My Life as A Death Guard

Barbarus, Northern Mountains, Cemetery Outside the Old Stronghold.

Present.

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The sky was perpetually overcast.

A toxic fog enveloped the planet.

In the Death Guard cemetery, rows of wooden crosses stood in silent symmetry.

The earth beneath nine newly erected wooden crosses emitted a faint, cold scent of freshly turned soil.

Hades stood before one of these wooden grave markers, with Lysa beside him, softly weeping.

Around them, other mourners gathered near other crosses.

In this recent mission to transport critical intelligence, three groups, each consisting of three members, were deployed.

The first group was annihilated under a barrage of high-saturation artillery fire, their intelligence lost.

In the second group, the final surviving melee warrior crawled back to the command post after his legs were blown off, ensuring the intelligence was delivered.

He succumbed to infection shortly after, dying in the Death Guard’s medical unit.

The third group suffered two casualties while escorting the marksman responsible for transporting the intelligence.

The marksman was ultimately discovered by Hades in the farthest field from the command post, during a night patrol.

The intelligence was successfully delivered, but the marksman died from excessive blood loss.

Thus, all members perished, but the intelligence was safely delivered.

Occasionally, the sound of muted sobs reached Hades’ ears, yet he remained motionless, staring blankly at the cross before him.

The Death Guard revered silent demise and reincarnation.

These wooden crosses would soon succumb to the corrosive effects of Barbarus’ toxic atmosphere and acid rain.

When the last remnants of these crosses had disappeared, and when grief had begun to fade, the land would be tilled again.

Wheat, the sustenance of the Barbarus people, would silently replace these symbols of resistance.

That wheat would grow strong, quietly thriving until the scythe cut it down, completing its silent existence.

Just like the people of Barbarus.

On Barbarus, death was commonplace.

It was not something to be mourned deeply.

It was merely a part of the daily life of its inhabitants.

Every Barbarusian knew this.

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An elderly couple approached, pausing before one of the crosses. The mother wept while the father smiled, unregretful of their child’s sacrifice for the greater good.

Even as they stood before their son’s grave, their hearts buried in pain.

Nearby, a young boy stood before another cross, clutching a crude scythe issued by the Death Guard.

He swore revenge under his breath.

The spark of vengeance burned in his dim eyes as he prepared to join the Death Guard’s active combat division.

A tall warrior stood silently by another cross.

Wordless.

A weary woman clutched her two children tightly, her sobs restrained.

There was a household to support; she could not falter.

“Your father fought for a future free from oppression.”

“Children, remember this, remember it all.”

A young girl sobbed uncontrollably, cursing the xenos, cursing her lover who had rushed to the front lines.

“Why did you abandon me?!”

“You promised we’d go together! Just three more days, and my order to join the front lines would have been approved. Why did you run off first?!”

She screamed, clutching her head in despair, her disheveled hair splayed between her fingers.

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Some graves had no mourners.

Those who lay there had already been the last in their families.

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A heavy footfall echoed, even on the soft black earth, the sound was distinct.

“Please, everyone, accept my condolences.”

The Primarch’s towering figure appeared before them.

Mortarion was clad in a gray half-cloak, with a simple combat uniform beneath—utterly unadorned, all in plain colors.

He was followed by Calas Typhon and two other Death Guard bodyguards.

Whenever the Death Guard suffered casualties, Mortarion always found time to console the bereaved.

If his duties were too pressing, he would delegate this task to his bodyguards.

The presence of the solemn and imposing Primarch drew the attention of everyone in the cemetery, infusing the mournful atmosphere with a sense of gravity.

The Primarch’s inherent charisma was indescribable, and the mourners instinctively gathered around Mortarion, awaiting his words of solace with heavy hearts.

They needed to be reassured that all of this was meaningful.

That it was worth it.

“The warriors here fulfilled their duties with bravery.”

“Even when faced with the cunning ambush of the xenos, they remained calm and ensured the completion of their mission.”

“For this, I offer my deepest condolences and respect to the warriors who now rest here.”

Mortarion closed his eyes, facing the vast expanse of graves, placing one hand over his heart in silent mourning.

The three bodyguards behind him followed suit, saluting with their eyes closed.

The bereaved families suppressed their overwhelming grief, joining in the mourning.

A grieving yet resolute mother, a distraught yet determined boy, an exhausted yet resilient woman, a silent yet dutiful warrior, sorrowful yet self-aware parents.

People of Barbarus, let silence reign.

As small members of this vast universe, as fleeting points in this grand narrative,

Insignificant as ants, humble as the earth.

You bow your weary heads, but those who march forward are unyielding warriors.

No sacrifice is too small to be disregarded, no effort too light to be scorned.

After all, the spirit of resistance burns in your lowly yet unbroken hearts!

The living fell silent, paying their highest respects to the fearless dead.

When the silence ended, Mortarion knelt and spoke carefully with the families of the deceased.

He comforted the weeping children, encouraged the soon-to-be fighters, and promised solace to the haggard women.

Hope, though faint, began to ripple outward from Mortarion, like small waves spreading from a single point.

Grief, yet still hope.

For they knew that all of this had meaning, that it was worth it.

Mortarion had promised them the future they yearned for.

After hope, came resolve.

To not disappoint the fallen, to strive for the tomorrow they had envisioned.

Hades stood motionless, lost in thought.

The image of Herila’s final struggle lingered in his mind.

There was no resentment, only the resolve of a warrior determined to complete her mission.

Hades was aware of Herila’s feelings for him.

He knew it well.

But the young girl’s gratitude toward her savior had not turned into a lingering affection; instead, it became the motivation for her to fight.

“Thank you. I could see you one last time.”

“Hades, please keep going. I believe you can lead everyone to liberate this land.”

The warriors of Barbarus believed so strongly in a better future.

Herila was but one of many, a small reflection of them all.

She had her own emotions, yet she was unafraid to sacrifice herself for the liberation of this land.

Hades felt bitterness in his mouth.

The xenos must be eradicated, the oppression must be overthrown.

With the delivery of the strategic map, the Death Guard’s full-scale mobilization was about to commence.

The final battle with the xenos Overlord, Necare, was imminent.

There was little time left.

The dead were gone, leaving their hopes for the future to the living, who continued their struggle in this world.

Hatred, anger, and the desire to change the future mingled together.

There was little time left.

Hades knew it was time to make his final preparations.