My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 437: Interlude — When the Deceased Is Emotionally Stable
[High-Dimensional Viewing Room]
"Alright," Hades slouched on the sofa in a very laid-back pose, watching the Emperor pick up a disc to change it.
"Neoth, what are we watching today?"
The Emperor happily raised his hand and spun the disc he was holding. It was pitch black, with the words "Top Secret" scribbled across it in rough golden lettering.
"Your funeral."
For a split second, Hades was certain he heard a tone of schadenfreude. He shot upright from the couch.
"Wait, my funeral?! How have I never heard of this?!"
"Which living person do you think would learn about their own funeral?" Malcador said calmly.
Hades paused.
"That's true, Old Mal, you've got a point."
He casually grabbed a handful of popcorn from Malcador's bucket. Malcador, already resigned, simply lifted the bucket to make it easier.
"Who attended? Mortarion, Garro, Vorx—"
"Mortarion didn't attend," the Emperor said. He patted the television. When the image appeared, he snapped his fingers and used psychic power to teleport back to the sofa.
Hades blinked.
"…He died before me?"
"He went off to enlightenment," Malcador said mercilessly. At the time, he himself had been trying to figure out what to do with that damned "Warp Primarch."
Ha. Damn psykers.
The picture appeared, and Hades immediately fell silent. He recognized the setting—it was the hall beneath the spine of the Endurance.
Beneath the ship's spine stretched a vast, narrow hall. Its length extended beyond sight, while its width was enough for Titans to march side by side.
The camera moved. Hades saw an ocean of bone-white and pale green—Death Guard standing in orderly ranks, along with a stubborn, out-of-place patch of red: the accompanying Tech-Priests.
The entire hall was clearly at an extremely low temperature. A thin white mist rose around everyone's feet, and faint frost clung to the viewing ports.
Using psychic power causes cooling, Hades thought. Probably a very powerful psyker was present?
Speaking of which, did he actually have any psykers he got along well with?
While thinking, Hades started cracking sunflower seeds, completely ignoring Malcador and the Emperor.
The usual attendees—he could imagine them.
The camera continued moving. At the far end of the hall, black steps rose upward. At the top stood a simple, almost austere tombstone in the Barbarus style. Beside it stood Garro, head bowed solemnly.
"Not bad," Hades commented, grabbing another handful of seeds.
"Classic Barbarus model. They didn't do anything fancy."
Malcador coughed and said with a hint of sarcasm, "What did you think they'd do?"
Hades paused.
"Come on, Old Mal. We've both seen the world. Haven't you seen how the Imperium treats 'heroes'? And the Mechanicum's exaggerated style?"
"Thanks to Mortarion and the Death Guard, in this empire chasing complexity and extravagance, there's still a heart that pursues simplicity."
Malcador fell silent. The Emperor, meanwhile, smiled.
"Too crude," he judged, frowning slightly.
"Even if your main color is black, they should at least add some gold accents."
Golden light flickered at the Emperor's fingertips, as if he intended to apply a golden filter to the image.
Hades immediately shouted, "No gold! This is my funeral!"
The golden glow vanished at once. The Emperor nodded readily.
"You're right. It's your funeral, so it's your call. Malcador, my funeral should have gold. Absolutely no…"
He glanced at the screen and paused.
"When the time comes, go to the palace archives. I've finalized three different plans."
Hades made a disgusted sound. Ever dutiful, Malcador confirmed he would carry out the task seriously—even now.
While the Emperor and Hades spoke, the camera zoomed in. On the tombstone were several lines carved in both High Gothic and Barbarus script.
"Hades, a great Barbarusian, a true human."
Hades froze. The hand holding his sunflower seeds stopped mid-air. The image lingered there, while the usual polite, formulaic phrases from servitors played in the background—phrases that could fit both a swindler's funeral or a grandmother's.
"Well…" Hades said. He could feel the Emperor's amused psychic gaze fixed on him.
"I didn't expect their evaluation of me to be this high."
Malcador frowned.
"You should have a clear understanding of yourself. Actually, if this really were your funeral, I'd say this is rather shabby—far from enough."
Hades kept cracking seeds.
"Old Mal, you don't understand the Death Guard," he said.
"For the Death Guard, who aren't good with words, that's already the highest praise. I doubt even Mortarion would get 'great' and 'a true human' if he showed up."
Malcador let out a fake laugh.
"Mortarion? You mean that fellow who doesn't behave like a human? How could he possibly get the second evaluation?"
The Emperor, intrigued, interrupted the two.
"Hades," he asked with enthusiasm, "you should leave yourself an epitaph, what would you like engraved?"
Hades stared at the Emperor.
"I recall someone has already prepared his own burial arrangements—let's hear yours first."
"No words." The Emperor answered cleanly.
"Alright, your turn."
Since he was the Emperor, his answer might be genuine—or he might simply be teasing Hades. But because he was the Emperor, Hades had no way to verify which it was.
Hades fell silent for a moment, thinking.
"I'll carve—'Advertising space for rent. Interested parties please contact the Death Guard Legion.'"
Malcador, who had been drinking water, suddenly erupted into violent coughing. The Emperor and Hades turned toward him; golden light flashed, and Malcador, looking speechless, sat upright again.
The Emperor smiled at Hades.
"A novel angle, but I'd like a normal answer."
Hades went quiet again, then spoke:
"When you read this line, you're already stepping on me. Please move your foot."
Malcador burst out angrily, almost roaring:
"I now believe that you leaving no last words or epitaph before 'dying' would be the best possible outcome—because no matter what you say, afterward I'd have to hide it!"
Hades laughed.
"Old Mal, then what would you write for me?"
Malcador took a deep breath. He actually began thinking seriously about it. Hades and the Emperor exchanged a glance—born to toil, that one.
"First," Malcador said,
"I would respect the origin and legion you value. Even though you technically belong to the Imperium, I would prioritize engraving the honorary titles you earned within the Death Guard."
"The Great Devourer of the Cafetaria?" Hades asked tentatively.
Malcador shot him a glare and said nothing.
"Then the titles bestowed by the Emperor. After that, depending on the relationship between the Mechanicum and the Imperium at the time, I'd selectively consider suggestions from the Mechanicum."
"Please don't," Hades waved his hand.
"You can't put 'Omnissiah' after 'Great Devourer of the Cafetaria.'"
Malcador looked like he was about to explode, so Hades smoothly changed the subject. He pointed at the screen with his hand holding chips.
"—Hey look, Guilliman showed up. And Angron."
Hades' voice gradually slowed. He slipped out of his relaxed tone, frowning at the screen.
"…Angron… something's not right?"
After spending so many days with Angron, Hades knew Angron shouldn't be like this.
Malcador gave a tight, half-smiling expression.
"Because he knows you're not dead."
?!
Hades was stunned. He stared at Malcador.
"…You tricked him?"
"He was simply too clever," Malcador said with a rather sly smile.
"He had only just broken free from that state of 'rage,' and was now in a phase where he was recklessly exploring his own abilities. He needed to know that this state was wrong—at the very least, he needed to be more cautious about it."
"Ah," Hades said, "I get it. Angron tried to probe your emotions?"
Malcador ignored Hades and continued staring at the screen. Seeing that he wasn't getting a response, Hades lost interest and leaned back to keep watching.
He saw Guilliman standing before his tombstone, grief-stricken, unable to let go for a long time. It was the first time Hades had seen Guilliman so sorrowful and exhausted; strands of snow-white had even appeared in his blond hair.
Guilliman nodded toward Garro. Garro returned a brief salute. Then the lady beside Guilliman, Tarasha Euten, placed three white flowers in her hands before the tombstone.
Guilliman briefly explained the flowers. Hades wasn't interested—something about how they only grew on the steepest cliffs of Macragge, blooming only after storms.
The Lord of Macragge seemed as though he wanted to say something, but the atmosphere aboard the Endurance was too heavy, too silent. He didn't seem able to raise his voice to speak his deepest apologies and most heartfelt promises.
In the end, Guilliman whispered a few words to Garro.
Hades opened his mouth. From those fragments, Guilliman seemed to promise quite a few benefits to the Death Guard.
Perhaps Guilliman was also trying to make amends for the "enlightenment" of the Lord of Death that had resulted from his own mistake.
Next came Angron. Same routine. The Lord of the Red Sands stood there while Khârn stepped forward and placed two small glass bottles filled with sand-like grains.
Hades examined them. One bottle was red sand from the arena… what was the white one?
As if hearing Hades' confusion, the Emperor extended his hand. In his palm was a pinch of white grains.
Their eyes met, and Hades instantly understood—this was Angron's offering to him.
His nose told him what it was—
White sugar!
Hades burst out laughing.
"I get Angron's meaning—he knows I'm not dead. He's waiting to grab a meal together later!"
The Emperor smiled and withdrew his hand.
"…Number Twelve," he said softly, then shook his head.
"My lord, you needn't be so harsh on yourself," Malcador immediately said. Hades also hurried to add, "Yeah, look—you didn't interfere and he's still doing just fine."
Perhaps something in Hades' words—implying the Emperor had gotten away with it for free—encouraged him. The Emperor no longer seemed sad… or perhaps he hadn't been very sad to begin with.
The Emperor clapped his hands and stood. "I'm going to talk to Angron," he said firmly, as if he had just decided to launch the Great Crusade.
He turned and stared at Hades.
"You're not allowed to go."
Hades, who had been about to stand up to watch the Emperor's fatherly bonding moment, obediently sat back down.
Seeing the Emperor leave, Malcador also rose to follow. The lively viewing session instantly became Hades' solo snacking routine. He grabbed three buckets of popcorn in one arm and started fast-forwarding wildly with the other.
Nothing interesting. The formal part of a funeral was usually just this. Mortarion wasn't there either, so Hades couldn't watch the Lord of Death suddenly lose control.
Hades watched Guilliman's sorrow for a bit, then observed Angron standing beside him—looking like he was trying to hold himself together, only to end up appearing quite sad as well.
Angron, that must've been tough.
Fast-forward. Faster.
The Mechanicum representative arrived. One Tech-Priest got too agitated, short-circuited himself, burned through his behavioral board, and was carried away by a companion who looked on the verge of a seizure himself.
Hades decided he should treat the Mechanicum a little better.
The memorial ended, but the video didn't. In fact, Hades noticed the progress bar was still quite long.
He frowned. Something wasn't simple here.
People left. Candles went out one by one, melting into teardrops. The vast hall fell into complete darkness, with only faint white mist drifting.
Creak—
A side door opened. Crimson light flared in the darkness.
Hades straightened up. He saw Bast—along with those from the Armoury division—Techmarines forming a circle around his tombstone, bowing their heads in mourning.
A few minutes later, they quietly left, placing in front of Hades' grave the universal cross-head screw most commonly used by Techmarines.
Hades stared at it for a while and finally concluded that although it looked like a screw, it was probably some kind of pastry.
About half an hour later, the second group sneaked in. This time they weren't Space Marines but the Zero Company. The Blank kept vigil for a while, then quietly departed.
They left behind a pile of white substance. It couldn't still be white sugar—Hades guessed it was the ashes of psykers.
Well… the psychic residue in ashes—he could probably still eat that.
Ten minutes later, the Death Guard political cadets taught by Hades came in. From their shoulder plates, Hades could tell they were all doing well, having gained fairly important political positions within the Death Guard.
After they left, a handwritten book appeared before Hades' grave.
…
Hades watched in silence. His tomb had become very lively—visitors came in an endless stream, yet somehow they never ran into one another. Some even came twice under different identities?! What kind of nonsense was that?
Auxilia, Barbarus-born Death Guard, Galaspar-born ones, cafetaria logistics, Tech-Priest, command staff, apothecaries…
Looking at the densely packed offerings that had already filled the place, Hades felt his scalp tingle.
For the first time, he realized just how well-liked he had been.
Even though Mortarion had sealed away most of the legends about Hades, those who had personally witnessed his "glory" were still alive. There were also Galasparians who came specifically because of his policies, and new recruits who had never met him but wished to pay respects to a hero.
Thinking about it, Hades realized the internal classification of the Death Guard was surprisingly complex.
As the progress bar neared its end, things finally quieted down in front of his grave.
Hades let out a long breath. Seeing the growing pile of offerings made him uncomfortable—the person concerned hadn't received them, and that oddly depressed him.
A spark of fire lit up, followed by a heavy sound.
Hades immediately shouted, "Calas Typhon?!"
He yelled, "Which blind fool let you out?! I warn you—you're not allowed to steal my offerings!"
If he did, he'd rip that Dreadnought apart! Tear it to pieces!
Fortunately, Hades spotted Vorx's figure. Vorx lingered far behind the Dreadnought, watching Calas.
Behind Calas was strapped a long scythe. Hades recognized it as Mortarion's Mistletoe.
The Dreadnought struggled to stop not far from Hades' grave—the offerings that had spilled down the steps prevented him from going further.
Calas let out a mocking laugh.
As expected, Hades thought, resuming his seed-cracking.
"Unwelcome brat…" Calas muttered softly.
Hades' evaluation of that was: blatant nonsense. Calas was still stuck in some outdated Barbarus-era version.
Besides, his Blank nature automatically made others feel like he was some kind of Warp anomaly—was that something he could have solved back then?
Calas fell silent.
Hades stared at him. He stood there like he was dead—Hades hoped he really was—motionless, until the night of Macragge began to fade.
Calas Typhon kept vigil for the not-dead Hades through the latter half of the night. In a daze, Hades thought he saw a large, misty white figure lurking in the dark corner behind Calas.
Finally, Typhon left. He was the only one among them who hadn't left any offering for Hades.
Looking down on him, huh?
Hades was a vindictive person. Calas had stayed at his grave, offering count: +0. So next time Hades visited his grave, the offering count… would definitely be negative.
<+>
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