My Life as A Death Guard

The Death Lord had already leaped into the Galaspar System.

He spread his wings.

He saw the cost.

But he was unmoved.

Death cannot flee from itself.

The planetary defense system of the enemy reacted swiftly and silently, unleashing a massive barrage of torpedoes and ordnance. This secluded pocket civilization had accumulated an unimaginable stockpile of munitions.

But they did not understand what they were attacking.

Their scanners detected a fleet rapidly approaching their homeworld—large, strange objects at the fleet’s forefront and periphery, with plasma thrusters attached, identified as incoming targets. The sky was alight with fire.

Just as Mortarion had predicted.

They were not Death Guard ships.

Instead, they were asteroids, scavenged from various sources, crudely outfitted with plasma thrusters, remotely piloted by the tech-priests aboard the Fourth Horseman.

The Death Guard had little time to prepare, so these asteroids’ thrusters had only enough fuel for a straight-line approach—

But that was enough.

At last, the enemy fleet realized the deception. Their warships—including those known as “Asteroid-Fortresses” and “Fire Ship”—moved to engage. These behemoths bristled with cannon ports, dark and ominous.

The first concentrated bombardment began, but neither side could outflank the other.

Suddenly, one vessel broke formation—a lone cruiser that charged forward, weaving through the asteroid defenses. It penetrated deep into the Death Guard’s formation, firing in all directions.

“Hold formation.”

Mortarion commanded.

“All forward batteries—open fire.”

The enemy ship was torn apart within moments.

But in the instant before its destruction, it never once tried to retreat.

This further confirmed Mortarion’s suspicions about the Order.

Retreat was forbidden.

Seeing the sacrifice of the first fortress ship, more Asteroid-Fortresses broke formation, charging into the Death Guard fleet.

Amidst the relentless barrage, the asteroids began to fracture.

But deep within the shattered rock layers, hidden sensors remained loyal to their purpose—transmitting pre-set commands.

The detonators embedded in the asteroids activated.

A massive explosion erupted.

On the viewscreens aboard the Fourth Horseman, waves of brilliant yellow light rippled through the black void—

A sight as soft as silk—

But Mortarion knew.

It was an explosion powerful enough to destroy a light cruiser.

Asteroid debris scattered outward, hurtling toward the nearest enemy ships—a storm of meteors raining death upon them.

The well-armored Asteroid-Fortresses suffered only superficial scratches,

But the Fire Ship were not as lucky.

One platform—its own munitions ignited by the impact—erupted in flames.

The blast wave consumed other nearby platforms, setting off a chain reaction of destruction.

Death began to spread through the void.

At the same time, Mortarion gave his next command.

The second layer of the fleet—the destroyers—were ordered to engage the charging fortresses.

These were old, decommissioned vessels, remotely piloted—

Mortarion had given them the right to die.

The suicidal destroyers charged headlong into enemy ships, unleashing torpedoes and cannon fire, then ramming into their hulls like daggers.

But even after suffering devastating impacts, the Asteroid-Fortresses did not retreat.

The massive wreckage of the destroyed fire ships clung to their hulls, causing secondary explosions within the fortress interiors—

Countless lives perished.

Yet they still burned their final plasma thrusters.

They could still bring death to the Death Guard.

Two more Asteroid-Fortresses, sensing their comrade’s intent, fired their engines, dragging their battered, failing hulls forward—straight toward the heavy cruiser Tombstone.

Their engines roared at maximum power, pushing their already fracturing hulls to their limits.

Explosions cascaded through their decks.

Their hull integrity was beyond repair, but no one even considered shutting down the engines—

And so, death became inevitable.

The plasma drives detonated.

A blinding eruption of energy tore through the void.

A flash of searing silver-white filled the darkness—so intense that all who looked upon it were momentarily blinded.

Amidst the inferno, brighter than a star’s burning core,

The three Asteroid-Fortresses were silently vaporized.

The explosion shattered more outer asteroids, consuming all remaining fire ships in its wake.

The heavy cruiser Tombstone—

Plowed straight through the heart of the blast.

By the time they laid eyes upon it once more, the blue-violet flames of Tombstone’s plasma engines had long since faded.

A gaping wound had been torn into its port side.

Beyond the limits of human sight, but clear in Mortarion’s mind, the ship’s atmosphere was rushing out into the void, bleeding into the cold abyss.

Its arteries had been severed.

Its lifeblood spilled freely.

It drifted forward on sheer inertia, gliding through the graveyard of broken ships.

A transmission request came from Captain Lavass aboard the Tombstone.

“Open the channel.”

Mortarion spoke, his voice calm.

Through a storm of static, Lavass’s voice emerged—strained with pain.

“Our strength is nearly spent, my lord.”

He coughed, struggling to form each word—

But Mortarion would remember every syllable, even unto death.

“We can no longer keep pace with the fleet.”

“Our duty is clear now.”

The hiss of a rebreather filled the silence.

Lavass gazed into the face of death, unshaken.

“Before the end comes—let more of them die, Captain.”

“We will. They will learn to fear us before they perish.”

The Tombstone broke formation.

Alone, exposed, it became a tempting prize for the Orders.

Mortarion stood on the strategic podium of The Fourth Horseman, watching as the Tombstone fought on, surrounded, pouring death upon its foes.

Beside him, Barasine frowned.

“Don’t tell me the Dusk Raiders are unfamiliar with sacrifice, Captain.”

“The Tombstone carries one hundred and fifteen thousand souls. They will die soon.”

“And before we reach our objective, many more will follow. There is nothing to regret—nothing to mourn. This is the cost of war. Nothing more.”

“I do not doubt the necessity of sacrifice,” Barasine replied.

“But if I’m allowed to ask—can we afford to lose the Tombstone?”

“You may ask. The answer is yes. We can, and we must—if it brings us victory.”

“Even at the cost of death.”

“The Tombstone still has power. If we slow our advance, we can retain its strength as part of our formation.”

“And what would that gain us?” Mortarion challenged.

“We are learning the enemy’s tactics, their formations. Their ships are no match for ours. We can advance steadily, tear them apart piece by piece.”

“There are too many of them.”

Mortarion’s voice was quiet—but unyielding.

“That is the key—numbers. The Orders’ defense hinges on their sheer numbers. If we slow down, we give them the chance to leverage their full strength.

They will drown us in bodies.

If we fall, it will prove that those who cautioned against breaching Galaspar were right.

The Imperium will forget this place—until the Great Crusade requires it again.

We are not here for a siege.

We are here to drive a blade straight into the heart of tyranny.

Tombstone is still part of this war.

It will give its last breath for our advance.

And we will not slow down.”

Advance.

An unstoppable march forward.

If you hesitate—if you pause to tend your wounds—failure will consume you.

Lavass kept his word.

Long after his final transmission, Tombstone refused to die.

The data streaming across the tactical screens confirmed it—

Its engines still roared.

Its silhouette still burned against the void.

The enemy ships clinging to it were left behind.

The fleet pressed onward.

The closer they came to Galaspar’s homeworld, the fiercer the artillery fire became.

With the outer asteroids and aged destroyers lost, more and more enemy warships broke into their formation.

Data poured across the console.

Mortarion watched each loss, each death, each sacrifice.

He foresaw the deaths yet to come, weighing each acceptable casualty with meticulous precision.

“Minimal counter-fire on the flanks,” he declared, sealing fates with an unshakable tone.

“Concentrate our firepower on the fleet’s forward defenses.”

Ahead, under the Death Guard’s relentless assault, enemy ships disintegrated.

The vanguard forces of the Death Guard pressed forward at full speed.

Enemy ships—and their own crippled vessels—were left behind.

Those abandoned ships would stall the enemy’s flanking forces, buying the fleet precious time.

As they neared Galaspar, the Orders’ firepower had reached a level that could only be described as despair-inducing.

Through the observation window of The Fourth Horseman, Mortarion saw the fortress cannons unleash a storm of fire upon the cruiser Melancholia.

Torpedoes pierced its hull, detonating its munitions.

The blast knocked it off course.

Melancholia lurched rightward, uncontrollably.

In the tight Death Guard formation, it collided with the battleship Inevitable Call.

Their prows locked together, sending them both drifting further starboard, endangering even more ships.

“If they can’t stop…” Barasine muttered.

He left the implications unspoken.

The fleet was tightly packed. The turning radius of a capital ship was vast.

If disaster struck, there would be no escape.

“They will correct their course.”

Mortarion’s voice was absolute.

“Their crews will find a way. They must. They understand what is at stake. They will sacrifice everything to keep the main fleet moving.”

He watched in silence.

He believed in them.

And they believed in him.

As if in response to his words, Inevitable Call’s starboard engines roared to life, exceeding their maximum operational stress in a desperate leftward thrust.

Fragments of the ship’s outer hull tore free under the strain.

At the same time, Melancholia—with its battered and long-dead starboard engine—forced it back online.

The brutal re-ignition triggered a violent explosion.

A torrent of flame erupted, but the force countered its starboard drift.

The two ships crashed together even harder—

Their entangled wrecks spun leftward, an unstoppable mass of destruction, hurtling straight toward an asteroid.

At the last moment, both ships fired every remaining round to their port side.

The impact shattered the asteroid, triggering a storm of debris and an enormous explosion that dragged enemy ships into the abyss.

They never sent a distress signal to The Fourth Horseman.

Because they knew exactly what had to be done.

So they did it.

No words needed to be spoken.

The Death Guard did not shout war cries.

Mortarion watched their deaths in silence.

Perhaps he should have felt something.

But not now.

He was the Primarch.

He was the decision-maker.

He was the one who held the scythe.

From the shadows of his hood, the Pale King’s amber eyes shone with cold intensity.

Data flooded his mind.

“We have breached the Orders’ defenses,” Barasine reported.

“The ones on the outside,” Vorx added.

Mortarion said nothing.

His gaze was fixed forward, preparing to face the orbital platforms and planetary cannons of Galaspar’s homeworld.

The journey through the system had been merely the prelude.

If he misjudged the strength of The Fourth Horseman, he would lose everything.