My Life as A Death Guard

Planetary defenses roared, artillery trembled, and bright flames burst through the sky.

Billions of rounds of ammunition rained down like spilled beans, crackling and exploding against the foremost fire ships. They howled as they plummeted toward the ground, detonating upon the murky land below.

Now, the last line of defense before the Fourth Horseman was gone.

The blade had been drawn—sharp, lethal, yet fragile and brittle.

The planetary main cannons on the other side continued their assault, a futile effort.

Galaspar’s normally murky and dim atmosphere was ablaze, its heavy clouds illuminated by a dull orange glow.

Chunky clouds trembled, swirling into a massive gray-white vortex under the force of a hurricane.

The very air screamed.

Beyond the hive city, out on the wastelands, scavengers looked up in horror, their eyes widening as they stared at the burning sky.

A bricklayer stood dumbfounded beside a sewage pit, unable to comprehend what he was witnessing.

With his exceptionally keen eyesight, he saw—

“There! There!”

He raised a hand, pointing at the swirling vortex of clouds, toxic sludge dripping from his protective suit.

Above the main hive city, a sharp, colossal form emerged from the storm’s edge.

Upon it, a silver-white six-spiked skull gazed down at them, neither joyful nor sorrowful.

Death had come, and fear clenched at every heart.

The piercing sound of the atmosphere being torn apart shrieked, as flames screamed and ripped at Fourth Horseman.

Inside the ship, however, there was only silence—still as the night.

“Take us in before the enemy fully reacts.”

A sigh-like voice broke the silence.

“Engines to full power.”

They raced through the burning atmosphere, plummeting toward the filthy ground.

“Contact the fleet,” Mortarion said.

“Begin the retreat. Pull out of the planet’s firing range.”

The Death Guard fleet could not withstand the bombardment from Galaspar’s primary defenses for long.

“The enemy ships will follow soon enough. Devour them, and wait for my signal to return.”

Unless Galaspar’s cannons were neutralized, the Death Guard’s main fleet could not approach.

If they couldn’t get close, there would be no victory.

Everyone would die.

Mortarion took a deep breath. His hand, resting on the haft of Silence, loosened, then tightened again, the grip producing a soft, cracking sound.

This was his first battle. This was the Death Guard’s first battle.

Then let him see if they could survive.

He would silence the doubters.

If they could not endure, then let death end it all.

A surge of emotions gripped him, just as they had in the past.

Yet, amid the tension in his mind, a stray thought surfaced.

What would Hades think of this plan?

He suddenly realized—back on Barbarus, because of his condition, Hades had never once discussed tactics with him.

Would he disapprove?

Mortarion crushed the thought.

He whispered to himself, May we be harder than fate itself.

Through the viewport, the fleet behind Fourth Horseman began to decelerate and turn away. Soon, only Fourth Horseman remained, charging straight ahead.

Below them, the dark and filthy structures of the main hive city began to come into view.

The final grain of sand in the hourglass tumbled down—

“Reverse thrusters, prepare for impact.”

A shrill screech rang out—fire erupted!

The braking thrusters roared, spewing torrents of flame, their scorching ends searing the hive city’s outer walls.

The Fourth Horseman trembled violently.

The shift in gravitational vectors was nearly fatal for the mortal crew—blood poured from ruptured organs.

Those too slow to follow Mortarion’s command slammed into the bulkheads, their spines shattering, blood splattering across the walls.

On the bridge, Barasine and Vorx struggled to stay on their feet, gripping the railings with all their might.

Mortarion stood still, holding his scythe—Silence.

He stood firm, unmoving—almost as if he were dead.

—Boom—

They had arrived at their destination.

The Fourth Horseman crashed into the side of the hive city.

The Death Lord’s scythe gleamed.

Death flowed into the hive. People scattered like panicked rats, desperately seeking some corner they believed to be safe.

Terrifying footsteps echoed through the hive’s labyrinthine tunnels, interwoven with the sharp crack of gunfire.

“Surrender and you will not be killed.”

“Do not resist, and you will not be harmed.”

“All Galaspar citizens, take up arms against the invaders!”

A strange, static-laced voice alternated with the familiar tone of the Overseer over the loudspeakers.

A digger trembled beneath her assembly line, her mind sluggish from drinking her third ration of Silent Nutrient Paste for the day. She had no idea what was happening.

Then, with a sharp burst of static, the Overseer’s voice was abruptly cut off. A new command replaced it:

“Drop your weapons.”

She had no idea what drop your weapons meant. She had never possessed a weapon. Was she supposed to find a weapon first—just so she could drop it?

But weapons were for the overseers and soldiers. For someone like her, even touching one meant execution by hanging.

She had thought about running.

But the footsteps were getting closer. She shrank further into the shadows, her hands clasped tightly over her mouth—

And then, she saw it.

A towering, bone-white figure, splattered with blood.

“Mmph—!”

She let out a tiny gasp, but the giants paid no attention to a small, cowering rat.

“Die!”

A voice she knew all too well—the voice of her overseer.

A single gunshot rang out.

Then, silence.

Only the sound of heavy, relentless footsteps remained.

When those footsteps finally faded, the digger hesitantly crawled out from beneath the assembly line.

She saw her overseer—the man who had often whipped her—dead, his body in pieces.

The overpowering stench of blood gripped her. Shivering, she turned around—

The doors to the workshop had been blasted open.

Beyond them, the hall was flooded with the Overseer’s army.

They weren’t just giants.

She swallowed hard.

Red filled her vision. Her heart pounded violently in her chest.

The gods had descended, bringing the end of all things.

<+>

Fernando moved silently through the hive’s winding corridors, leading the Undertakers squad. They advanced near the main force of the Second Company.

Their detachment numbered around a thousand warriors.

After the Fourth Horseman had come to a halt, Mortarion had spoken only one sentence to all his soldiers:

“Go.”

He had said,

“Any who take up arms against you shall not live.”

Under the Primarch’s command, the eleven thousand warriors of the Death Guard had split into their companies, each advancing toward various locations marked as suspected command centers.

Take the enemy’s head. Win the war.

The Undertakers strategists had dispersed into various detachments, providing support to the warriors.

The Untouchables were absent from this battlefield—unaugmented mortals simply could not withstand the intensity of this war zone.

Suddenly, commotion erupted at the front of the company.

“Undertakers, we are under psychic attack.”

They had encountered a psyker army, raised and controlled by their oppressors.

The Second Company Captain’s voice crackled through the channel.

Without hesitation, Fernando led his squad forward toward the front lines.

Meanwhile, on the upper level of the corridor, Apothecary Laton watched a countdown ticking down on a melta bomb with satisfaction.

“Thank you.”

He turned and addressed the moss-covered psyker who had crawled out from a garbage dump.

“Thank you for leading the way.”

<+>

They had failed to end this battle before reinforcements from the other hives arrived.

The hive’s labyrinthine structure and the overwhelming human tide had slowed the Death Guard’s advance.

Death crept up behind Mortarion, step by step. The enemy had used the hive’s heavy weaponry to bleed his forces dry.

But the Primarch knew what had to be done.

Mortarion ordered a squad to continue pressing toward the central command room. Meanwhile, he led the remainder of his forces to the wastelands surrounding the hive, holding back the enemy reinforcements.

The training they had undergone for this scenario was put to use. With Mortarion at the forefront, they carved gash after gash into Galaspar’s wastelands, relying on sheer resilience.

Yet—

“We surrender! We surrender!”

The tyrant’s voice echoed through the comms.

Mortarion swung his scythe, cleaving through the tank before him. The driver’s skull burst apart with the metal.

“Denied.”

Mortarion said.

“The Death Guard does not accept your surrender.”

Tyranny had to be uprooted—its veins ran thick with corruption.

Accepting their surrender meant allowing tyranny to persist. It would render this victory meaningless.

The enemy forces before him began to break and scatter. But Mortarion did not issue a ceasefire.

His warriors continued to fire upon the trembling, weaponless masses.

And above the hive, the Lord Comptroller shivered as he opened the grand doors, desperately hoping to display his willingness to negotiate.

A gunshot rang out.

<+>

(Author’s Note: I haven’t been in the best state recently, so my writing hasn’t been great… Sorry if this affected the reading experience.)

(Originally, I planned to add another subplot, but I felt it disrupted the flow too much, so I cut it. Now the transition feels abrupt… Apologies again.)