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

Father, Father, Father, if even you give in, where should we go?

Who would take in us skinny farmers?

We are covered in mud, we are filthy.

Who will truly hold a place for us in their heart?

We are fearful and cowardly; we are willing to be slaves.

Please don't abandon us, please don't abandon us!

Father, if you insist on falling into depravity, please take us with you.

Please take us with you; this is the last thing we can do for you.

They looked up, and their father was looking at them.

The deep corridor stretched endlessly into the distance, swallowing everything before gradually disappearing into darkness.

"My son!"

The Primarch stood there, his tall figure, the hood that had been covering his eyes removed. He looked at everyone, weary, but still standing.

Mortarian took a deep breath, and after the respirator beeped seven times, he reached out, bent down, and removed his disguise.

Dry, cracked lines spread across the corners of Mortarian's mouth, a return gift from breathing in the poison gas.

he opened his mouth,

“I once had nothing,”

We once had nothing.

"I had nothing, I was empty-handed, and I looked at the world with fear and expectation."

We once had expectations for this world.

"In the beginning, the world of Barbaros was not a good place."

Initially, Barbaros was our prison.

"But I met you all."

But then we met you.

"Children who look at me with curiosity, old women who close their eyes and hide from me, fellow human beings who extend a helping hand to me, and warriors who follow me closely."

The Pale King descended from the high mountain, his eyes burning with furious rage.

“We have never yielded, but until we can change all of this, we can only silently endure the pain inflicted upon us.”

Mortarian looked at his offspring, his gaze lowered, looking down from his vantage point.

"The outside world is not beautiful, and neither are we. We are dirty, and we are busy all day long."

"But the spark of resistance still lingers in everyone's heart."

"I am glad that you have given me such a gift, a rebellious spirit."

We can offer you nothing but a crown woven from field weeds and thorns.

"Meeting you all made me realize that I was born for humanity."

"I was born to rebel."

He paused, and the Primarch's tall body knelt down, looking intently at his kneeling offspring, like a father carefully comforting his child.

The Death Guard at the very front was Carwin, the boy from the foot of Mount Diderot. Mortarion remembered him; he had stood silently before his brother's grave, clutching his scythe.

How could he not be moved by these men who had sworn to follow him to the death, these men who had nothing of their own yet still gave Mortarion their last bit of food?

They surrendered themselves to him.

He will show them his mercy.

You will not fall into the long night, I swear.

Even if the final outcome is flames.

Mortarian blinked slowly.

“We have all seen it, we have seen the rot that is called the future.”

"Plagues, an endless cycle, torment each and every one of us."

“You saw me kneel down, I surrendered.”

Mortarian sighed softly and said in a hoarse voice,

"Yes, in that dark future, I knelt down."

“I have broken our initial vows and betrayed your trust in me.”

The Primarch's words were like a weak breeze, passing by everyone's ears, yet shaking the bodies of even the most resilient warriors.

"I will not refute this."

"But please give me a chance to make my request,"

They knelt, they stood, they accepted it silently.

Mortarian's piercing amber eyes stared at them.

“If I betray you, if I yield, each of you will have the responsibility to kill me.”

[If I am corrupted, please kill me.]

"Please grant me the mercy of death."

!!!

Suffocation, utter suffocation, even the faintest breaths had ceased.

Hades stood behind Mortarion, his pupils constricted, staring incredulously at the Primarch kneeling on the ground.

Mortarian raised his head and stared at the end of the corridor, at the silent, stunned veterans.

Defend, rage, rebellion—these were the roars of their souls as they fell into delusion in Mortalian.

Although they were not like the Barbarians who were determined to follow to the death, they possessed a more solitary resilience.

"Please protect the purity of the Legion."

Mortarian stared at the still-standing warriors and slowly uttered the words.

Then, the Primarch stood up.

"Rise up, my warriors."

"Only by standing up can we firmly grasp our battle scythe."

"Only by standing up can we take control of our destiny."

The clanging of metal echoed endlessly, like a surging ocean rushing through the narrow corridor.

Now, they are all standing.

Mortarian looked at his offspring with satisfaction, his withered body standing before his silent offspring.

Death sighed.

“My children, I cannot bestow glory upon you.”

“I cannot deceive you with empty glory. I know that those glittering medals can bring you nothing.”

“I know that you will be mired in a filthy, muddy battlefield. Compared to the glorious battles described by historians, you will face endless wars. You will fight against cunning aliens, greedy humans, and mad wizards.”

"You might get stuck in the mud, you might lie helplessly on top of your comrades' corpses, you might struggle to crawl out of the pile of bodies."

"There is no glory on a muddy and dirty battlefield."

I cannot bestow glory upon you.

“But I promise you death.”

"Everyone will die on the battlefield, including me."

"This is our destiny, and I will not deceive you with a false promise of a beautiful future."

"Before we meet our destined death, we will persevere through all the suffering we have endured."

"We will struggle through suffering as we rush toward death."

"We are the Death Guardians, we acknowledge death."

"But every struggle we make will leave humanity with a land free from oppression."

"so,"

"Fight for humanity! Fight for liberation!"

"My children."

It is an order, it is a sigh, and it is a blessing.

No one spoke, no one looked up; they were silent warriors, a team moving silently forward in the fog.

Like a ripple, it slowly spread, and the Death Guards began to leave on their own.

Their figures, who had rushed in earlier, seemed to still linger in this corridor. They patted their former selves and silently departed.

Apart from footsteps and metallic sounds, there were no other noises.

Soon, the corridor quieted down.

Barasin led the remaining company commanders, along with the chief think tank and the master foundry, toward Motalian.

Mortarian and Hades stood still, looking at them.

The action is gone.

Thanks for subscribing, and happy reading! (≧▽≦)

Chapter 85 Hades, work, don't slack off!

The display screen beeped and beeped, one notification after another: the ship's cabin inspection charts for the day were out; the foundry was requesting to use ceramic steel from the neighboring star system; the management team reported on the issues raised; and three more Death Guards requested to meet with Mortalian.

The light shifted across Mortalian's power armor, the smooth surface reflecting a dazzling light as he announced one notification after another.

The Primarch sat at his desk, silently checking and approving documents, while countless Death Guards were on duty aboard the Endurance.

Mobilizing and changing always requires a lot of manpower and energy.

In the spacious and bright room, on the wall directly in front of the door, above the Primarch, hangs a slowly drooping linen banner with fine stitches. A silent skull is surrounded by spikes, and the Death Guard's emblem watches them silently.

A time reminder pops up on the screen; the next batch of approvals is about to begin.

Mortalian looked up and saw Hades, undignified, curled up in the corner, fast asleep, clutching the obituary of the scythe. His snoring broke the silence of the room.

Hades, wake up.

The snoring continued.

Mortarian thought for a moment, then drew his pistol, the Netherlight, from his waist. The blue glow of alien technology began to build up, and with a buzzing sound, he pointed the gun at Hades.

"Um?!"

Hades, who was just snoring, suddenly sprang up, wielding his scythe.

Mortarian put away the Netherworld lamp with satisfaction, pretending nothing had happened, while shifting his gaze away, feigning not to see the scythe obituary smeared with saliva.

"It's time for the next batch of approvals, Hades, wake up."

Realizing that Mortarian had only called him to get up and work, Hades, who had just woken up, immediately wilted, swayed, leaned his scythe against the side, and wiped his drool.

My brain is a complete mess, I'm so dizzy and disoriented. Even a Space Marine wouldn't stay up this long.

Since that conversation, Hades has been working at a high intensity. He only gets an hour to lie down each day before being woken up by the hard work of his colleagues to work overtime.

Your Majesty, Mortarian only sleeps for ten minutes a day now, he really can't stay awake any longer!

That's why he wanted to be a low-ranking soldier; there was no other reason than to make it easier to slack off.

Hades felt like he was back in the miserable days when he was just building his stronghold on Barbarossa.

Alas, things have changed.