Warhammer: I don't want to become a stinky can!

But these alone cannot protect against the poison gas on Barbarossa.

The poison gas on Barbaros actually carries psionic damage.

This completely shocked Hades. He remembered the first time he used the Dark Domain to sense his surroundings. He didn't notice the poisonous gas with its faint green glow. After all, if you are surrounded by air, it's hard to detect anything like "air".

Hades immediately detected the rapidly increasing concentration of poisonous gas when he first ventured into the mountains using the Dark Domain.

Then Hades was surprised to discover that the land on Barbarus actually carried a faint green psionic energy.

Holy crap, that's seriously holy crap.

In Hades's imagination, from a subspace perspective, Barbalus should appear as a planet shimmering with a faint green light when viewed from space.

This is a fucking cursed planet?!

Hades would forcefully stop his thoughts every time he thought of this, but he already knew very well that any thought or action at this point was just self-deception.

But he had no choice.

It's quite clear now that I'm being watched.

But can reducing the frequency of thinking reduce the probability of being watched?

To be honest, Hades didn't know.

In this grimdark world, there are always things I cannot know and things I cannot do.

All he can do now is to become as strong as possible and prepare for the worst possible future.

This is why he chose to challenge these minor lords alone. He wanted to become stronger. Hades could never have reached his current strength by simply staying in the Death Guard and following orders.

He needs to become stronger; only then will he have even the slightest chance to struggle in this world.

Because in this world, weakness is the original sin!

Even if you die because you are weak, your soul will be tormented by those supreme beings!

Truly, even in death they will find no peace!

Sigh, sh*t, Hades has already tried very hard not to become that crybaby transmigrator.

.

Hades carefully peeled off a large, still usable piece of skin, stood up, and slowly put the skin away.

He has saved quite a bit; he should have enough soon.

However, Hades would have to use far too many materials to make a protective suit for Mortalian, Hades sighed deeply once again.

Primarchs are such big guys, they not only eat a lot, but making clothes for them also uses up a ton of fabric!

Hades wanted to yell at Mortarion today, "Brother, are you even capable? Are you even capable? Don't waste your talent!"

Whoops, just kidding.

He'll be following the Primarch from now on, so he's not someone to mess with.

After skinning the animals, Hades circled the laboratory again to make sure there was nothing left in the room. He then left the laboratory and resolutely headed towards the warehouse.

As for the laboratory? Hades didn't need to worry about it. He had already spoken to Typhon and his Death Guards beforehand, and as before, they would come back the next day to clean up the battlefield.

The Death Guards will take away other maps, instruments, and weapons that Hades deliberately left behind, as well as the warehouses piled high with them.

Hades felt a pang of heartache every time he saw so many weapons left behind, but then he thought that he himself couldn't use them, so he might as well give them to the Death Guard warriors.

Although they didn't treat Hades very well, they were, after all, brave warriors who stood up and risked their lives to fight for the fate of humanity.

Compared to Hades, who only fights battles that benefit himself and tries to escape or play dead when he can't win, they truly deserve everyone's respect.

Today was another day of successfully solo-killing the Little Lord.

Add, add, add settings

Chapter 18 In the Mist

Barbalus, Southern Swamp, Moret Village.

Hades arrived in the south in his third year.

.

Motalian stood in the dilapidated old courtyard, supporting the man in front of him who was about to kneel down.

The man was hunched over, old and blind; one of his eyes was a misty white, while the other was filled with tears.

Motalian saw a mix of emotions in that eye—fear, unease, gratitude—and the man was on the verge of tears.

"No kneeling allowed."

"Motalian said softly."

“You have been enslaved for far too long; this situation should have ended long ago.”

He looked at the hunched-over, shivering people in the courtyard and raised his voice slightly.

Even so, Mortarian's voice was like a wisp of smoke in a gentle breeze.

“I will show you a new path.”

"Join us! If you have no weapons, we will forge them for you; if you have no armor, we will craft it for you. Rise up, men!"

"There's no need to be afraid of witchcraft anymore!"

Join us.

People listened in horror to everything this stranger said; he was so tall, tall and thin, like death swaying in the wind.

His words seemed to possess a magical quality, each sentence brimming with inspiring power, yet his tone was so gentle, like a nocturne his mother had hummed at night.

But—most of humanity here has been completely overwhelmed by fear; they have been crushed, they have succumbed, and they are utterly incapable of thinking about anything more distant.

Even though the stranger's words were full of hope, the people here had no memory of the distant future, of change, of leaving.

The man leading the group—whose name was Regan—cautiously looked up at the stranger who was holding his hand.

Those amber eyes also stared intently at him, at an ugly and insignificant person, completely consumed by fear.

"My lord, thank you, we are so loyal to you. But, but the fields here must be replanted."

He shrugged timidly, as if simply refusing would be met with cruel punishment.

But nothing happened.

Those hands were still gently cradling him, and there was no contempt or disgust in those eyes. He was just looking at him intently, and then at the group of villagers behind Regan.

Then he let go.

"Okay, the choice has been made."

He nodded and put his hood back on.

Then he picked up his sickle, turned and left, disappearing into the mist.

Mortarian stood in the mist, watching the young man stumble and fall as he ran through the poisonous fog.

The farther away from the village, the more deadly the poison gas becomes.

After he left, the young man left the village and followed the scythe marks that Mortarian had deliberately left behind.

Come on, let me see your determination, your perseverance.

Motari remained silent.

There was a slight tremor on the other side of the mist. Mortarion turned his head and glanced at it before returning to his original posture.

It's him! It's been a long time since we last met.

As Mortarian observed the young man, his thoughts drifted back to the past.

Most of the strongholds in the north have now been captured, and all the other northern lords have been killed, except for the area near his foster father, Nacre.

Meanwhile, the main stronghold in the north is busy producing and consolidating its territory, and the attack by his adoptive father, Nacre, will have to wait.

However, the Death Guard's progress is currently far faster than Mortalian originally expected.

The key to the rapid progress lies in the south.

Originally, Motalian only sent out advance troops to protect the local people and organize armed resistance as much as possible.

But Hades alone held off the southern lords' attack, laying the foundation for Typhon and his allies to cooperate with other villages.

Later, with Hades' help, Typhon and his men acquired the technology to manufacture weapons such as cannons and battering rams.

With the support of long-range heavy firepower, the Death Guard vanguard successfully launched an offensive and occupied the lords' territories.

In the battle against the Deathguard, the southern lords were wiped out with exceptional success; they didn't even need Mortarion's help.

Mortarian's visit was solely for the purpose of inspecting the Death Guard in the south and, incidentally, to see if there was anything he could do.

But after hearing Typhon's report, he realized that Typhon was more competent than he had imagined, and he led the Death Guards to successfully liberate most of the southern region.

Now, only two or three strongholds remain.

Then Mortarion has nothing to do with it.

Mortarian did not directly demand that Typhon relinquish leadership. He was not a tyrant like his adoptive father. He gave his subordinates enough space to grow on their own and earn their own glory.

Moreover, he was friends with Typhon.

So Mortalian continued to let Typhon lead the south, while he went to find the small villages that had been deliberately ignored because of their terrain.

Just like in the beginning, Mortarion killed the monsters that attacked the villages and then went into these small villages to persuade them.

Thinking of this, Mortarian unconsciously frowned.

Abandon these peripheral villages and instead conquer or integrate the larger human settlements.

This is indeed an efficient strategy; Tiphon is very clever.

But it shouldn't be.

Every fighter who might resist should be acknowledged.

So Mortarian came, and he wandered through the various small villages—

The young man in the mist knelt down, trembling and struggling on the muddy ground, his limbs twitching, as if he still wanted to climb forward.

A strong child.

This young man never looked back even once.

He never considered backing down.

As Mortarian thought this, he strode forward quickly, taking out a wool mask that had been soaked in herbal liqueur.

He went over and carefully lifted the young man from the dirty ground, pressing the wool mask over the young man's mouth and nose. He looked at him, at a strong fighter.

"If you don't turn back, you'll continue to suffer like this."

Mortarian said softly,

"This is painful. Are you strong enough?"

The young man struggled to breathe, anger and resentment churning within him; his breathing became rapid, dangerously rapid.

"Make me strong enough."

After struggling to utter those words, the young man finally fainted, surrendering himself entirely to Mortarian, trusting this stranger who had only been in his life for less than two hours.

.

Mortarian then easily picked up the young man and carried him back along the same route they had come from.

There's no need to worry about this young man. As long as he wears a mask that filters the gas, this Barbarosian will be fine soon.

Sometimes, all the resilient people of Barbarossa need is a little clean air.

The thick, layered white fog kept tugging at Mortalian's clothes, seemingly trying in vain to keep the Grim Reaper in place.

Ignoring the fog, Mortarian's steps did not falter.

But when he reached a depression where the fog was beginning to dissipate, Mortarian stopped and stared in that direction—

A figure emerged from the dense fog in the distance.

It was his old friend, Hades.