My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 434: A Friend's Gift
Calas Typhon swallowed hard, his instincts screaming that this old man in a protective suit, who had even draped a trash bag-like covering over his staff, was beyond his ability to handle.
This was a Psyker.
"Remain calm," Malcador said, standing beside the Dreadnought and pressing his staff against Typhon's "waist."
"I care nothing for your past. It is done. Those were internal matters of your Death Guard, and I have no interest in them."
Malcador muttered to himself as he began divining again.
"If you wish to save Mortarion and prevent him from falling into the abyss—then you had best cooperate with me."
"Wait—" Calas said, feeling dizzy.
"Falling into the abyss... I don't understand... No... Not... Mortarion is falling into the abyss?"
As he spoke, he felt his blood run cold.
Calas Typhon had once entered a corner of the garden, and he knew what lay buried there. When he regained his senses, the memory of that past returned, and he was so disgusted he wanted to kill himself. Only the Dreadnought's long, fearless slumber saved his life.
Now, Mortarion was going to...
Calas's thoughts recoiled in fear the moment they approached this concept. He couldn't imagine it, couldn't accept it.
He hoped this was a misunderstanding, a lie. But the old man waving his scepter made him realize this was no dream—it was reality.
"Wait... where's Hades?" Calas asked urgently. "He terrifies those creatures. He should be sent to save—"
"He's dead." Malcador replied calmly, his focus fixed on wielding the scepter. "Your fate is bound to Mortarion's, more tightly than I could have imagined. How did I not notice this before?"
"I understand now. There's a void in your soul... such a brutal soul scar... I think I know who did this."
A radiant glow enveloped Malcador as Calas, who had been about to charge forward, was stopped by his hand.
"—Explain?! Make it clearer?!"
"Hades is dead. That should be clear enough."
Malcador frowned. He noticed Angron silently avert his gaze, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. The breathing of the other Death Guard beside them grew slightly ragged.
'A bunch of fools.'
If Hades is dead, what is he doing here? This is all to keep the Old Dreadnought in a state of soul-flame turmoil.
There was a reason Malcador was called a despicable sycophant.
His words had worked. Calas was clearly overwhelmed by emotions he couldn't control. He began to unconsciously reminisce.
This was exactly what Malcador wanted. The more Calas reminisced, the closer Malcador would get to finding Mortarion. The flames surged—
'Bastard! Don't think about Hades now!'
Malcador cursed inwardly, then spoke in a cold, measured voice, "So now I need you. Your fate can be traced back to Mortarion. This is our only hope."
Calas felt his mind about to explode. He struggled to comprehend it all—Hades was dead, and Mortarion was about to fall into the abyss. What was happening?
That was Hades and Mortarion...
If even they have been corrupted by the Warp...
Calas began to tremble uncontrollably, overwhelmed by fear and dread. Having witnessed and even stepped into those realms, he knew better than anyone how terrifying they were. It was the nightmare that had haunted him his entire life... He couldn't...
...He couldn't face those... those entities again...
Malcador frowned, sensing Calas's distress. The once-clear visions began to blur again. 'This won't do—'
Suddenly, Malcador noticed something. The once-golden flames turned pale, and wisps of ominous, ash-gray particles rose in waves.
He turned his head and saw the Death Guard staring at the world around them as if waking from a dream. They were gasping, struggling to comprehend the reality they were experiencing.
Malcador paused, as if realizing something. The old man let out a cold, mocking laugh, and Malcador burst into laughter as he moved the scepter burning with golden flames.
When he removed the scepter, the ashen flames didn't vanish. Instead, they surged with renewed intensity. Calas began to turn gray, as if entering a world of black and white.
Malcador stared at Calas, who was clearly trapped in another realm. Though the situation was dire and the outlook remained grim, there was little he could do at that moment.
The old man couldn't help but think of Hades. What would his friend do in this situation?
Malcador took a step back and watched with keen interest.
Angron, standing beside him, cast a puzzled glance. Malcador waved his hand, signaling the Primarch to hold his breath and focus.
. . .
Mist—endless white mist.
The world was shrouded in a hazy, blinding fog, making it impossible to distinguish the horizon. It was like an eternal night where colors had inverted.
Calas gasped, his heart pounding violently in his chest. Yet he could hear nothing—no heartbeat, no pulse, no breath.
"—Mortarion!!! Where—are—you—?!"
Calas roared, but his voice was swallowed by the mist, as if he were mute. Everything here was like a silent film.
He ran desperately through the barren land, the soil crumbling beneath his feet as if recently plowed. Listless saplings stood scattered across the ground, but Calas paid them no heed, charging straight through the rudimentary farmland.
He leaped over a stream of pitch-black water, the mist growing thicker still. A dense forest loomed before him, radiating an absolute sense of dread.
Calas's frantic pace abruptly halted. He stared at the dense forest, instinctively swallowing hard.
That's... that's... His doing.
Standing before the forest, Calas called out tentatively,
"Mortarion? Mortarion?! Are you in there?!"
He remained silent, and there was no response from the other side.
Calas stared at the vegetation hanging from the branches, dripping with slime. He couldn't—he couldn't—Calas, you can't
What can't you do?!
Calas! You backed down once on the path to the mountain peak! Are you going to back down a second time?! That's why Hades could stride ahead of you so boldly, so gloriously—he dared! He acted! It's that simple!
Now that bastard Hades is dead! And yet he's still striding ahead of you, leaving you, the cripple, to linger in this world, barely clinging to life—do you want him to laugh at you again?! To see you falter and flee in the face of danger?!
Hades! Listen to me, Calas Typhon! I, Calas Typhon, may be a psyker, a half-breed—whatever you look down on—but I'm human! I'm loyal! And I have my pride!
Calas took a deep breath. Tears streamed down his face, but his foot stepped into the dense forest, followed by a second, resolute step.
He rushed in, branches whipping at him as the mist enveloped him. Stumbling forward, Calas reached the heart of the dense forest and saw the grave piled high with empty armor.
Calas Typhon froze in disbelief, standing at the foot of a colossal tree, staring blankly at the hollow tomb.
Something stirred at his feet.
Calas looked down, nearly shouting in shock.
He saw a tiny Death Guard, small and round, no bigger than his clenched fist. The little creature struggled to lift its head and stare at him, clutching something in its hands—a fruit.
The little one offered it to Calas. He tried bending down several times, finally succeeding on the seventh attempt.
He ate it, and it was the part that had been stolen from him long ago.
Calas Typhon laughed, the sound more grating than a cry.
In the end, Mortarion still found a way to help him—and yet I hesitated! I hesitated!!!
Calas let out a howl like a wounded lone wolf, the white mist silencing him into a mute, pathetic scream at the heavens.
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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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