My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 433: The Day of Calas Typhon's Suffering
"We need to find him quickly, even if time is meaningless in the Warp, it's still crucial to act before the anchor point."
Malcador's voice, muffled and thick within his heavy protective suit, carried an urgent weight.
The Imperial Regent stood amid the ruins of the hospital, a grotesque spectacle like an egg filled with viscous, foul-smelling sludge that had burst at the center of the building.
The old man in the yellow suit stepped forward without hesitation, striding toward the hospital's core. In his hand, he held a scepter encased in a protective shell, its flame flickering erratically.
"Do you have a plan? We will assist you fully."
Angron's voice rumbled, the Primarch wearing only a gas mask as he followed close behind Malcador.
Roboute Guilliman was absent. He had suffered a significant blow, and what was even harder for him to accept was that, in some way, his negligence had led to the Lord of Death's disappearance.
After a brief rest, Guilliman, still not fully recovered, plunged back into his administrative duties. It was clear the Lord of Macragge was about to implement sweeping reforms.
To Malcador, Guilliman had promised that once Mortarion's location was found, the Ultramarines would spare no effort to retrieve the Lord of Death.
Malcador coughed, tapping the end of his scepter against the ground. The viscous fluid parted, revealing the markings beneath—
A seven-pointed altar drawn in a mixture of blood and vomit.
Malcador frowned.
"A teleportation circle."
The flame at the end of his scepter suddenly erupted, blazing with golden fire. After a moment of brilliant radiance, the light dimmed.
"..."
Malcador remained silent for a long time before finally speaking.
"Bring me a Death Guard, one who is Barbarus-born."
Vorx, who had been standing by the old man's side, immediately stepped forward. Even in the heavily contaminated ruins of the hospital, the Death Guard were still wearing their standard wartime armor.
The old man gestured for Vorx to raise his hand. The psyker tremblingly guided the Death Guard to the center of the Altar. Then Malcador reached out and signaled for Vorx to hand him the dagger at his waist.
Vorx gave Malcador the dagger. Malcador set his scepter upright on the ground, holding the dagger in one hand and gripping Vorx's hand with the other.
The dagger flashed with cold light, and blood welled from Vorx's hand.
The wound was exposed to the foul-smelling environment. Angron watched as a putrid green substance rapidly spread across the gash, yet Vorx continued to breathe calmly, as if it were not his own wound.
A rapid whisper escaped Malcador's lips as golden flames erupted between them. Blood dripped down, only to be instantly vaporized by the heat.
The flames danced wildly, and Malcador stared intently into them. In a momentary trance, Angron thought he glimpsed a vibrant world within a flicker of the fire.
As the flames grew more ferocious, the sorcerer's words quickened—
Malcador suddenly released his grip. Vorx, who had remained silent until now, collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Angron stepped forward to steady the Death Guard, who struggled to speak as if wanting to thank him.
"He will be fine," Malcador said calmly.
"...It's not enough. I need someone closer to Mortarion, their fates must be bound more tightly."
Vorx regained his footing, his gaze fixed on the old man before him. "I know someone suitable for this task. Please wait a moment."
. . .
Calas Typhon swore this was the worst awakening he'd ever experienced.
Even after being interred in a Dreadnought, he'd only woken twice before. Calas had thought his last conversation with Mortarion was the worst it could get.
He silently followed the Master of the Forge ahead, a Death Guard named Bast, who was hurrying him into a transport aircraft bound for Macragge.
As before, he had no idea what was happening, why he'd been awakened, or what he was supposed to do.
Standing inside the transport aircraft, listening to the mechanical ticking of the Master of the Forge beside him, Calas momentarily considered detonating himself on the spot.
Yet for some reason, he stopped himself and instead began idly observing Bast.
"Hey," Calas said, "where are we going?"
Bast paused. "Captain Vorx has ordered us to proceed immediately to Sector D3 of Macragge."
"And then?"
Bast shook his head. Typhon let out a loud, displeased, and bizarre sound.
"Vorx—" he sneered, his voice dripping with derision. "That little brat used to follow Hades around like a lost puppy. Who'd have thought he'd become a captain?"
"Show some respect for Commander Hades and Captain Vorx," Bast said. "You're still a member of the Death Guard. Even if you've betrayed us, you should uphold the Guard's honor."
"I haven't!" Typhon roared, his Dreadnought's engines thundering deafeningly. "I haven't betrayed anyone! You don't understand—"
But in an instant, his tone shifted to flippant indifference. "Say whatever you want. I'm already stuck in this tin can anyway."
Calas spoke up. "Listen here, kid. I don't care about anything else. Tell that big shot Vorx that if he wants my help, he'd better be polite. Maybe I'll feel generous and give him a hand or two."
Bast paused, never having encountered such an unreasonable person.
The Master of the Forge, mustering his meager social skills, recalled Commander Hades' words: "A higher rank crushes a lower one."
Yes, that was exactly what Hades had said when he persuaded the Techmarine to apply for the position of Master of the Forge.
Perhaps Hades had said more, perhaps he hadn't meant it that way, but Bast only remembered that one phrase.
Bast spoke, "This is an order from the Legion Commander. He commands you to go. You cannot disobey military orders, Calas."
He watched the eccentric Old Dreadnought fall silent. After a long pause, Calas spoke again, "Mortarion? He needs my help?"
The Old Dreadnought laughed, a sound that resembled violent coughing. "Since he's lowered himself to ask, I suppose I must help him. He only remembers the pitiful Calas Typhon, sleeping in his Dreadnought, now that he needs me instead of a reliable commander?"
Calas's voice turned instantly cold. "I'm curious to know what requires my personal intervention."
As he spoke, Calas felt the transport plane lurch beneath him. "We're here," he said. A seam appeared in the cargo bay door, and a thick stench surged into the cabin as it opened.
Calas paused, almost imperceptibly.
He blinked, the blinding white light blurring his vision. Something felt wrong. Perhaps it was Macragge's gravity, he thought. Calas tried to step out, but found his legs frozen, his engine unresponsive with tension and fear.
Then he caught that familiar scent.
Calas Typhon had once rotted—he knew that smell intimately—
"Mortarion?!"
The Old Dreadnought roared, shoving Bast aside at the door and charging out.
"Mortarion?!!!!"
Calas burst out, but saw neither Mortarion nor Hades, only Vorx and a crowd of unfamiliar faces. The Old Dreadnought slowly came to a halt under the onlookers' gazes.
"It's you," Malcador said.
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