My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 435: Malcador: Stay Calm, We Can Still Win This
Hades was dead.
Angron thought slowly, his gaze fixed on the Dreadnought standing amidst pale flames, but his attention remained on Malcador.
The Imperial Regent's current demeanor told the Lord of the Red Sands that this was not the time to press for answers.
I see...
Angron thought heavily, not surprised by this response.
Or rather, this was the most realistic outcome.
Angron fell silent, seemingly pondering how to deliver the bad news to Guilliman—or whether to hide it from him entirely. Roboute Guilliman was already in a precarious state, and this news seemed too premature to share.
A faint, or rather overwhelming, sorrow enveloped him, not his own, but that of the Death Guard.
Angron discreetly glanced at the silently standing Death Guard—deeply sorrowful, filled with impotent rage.
Normally, such intense emotions would cause people to break down, collapse to the ground, and refuse to accept reality. Yet the Death Guard simply stood there, their movements minimal.
If Angron hadn't been able to sense the emotions of others, he wouldn't have noticed the Death Guard's distress.
'Their grief is worthy of mourning,' Angron thought.
After Malcador's statement, those familiar with Hades naturally—
'Malcador?'
Angron suddenly realized that Malcador didn't seem to be grieving.
The Imperial Regent was surrounded by golden psychic energy, making it even harder for Angron to sense his emotions. This had led Angron to deliberately ignore the old man.
The Lord of the Red Sands realized that Malcador could sense his attempts to probe the emotions of others.
Yet even after a simple probe, Malcador showed no trace of sadness. Perhaps he and Hades had only been nodding acquaintances.
Angron considered this, but then Malcador displayed emotions akin to "joy" and "astonishment."
?
Angron realized something was wrong.
In their brief time together, Angron didn't believe this old man would be a heartless monster who would take joy in the death of a noble soul.
Angron remained silent, the Primarch beginning to wonder... was what Malcador had just said truly the truth?
The Lord of the Red Sands stood behind Malcador, narrowing his eyes as he stared at the old man's back, trying to glean something from him.
Sensing something, Malcador turned his head slightly. Beneath his protective suit and hood, his eyes gave Angron a complex, enigmatic look.
Angron instantly withdrew his senses, resuming his dutiful stare at the Dreadnought.
Yet deep within, Angron silently mourned for the poor, deceived members of the Death Guard.
At the same time, the Lord of the Red Sands was experiencing for the first time the true meaning of treachery.
Malcador took a small step forward, and the crackling, nameless white fire began to dissipate. The heatless flames slowly scattered into the wind.
Where the white fire had fallen, the sickly green slime receded.
Malcador let out a soft click of wonder.
He stood expectantly before Calas Typhon. The Dreadnought's soul had become whole—though not entirely as it had once been. Malcador could clearly discern the Warp's meddling.
But the Warp they now found themselves in was no longer the one they loathed.
"How do you feel?" Malcador asked calmly, leaning on his cane as he circled the Dreadnought, examining it.
The Dreadnought emitted a hissing, gurgling sound, like someone gasping back to life after nearly drowning.
As it hissed, white fire erupted between Malcador and the Dreadnought, only to vanish again.
A massive scythe lay silently where the flames had been. Patterns like new leaves climbed its haft and blade, interspersed with glints of black that revealed it was forged from blackstone.
Blackstone could either nullify or amplify psychic energy, depending on the circumstances. This scythe, however, clearly belonged to the amplifying variety.
Behind Malcador, Vorx shifted. Malcador spoke, "Speak."
Vorx stared at the familiar scythe. "My Lord, I recognize this weapon. It is Lord Mortarion's *Mistletoe*, crafted by Lord Vulkan after a joint campaign. It has always been displayed in the Primarch's personal collection room."
Malcador fell into deep thought. The old man pondered for a moment, then burst into incredulous laughter, murmuring to himself, "Clever child."
Malcador smiled, yet felt a pang of irony. He remembered Mortarion from years past, the one who had always challenged him on everything, and how Mortarion had deliberately provoked him simply because he was a Psyker.
Nothing else, no other reason.
And now, Malcador thought, this fool had even managed to anchor himself in the physical world without any guidance, skillfully repairing a fractured soul and turning it into his agent in the material realm. Was this not some kind of—
Malcador's smile of satisfaction twisted into a sense of mockery.
These two Death Guard brats, Malcador thought, each one was born to be his undoing.
Yet even so, under the gaze of all present, Malcador calmly declared, "Then he is safe."
He glanced up at Calas, who now appeared to have regained his sanity.
"What did you see? Tell me."
"Mist..."
Calas murmured, as if asking himself,
"...Mortarion... why did you die so easily... No..."
Malcador glanced at Mistletoe on the ground.
"He's not dead. If he's dead—"
Calas's voice abruptly cut him off.
"Not dead?!"
"But I saw his empty armor with my own eyes! If he's still—"
Malcador tapped his staff.
"I understand your distress, but watch your language, Calas Typhon."
"Mortarion is still alive."
'Hades might still be alive too,' Angron silently added to himself.
Malcador said, "And you've confirmed this, Calas Typhon. Your soul is now complete. Why not try using your psychic energy again? Your talent for it is immense."
Calas froze, his mind a jumble. He was still reeling from the news of Mortarion and Hades' deaths, but now this old man was telling him Mortarion wasn't dead.
Not dead?
"Then how do we find him—"
Malcador impatiently rapped his staff on the ground.
"At least we don't need to worry about him too much for now. Perhaps we can try somewhere with a thin veil between the material world and the Warp."
The old man recalled the other planets in Ultramar where plagues had erupted earlier.
That's it, Malcador thought.
As he walked, he began planning his next steps.
First, he needed to confirm Mortarion's condition. Then, he had to stabilize Ultramar—in the absence of long-range communication, the confederal system became crucial.
After that, it would be a matter of waiting. Malcador thought, waiting for that fleeting moment when the Warp currents would calm. Just a moment—or a signpost—and the fleets could pass to reinforce Cadia and the fleets operating in the Empire's dark corners.
<+>
Tn: I updated the story daily, but if you want to see more chapter of this story ahead of time, please go to my Patreon.
Latest Chapter: Chapter 460: Fenris Runs Deep — It's Not Something You Can Handle[1]
Link: https://www.patreon.com/posts/155930421?collection=602520[2]
[1] https://www.patreon.com/posts/155930421?collection=602520
[2] https://www.patreon.com/posts/155930421?collection=602520