My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 436: Calas Thinks He Can Go
Three days later, on the Endurance
Vorx stared at the Dreadnought in front of him—a familiar model, with the Primarch's Mistletoe strapped across its back.
"I will never trust you, Calas Typhon." Vorx said, staring at the Dreadnought that had seemed almost dead since its return.
"Even if you were chosen by the Primarch, I still won't believe you."
Vorx clenched his hand. The wound Malcador had cut open three days ago throbbed faintly.
"The highest leader of the Death Guard is Garro."
After issuing his declaration, Vorx stood there, waiting for Calas's reply.
"..."
"Alright." Calas Typhon said. His surrender came so quickly that even Vorx paused.
Vorx took a deep breath, as if wrestling with his own thoughts.
"Calas Typhon," his voice softened, "what exactly did you see? And what exactly did Lord Mortarion say to you?"
Calas fell silent. For a moment, Vorx thought he saw the Dreadnought trembling.
"…After that day," Calas's muffled voice sounded, "I thought about many things, Vorx."
Vorx shifted uneasily. He didn't think this was a good opening, but for some strange reason, he kept listening.
"…I'm a failure. A traitor." Calas said.
"Hades was right. He saw through me long ago, before anyone else, even when we first met."
"Barbarus?" Vorx asked softly. Calas confirmed.
"He was right." Calas Typhon said gloomily.
"If you want to repent," Vorx said, "you can go speak directly at Lord Hades's grave—after the funeral. You can't leave now."
After hearing the news from Malcador, while waiting to set sail to retrieve the Primarch, the Death Guard had begun preparing a memorial for Hades—the Death Guard had never had a tradition of mourning the dead, but Hades could be the exception.
They invited Malcador, Angron, and Guilliman. Malcador declined, but the two Primarchs agreed.
"I know," Calas Typhon replied, lowering his voice as if not wanting to disturb the memorial taking place in the hall below the deck.
"I just… I just don't understand…"
"Don't understand why Mortarion hasn't shot me yet."
Calas fell silent. His soul trembled before his conscience, burning in the realization that he was a terrible person. He despaired at knowing he could never deserve such treatment. It was like a scoundrel, newly released from prison and hoping to serve his parents, only to find they had already died waiting for him.
He couldn't accept all this—yet he forced himself to. If he collapsed again under the weight of reality, then he would still be that irredeemable piece of trash.
Fortunately, Calas Typhon was not weak. He was not someone who couldn't face reality. Perhaps he once was, but he wasn't anymore.
He figured it out.
After a long while, Calas's tone returned to that rogue-like swagger he had back on Barbarus.
"Forget it, debts must be repaid, lives for lives. Mortarion wants me to work for him, fine. I accept."
"—As long as he's not dead."
No one saw the moment Calas broke down in the illusion, and Calas Typhon would never let anyone see that side of him.
His tone became indifferent.
"Didn't you just say I could go spit at Hades's grave before I leave, Vorx?"
The smoke dissipated from the Dreadnought's hull. Vorx lowered his gun.
"Watch your wording, Calas."
Vorx said, "Even if you're now the Death Guard's hope of finding the Primarch, you should understand, if you keep this up, it won't end well for you."
Calas laughed.
"You little brat," He said, skillfully beginning to tease Vorx, "Do you know what Hades said to me back then?"
"He said that if I died, he'd definitely come have a picnic at my grave—and he'd eat my offerings as snacks."
Hades had said the same thing to Mortarion once. Mortarion's reaction to that had been simply indifferent.
Vorx froze. Back on Barbarus, the trio had been famous—Mortarion, the true leader of the Death Guard; Calas, the southern commander; and Hades, the wandering revenant.
Their stories had spread through the villages of Barbarus like heroic legends.
A sorcerer with strange bloodline and a detestable undead spirit had found the true god of death among the castles of overlords.
So in terms of seniority and experience, Calas Typhon really could use his past with the Legion's leader and commander to pressure Vorx.
And in fact, that was exactly what he was doing.
"Even if you once kept company with two great figures, it only highlights your own insignificance." Vorx said calmly. He was no longer the inexperienced young man Calas remembered.
Sure enough, Calas paused.
After a while, he continued, sounding unconcerned, "Whatever. In this state I can't spit anyway. I just want to go see him—nothing else, just memories."
"Is that answer satisfactory, Vorx?"
Vorx stared at Calas.
"You can, of course. But we'll be watching you. And you will not appear in anyone else's sight."
Calas's engine rumbled twice.
"Thanks to the understanding First Captain of the Death Guard," he said provocatively.
"Also, as the one who can bring Mortarion back, may I make a small personal request?"
Vorx silently gripped his scythe, signaling him to continue.
"I want some roasted horse meat," Calas said.
"A debt from back then, it's not too late to repay it now."
. . .
Angron felt… something he couldn't quite describe.
Since coming out of the Maelstrom, he had rarely felt this emotion. Even when facing Chaos directly, he had never felt so conflicted.
This matter… was strange.
He was going to attend Hades's memorial. In front of Angron, Guilliman wore formal ceremonial dress, his face heavy with grief; beside him, Lady Tarasha Euten also looked mournful.
Behind Angron, the expressionless Khârn radiated sincere sorrow.
They walked along the corridors of the Endurance, which were filled with an unspoken sadness.
All of this was deeply mournful—
Provided Angron didn't know that Hades was still alive.
After receiving the Death Guard's invitation, Angron immediately contacted Malcador.
The old man, buried in psychic effort searching for Mortarion, sounded completely unconcerned.
"I got one too. Not going."
Angron paused. "…But Hades isn't dead. You have to tell them. This is absurd—we can't—"
"—No time."
Malcador cut him off cleanly, speaking slowly.
"Explaining this takes time. And I think the Death Guard who believe Hades is dead will be better suited to survive in this galaxy."
"You can't do this. It's not right—"
"What if I said Hades would probably prefer it this way?"
That was a lie. Malcador simply didn't want to deal with it.
If doing something would have no impact, better not do it—go do something meaningful instead, like figuring out how to pull Mortarion out of the Warp.
Angron paused.
"Wait, Hades? You actually know him well, Malcador?"
"…Well?" Malcador asked slowly.
"He bent one-fifth of the head of my staff. What do you think that relationship is like?"
"Angron, let them mourn. I think Hades is probably very lonely right now."
Malcador pondered.
"And… who knows, maybe he might die soon anyway? There'll need to be a funeral then, a memorial."
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