My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 432: Metamorphosis
Butterflies, moths—in fact most Lepidoptera—undergo a long and painful pupation.
The process is not as tranquil as it appears. The caterpillars, filled with memory, dissolve inside the chrysalis; their bodies turn into a thick slurry. Only a small portion of organs remain, and everything else becomes nourishment for the newborn insect.
Those organs redevelop, absorbing the nutrient broth formed from the caterpillar's body, growing a new form, new eyes, new wings…
In the end, what crawls out of the chrysalis is a life entirely different from before.
Some have asked: is the newborn butterfly still the same caterpillar, or is it another distinct life parasitizing what came before?
Others have hypothesized that the caterpillar itself cannot even be considered a lifeform, it is merely some kind of "self-moving egg" before becoming a butterfly.
Just as a fish that walks onto land can no longer be called a "fish," a caterpillar that escapes gravity may no longer be itself.
But it must learn to fly.
. . .
Long ago, when Mortarion still could not grow accustomed to poison gas, when he was still imprisoned by his foster father, he would smell that peculiar stench every time his xenos father emerged from his laboratory. The odor would be especially strong then.
It was not a pleasant smell. Even the toxic miasma of Barbarus was easier for Mortarion to tolerate.
Once, he carefully peered through a crack in the door. He saw puppets crudely stitched together from human corpses.
That is the smell of rotting human flesh, Mortarion thought—and for a long time afterward, he continued to believe that.
But when he knelt upon the soil of Barbarus, trembling as he dug out the bodies of the revolutionaries with his bare hands, Mortarion did not smell that odor.
Yellow-black pus dripped between his fingers, mixed with pale bone fragments. He smelled Hades' vomit behind him, the salty tang of the grieving families' tears—but not that smell.
The smell that had accompanied his xenos foster father's atrocities, etched deep into his bones, filling him with disgust and fear.
Even the stench of extreme decay was easier for Mortarion to accept.
Later still, when Mortarion struck down a xenos overlord with the haft of his scythe, and the creature screamed sharply, he smelled that familiar scent again.
It was… the smell of psychic power.
Mortarion drew a deep breath.
From then on, that smell followed him—emanating from the Death Guard Librarians, from Malcador, from the Emperor…
No matter how many respirators he changed, no matter how harshly he assaulted his own nose with toxins, Mortarion could always detect it. This was a sense of smell rooted in the soul; he could not escape it.
Aside from the long torment it brought, it also gave him convenience. For not even the faintest spark of psychic energy could escape his notice.
Mortarion raised his hand. Pus slid down. Beneath the great scythe, the corpses of those laughable, crude imitations of the Death Guard emitted an unbearable rot.
They thought these poor imitations would shake him. They were wrong.
Even if it caused him pain, it would not make him waver.
Mortarion had long prepared himself to strike down his own son.
He now stood within the dense forest. Broken branches, purple-red organs hanging from limbs—everything testified to the brutality of the recent battle.
Mortarion stared at his shattered armor. Hesitating, he slowly raised his arm to his nose—
He smelled that odor.
From himself.
Mortarion fell silent. For Hades, he murmured inwardly, trying to delay the process.
A faint weakness answered him, but in this green ocean of pus, that pitiful, nearly dried-up darkness could not save him.
Mortarion clenched his fist, then released it. His armor, now brittle, crumbled from his hand in flakes.
Everything here was attacking him—those large enough to see, and those too small to perceive. The true battlefield existed on the microbial scale, where billions of lives withered and died.
He could no longer rely on his old friend.
He could no longer rely on the Death Guard either.
Because at this moment, he was alone.
This was his fate. This was Mortarion's fate. The day had finally come—he would face it by himself.
…He needed to grow stronger, even stronger.
Strong enough to survive.
Mortarion took a deep breath. Swaying, he lifted his foot and began trudging through the dense forest.
No visible enemies came to stop him. They had handed victory and defeat over to bacteria, fungi, and viruses.
Time stood on their side.
For Mortarion, this was a dead end.
But he needed to live.
Only by living could there be other possibilities.
Survival, this was the law of Barbarus, the supreme law that could never be shaken.
Only the strong could survive.
And if life faded, it simply proved it was not resilient enough.
Mortarion pressed onward. Weeds bearing swollen flesh-like tumors struck against his legs; the growths clung to his greaves, exuding a foul odor.
Even the torrential rain could not wash them away.
Mortarion had no energy to tear them off.
He felt exhausted, but for one accustomed to prolonged warfare, exhaustion was merely the simplest of sensations.
A buzzing arose—black-headed flies caked with meat slurry circled him. They hummed cheerfully around Mortarion, alighting on his pauldrons, tilting their heads, rubbing at themselves.
Mortarion ignored them. Rain poured down in sheets; murky drops slid down his neck, pouring into the gaps between flesh and armor. The armor's circulation and power systems had long since been destroyed.
He was like a drenched bird, walking through the forest.
This planet is alive, Mortarion thought. It is a vast, living incubator, catalyzing him, catalyzing the primarch into another existence.
Everything here—every blade of grass, every creature—was prepared for him, cheering for him.
This was a dead end.
Mortarion thought it again, and that sense of despair crawled over him like bone-eating worms.
Bang!
A heavy crash sounded as the primarch slammed to the ground, splashing the foul liquid pooled in the rain-filled pits.
Mortarion vomited. He spat out filthy water mixed with viscera and blood. Struggling, he propped up his upper body so his exposed face would not touch the ground.
In a daze, he returned to that rainy night of childhood, when his xenos foster father had thrown him from a cliff, ordering him to climb back to the summit before dawn.
He fell—
Mortarion gasped sharply. Coughing violently, he began crawling forward again.
He needed to live…
He needed to live…
He could not die yet…
Those unfinished wishes, those past oaths, those beautiful memories—he could not lose them. He could not give up like this.
Mortarion… remember…
He recalled the fragment of prophecy he had seen—on that strange Eldar world, he had seen himself.
It was not him, but it was also him.
That was… his most original self, and also… some kind of monster that had burst forth from the body of the past Mortarion—
A monster that could not be accepted by the Death Guard, by Hades, by Calas, nor by humanity.
Unspeakably foul.
Everything here was aimed at Mortarion. This was a dead end—but for that other self, it was not.
But how could he reach that far shore? How much must he sacrifice? What should he do?
Mortarion crawled onward.
Seeing the giant fall, those green, tumor-like creatures chattered as they ran out from the grass. They looked like bloated potatoes, small and crowded together, squeaking in thin voices.
They pushed and jostled their way to the prostrate Mortarion, following him, as if marveling at both his resilience and his wretched state.
From the depths of his shadowed eye sockets, Mortarion stared at them intently. But they did not try to attack him, they simply stayed close, trailing after him.
…Mortarion, what else have you forgotten?
Mortarion breathed deeply. He needed to live… he needed to remember everything…
The truth from before life was born—
He needed… to accept himself.
Mortarion gasped in pain. The foul stench intensified, tearing at his soul and making him dizzy. He let out a roar. As he struggled, a faint layer of smoke rose around him.
Macragge — the Day of Disaster — the purging of Barbarus — the Burning of Prospero — the Trial of Nikaea — the Warmaster's Triumph — the Uranos Campaign — Ibsen — the Great Crusade — the atrocities of Konrad Curze — Horus — Guilliman's banquet — the Rangdan — the cleansing of Barbarus — Calas Typhon's betrayal — Mars — Terra — Malcador — illusions — Space Marines — the Imperium — the Emperor — the last xenos overlord — the Death Guard — Hades — Calas Typhon — Mortarion — xenos foster father — Necare — Barbarus — drop pods — the warp — the laboratory—
It floated within the vast ocean.
Silent all along, existing all along.
Hating all along, devouring all along, withering all along.
It was the dark cloud—
He's a psyker!!!
Mortarion suddenly crashed back into reality, screaming hoarsely in the mud and rain.
The primarch's deafening scream startled away the Nurglings gathered around him. They scurried off, round bodies rolling as they hid beneath leaves.
That despairing scream tore through the sky, nearly ripping apart the curtain of rain, lingering for a long time.
After an unknown span, the screaming giant fell into unconsciousness again. They poked their heads out, curiously examining their soon-to-arrive new master.
After seven raindrops fell, the Nurglings cautiously gathered around Mortarion again.
They curiously poked the giant's pale, gaunt face, tried lifting his limp hand, and smeared drawings on his armor with pus.
You need… to accept yourself again.
All of this… armor, weapons, body, language, customs, likes and dislikes… all of it binds you, imprisons you.
"Mortarion"—this was the name given by his xenos foster father. In the tongue of Barbarus, it meant "Child of Death."
The Emperor had once told him he would have had a name with a better meaning.
He refused.
Mortarion refused.
Collapsed in the torrential rain, Mortarion's hand twitched twice.
The Nurgling beside him shrieked, but seeing no further reaction from the giant, it cautiously edged closer again.
…This is the planet prepared for you, Mortarion.
…He…
…Who is He?
Mortarion breathed faintly—this was the last difference between him and a corpse. Mortarion… remember…
In the hallucination of unconsciousness, he began to run—no, to spread. He rushed toward that place, glimpsing a corner of a garden.
Mortarion swayed to his feet, but there was no light in his eyes. His soul seemed to be in another world.
Ominous gray-white smoke drifted from the gaps in his armor. Mortarion lowered his head, panting, dust and smoke spilling from his mouth.
A shriek came from his hand. A Nurgling playing with his palm had been caught; its short arms flailed, trying to pry open Mortarion's grip.
Mortarion saw the garden. It was no longer as lush as before.
On the barren earth, only a few new shoots had sprouted. The freshly tilled soil was soft; beneath it slept seeds that breathed.
At the edge of the garden, a darkness slumbered.
This was Nurgle's garden.
Part of it had withered—lost. That being was trying to gather it back together, and in doing so, had grown weaker.
And that was exactly what Mortarion wanted.
In his final clarity, Mortarion could even tell who had done this.
He let out a faint laugh, tears flowing from the corners of his eyes.
This was the god they must face, the god they must fight.
Humanity cannot defeat a god… unless…
Remember… Mortarion…
Unconsciously, Mortarion raised his hand. The Nurgling in his grip struggled. The Lord of the Dark Clouds opened his mouth—
Around the giant, all the Nurglings froze in shock. They stared in disbelief at the monster. Pus overflowed from the corners of its mouth, bursting and splattering.
…He remembered.
Nurgle.
+Nurgle!!!+
Mortarion roared. His body, braced within the dense forest, began to collapse layer by layer like a skeleton.
If you wish to reclaim everything you once had, then you must abandon what you possess now—
Even if it anchors you to this beautiful world, anchors you to the physical reality where your comrades, your legion, and your laboratory exist.
Gray-white mist surged upward in layers, instantly swallowing everything, spreading outward, devouring all.
Mortarion howled. The corners of his mouth split, exposing stark white bone.
+—You are not the only one!!!+
This was the planet Nurgle had given him—this was his planet. Even though it was tainted with Nurgle's psychic essence, even though they sought to draw him into the Garden—he possessed it.
At the edge of the Garden, dark clouds rose. He heard an angry roar from afar—now Mortarion understood why He had chosen him. Their affinity truly was perfect.
The fog greedily devoured the corner of the Garden that had just been plundered. He had arrived—Mortarion felt himself rotting, but immediately—
He shouted toward that presence which made him tremble. The clouds churned, the call guiding that being whose mere sight filled him with deep fear.
It was a greedy black monster, writhing and rolling, closely pursuing Mortarion's gray cloud like a beast driven by hunger.
Ha…
He needed to sacrifice part of himself, yet he still needed power. Mortarion cast away the portion he had accumulated in the mortal world—keeping only the single part that must be preserved.
He cast it out, hurled it into the Garden.
Darkness and life became entangled, but the tide of darkness rapidly receded. Mortarion had already obtained what he wanted. The mist began to disperse.
The small corner of the Garden finally vanished. The soil that held sleeping seeds faded together with the mist, as if it had always been shrouded by it.
Beneath the dark clouds, the barren land fell silent.
Mortarion suddenly loosened his grip.
The mutilated Nurgling in his hand dropped with a wet sound, bursting on the ground like an overripe fruit.
He began to collapse. This body could no longer anchor him. Dark clouds poured out; his armor creaked as it fell away.
The Rainfather screamed, but the gray cloud had already risen, greedily devouring its vapors.
This planet belonged to Mortarion.
Dark clouds covered everything.
What had once been vibrant fell mute. Billions of living things went silent within the fog. They still existed, but… but…
Nothing knew what had happened.
Except for that steady breathing.
<+>
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]
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