My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 430: A Small Rescue
Malcador frowned. Without waiting for the shuttle's steps to extend, the little old man leapt down with astonishing agility.
Behind him, a Custodian landed like a massive beast, slamming onto the deck of the World Eaters ship with a thunderous crash.
The fleet led by Malcador had now arrived on the side of the World Eaters warship far from the spaceport.
"Lord, aren't we joining the Ultramarines and the Death Guard who are conducting the rescue?" Jin asked.
Malcador waved his staff. Golden sparks flew, driving back the blood-red haze.
"No need."
The flames pointed out the path ahead. Malcador walked directly toward the nearest hatch on the deck.
Jin and the Sisters of Silence followed him.
The old man moved quickly. Malcador knew very well that at this moment, time was life.
Stooped over, he stepped into the blood mist. The good news was that the veil here had not weakened further, the previous summoning had already consumed too much of them.
In the narrow corridor, crimson blood-colored monsters cast their gazes toward the group.
Malcador coughed lightly. He was not a man fond of battle, and for his first fight to be against Khorne…
Malcador slammed his staff against the ground. The robes at his feet billowed though there was no wind, snapping loudly as an invisible shockwave burst outward with golden fire!
He sensed the location where the two Primarchs were trapped. Casually wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth, Malcador thought:
Angron and Roboute Guilliman… if even one of them knew a little psychic ability… they wouldn't have…
Malcador took a deep breath.
. . .
A dry crimson desert stretched endlessly.
Angron let out hoarse breaths. The Primarch sat half-reclined on the sand, breathing weakly.
He gave a bitter smile.
"You should rest for a while, brother."
They were trapped here, inside an illusion. Time had already lost all meaning.
Leaning beside him, Roboute Guilliman didn't even lift his eyelids. Like a program that had lost its input signal and fallen into an endless loop, he murmured quietly to himself.
Angron realized Guilliman was summarizing his failures—not only from this battle. Guilliman was recalling every mistake he had ever made, along with the reviews and corrections that followed.
Guilliman stopped when he reached the summary of the mistaken action by his Nineteenth Company.
"I realized very early on that the truth is always cruel," Guilliman said hoarsely. "Not everything gives you the chance to learn and correct your mistakes."
"Things often become worse. Sometimes they don't even give you the chance to observe."
Angron lowered his eyes, rubbing the dry handle of the axe in his hand.
"Survival requires luck."
Guilliman turned his gaze toward the distant, barren horizon.
"I used to be lucky."
He looked back. When his eyes touched the dead Nails embedded in Angron's head, they trembled for a moment.
Angron sighed.
"Wait," he said.
"I believe Mortarion will come. Even though he behaves extremely, he will be rational."
Guilliman also let out a long sigh.
"…I admit, I once had prejudice against him," he said calmly.
"But now I realize—that is his own wisdom for survival."
The Lord of the Red Sands chuckled.
"When we get out, the two of you should have a good talk."
Guilliman fell silent. After a long while, he finally spoke.
"I hope Mortarion—"
"OVER HERE!!!"
Both Primarchs suddenly turned their heads at the same time.
They stared toward a corner of the crimson wasteland where a faint shout seemed to echo.
Guilliman looked at Angron, silently asking whether it was friend or foe.
Angron frowned, struggling to make it out. With his lips, he mouthed:
"I'm not sure, but it's not Mortarion—"
"—Then you can just wait for Mortarion to come save you!"
The old man shouted angrily this time, and his voice reached the ears of the two Primarchs loud and clear.
Guilliman and Angron hurriedly dragged and carried the dozen or so World Eaters who had already fallen into a death-like stupor, running toward the source of the voice.
The coarse red sand stretched beneath their feet. At first it still carried the scorching heat of starlight, but slowly, one by one, those sensations of reality faded away.
Space blurred like crimson flames burning fiercely. Where the flames rose, there was desert—
And where the flames had not yet reached—
The two sprinting Primarchs saw the interior bulkheads of the World Eaters' ship. They saw Malcador bracing himself against his staff with all his strength, while a massive Custodian fired explosive rounds into the tide of daemons like an automated weapons platform.
Angron leapt first, landing back onto the solid metal deck. Guilliman followed, charging back into reality.
Malcador briskly pulled the staff he had driven into the deck free. The flames immediately surged toward the old man. Guilliman had just begun to reach out to pull him back, but before his hand could extend, Malcador had already dodged with astonishing agility.
"Just take care of yourselves!"
"Stay close!"
Malcador moved through the group with far greater agility than anyone his size should have possessed. With a casual swing of his staff, he struck a target. Angron saw a crimson daemon spray blood and fangs into the air after being smashed in the face by the tip of the staff.
Angron had seen the Imperial Regent, Malcador, before—at the Council of Nikaea.
But he had never seen Malcador in private.
This was a man… with a warrior's blood. Angron made his judgment.
Having been trapped within the illusion for what felt like centuries, millennia—an endless span of time—the two Primarchs were clearly not in their best condition. Malcador's party escorted them, barely even letting the Primarchs fight.
Malcador and Jin cleared the way at the front. The Custodian had fully activated his weapons platform, while Malcador personally dealt crushing blows to any crimson daemons that dared emerge through the smoke and gunpowder.
Flames burned upon Malcador's staff. They seemed almost alive, leaping with each swing of the old man's staff, precisely branding every unfortunate daemon they struck with a permanent mark.
Angron decided that Malcador was certainly not the scheming, sinister courtier described in rumors—at least, no courtier in the human imagination would fight in such a direct and brutal manner.
With Malcador guiding and clearing the way, they quickly linked up with the Death Guard who had come to rescue them.
Angron was pleased to see that among those white-helmed warriors were rescued World Eaters.
And Guilliman was relieved to see that among the deepest fighters there were no Ultramarines—
He was not certain whether the "Ultramarines" he had encountered earlier were still truly part of his legion.
Although it seemed that the Death Guard did not particularly welcome Malcador, they moved alongside him as if compelled, fighting beside the old man.
The group gradually entered the territory they controlled. The tide of daemons began to recede.
Malcador, who had been silent the entire time, suddenly spoke.
"How is Mortarion?"
The two Primarchs froze.
Guilliman and Angron exchanged a glance, seeing the shock in each other's eyes.
Mortarion too—something had happened on Macragge?!
One of the Death Guard accompanying them answered the question.
"For now, nothing has happened. Communications have not yet been restored. There is a three-hour delay in transmissions between us and the surface."
Malcador took a deep breath and looked at the two disheveled Primarchs who had just escaped.
"Because the Warp omens here clearly pointed to him" The old man said through clenched teeth, "I had originally prepared to support Mortarion, not you two…."
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