed his eyes. A swift, decisive attack.

Before the bloated neural system of the enemy could even register a distress signal, they would sever the head of the beast.

If the enemy had time to react, it would spell the doom of the Death Guard.

But Mortarion never ran from battle.

He closed his eyes, counting silently in his mind, suppressing the fear that threatened to seep out.

A faint sense of unease crept up his spine.

Even on the eve of the Death Guard’s attack, there was still no word from Hades.

The most likely explanation was a disturbance in the Warp, causing astropathic silence and navigation disruptions.

Perhaps, once they had completed this campaign, Hades would return.

But for now, before his entire Legion, Mortarion chose to press forward, pushing all thoughts of Hades into the deepest corners of his mind.

The blade had been sharpened.

Death would not be late.

Tyranny must be uprooted.

They would bring liberation.

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Barasine and Vorx stood at Mortarion’s side, waiting in silence.

But Mortarion could hear Barasine’s unease.

The Primarch opened his eyes and looked at him.

Barasine hesitated. He could see that his Primarch wanted him to speak—to voice his concerns.

“My Lord… this means that our landing force will be completely isolated, surrounded by enemy forces numbering in the tens of thousands.”

Barasine had studied the Primarch’s strategy multiple times, and it was, without a doubt, madness.

To put it simply—

There was no room for defense.

No possibility of retreat.

This did not align with any strategy Barasine had ever seen a Legion employ.

If they failed—if they did not immediately seize control of the enemy’s ruler—then the Death Guard, surrounded by layer upon layer of planetary defenses, would be annihilated.

The entire assault force would be wiped out, completely alone, with no reinforcements.

It was unbelievable.

The Imperium had proposed an indefinite quarantine of this civilization, but Mortarion rejected it outright.

He declared that the Death Guard alone would be sufficient to deliver judgment upon this world.

Prior to this, the Imperial Army’s assessment had estimated that at least three full Legions—along with massive logistical support—would be necessary for the Imperium to achieve victory in a war of attrition against this civilization.

But Mortarion refused.

No attrition.

No drawn-out war.

A single, reckless gamble—a scythe descending in due time.

“We will not launch a planetary invasion, Captain.”

Mortarion spoke slowly.

“The Fourth Horseman will personally strike at Protarkos and deliver the judgment of death upon its ruler.”

Vorx stepped forward, raising a fist to his chest in salute. He looked at Mortarion, and the Primarch gestured for him to speak.

“I mean no disrespect, my lords.”

“Captain, I will say this again—I mean no disrespect, but you are from Terra.”

Vorx continued.

“If you were born on Barbarus, you would know that battles like this have happened before. There was never a time for defense. We only attacked—because defenses never held. The only way to survive was to strike first.”

He paused, then corrected himself.

“As long as Lord Mortarion is with us—if he proves that we can win—then we will survive. Before he arrived, if death was inevitable, then you were better off dying in battle—dreaming only that you might drag one enemy down with you to hell.”

“Every Barbarusian swears to follow Lord Mortarion to the death—because we have always known that death is the only ending. So, we may as well die attacking.”

Barasine fell silent.

After a long moment, he nodded.

“I understand now. Thank you, Vorx.”

The hiss of Mortarion’s respirator filled the space.

He smiled, satisfied—then his expression returned to stoic neutrality.

A transmission from a mortal crew member sounded in Mortarion’s private channel.

With the Fourth Horseman at the vanguard, the fleet slowly emerged from the Warp, appearing at the Mandeville Point of the Galaspar system.

Plasma drives flared—the fleet moved toward its ordained fate.

The countdown to death had begun.

Mortarion took a deep breath, his respirator humming.

Then, he opened fleet-wide communications.

“My Death Guard,”

He spoke.

“When I first beheld you, I named you my unbreakable blade.

I swore to you that justice would come—and that we would deliver it ourselves.

I vowed that doom would follow us as we marched upon a thousand worlds.

Today, that doom will fall upon the first of them.”

“Mankind suffers on Galaspar. The Order rules this empire—it is as filthy as its subjects.”

“Justice demands their destruction.”

“Abandon all thoughts of mercy—for mercy is the plaything of cowards, the lie of tyrants.”

“Today, the blade shall fall upon the neck of oppression. Nothing will halt our advance. No enemy shall stand before us.”

“Death is the truth that awaits all. We walk with death. We are one with death.”

“Now, let doom and justice become one.”