My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 469: End of Act III — The One Who Is Not Understood
"Magnus?"
Mortarion's voice faded into a vague, indistinct silence.
At the mere mention of that name, what Mortarion felt first was a surge of revulsion—disgust, disdain, and a reflexive desire to avoid speaking of it altogether.
These rising emotions caused the Pale King to fall silent for a moment. He stared into the star-filled void before him, at the brilliant streak carved out from Fenris.
It was clear he had a rather unpleasant history with this brother of his. Yet now, it was Magnus who had pointed out the path to Cadia. Thus Mortarion remained silent, his eyes turning with faint confusion toward Malcador.
The Regent of the Imperium gripped his staff tightly. The old man stared at the heavens in disbelief, a faint glow flickering along his staff as if sensing something.
Malcador muttered to himself, "…Exactly as my lord foresaw. The Crimson Sinner has indeed fallen into the realm of change…"
He coughed uneasily, his claw-like hand gripping the staff as he supported his hunched, trembling body.
"Russ…"
Malcador spoke softly. "It must have been Russ—he stopped the sinner's folly."
In the Emperor's prophecy, Magnus was destined to fall. His best possible end would have been shattering, yet the fate of the Crimson One flickered uncertainly.
The Emperor had foreseen that when the Crimson Sinner's fate became intertwined with Cadia, the Imperium of Man would gain the greatest advantage.
So what more was there to say? A crippled Primarch who had lost his Legion, a Primarch guilty of grave sins and consorting with daemons—unsurprisingly, he had been sent to Cadia by the Emperor, as a prisoner to be confined.
The past was set. His identity was set. The future was set. To those in power, it was merely a simple, inevitable choice.
Malcador coughed again. Even now, the Regent of the Imperium seemed somewhat at a loss before the scene unfolding before him—he had long prepared himself for Magnus to commit his crime.
But what he saw now was only a dazzling path among the stars.
Those crimson fragments shimmered, cloaked in pale light, flowing slowly through the void.
No, Malcador thought to himself. Back within the prison, the Deceased One had already confirmed that Magnus no longer possessed the freedom to resist.
Every word and action of the Crimson Sinner was watched by the Changer of Ways. Under such circumstances, Malcador did not believe Magnus's initiative could bring any positive outcome.
Then… it could only be Leman Russ.
Malcador frowned, hoping that good child would suffer as little as possible. Among all the Primarchs, Russ had always been the most considerate toward him.
May all be well on Fenris.
May all be well on Terra.
Malcador knew this was no longer a battlefield he could enter. Often, one could only stand by and witness the beginning and end of a war.
Then… was all of this a trap?
A trap set by the Changer of Ways to lure them to Cadia?
Malcador gazed at the heavens. Stars reflected in his aged eyes as he watched those slowly drifting, scattered shards of light.
Whether or not it was a trap, they would have to go to the Eye of Terror.
To remain on the defensive would only allow Chaos to slowly bleed this world dry.
A harsh gleam shone from beneath the shadow of his hood as the Sigillite spoke in a hoarse voice, "…Magnus… your former brother."
Mortarion raised an eyebrow slightly and turned his head, listening.
But Malcador merely shook his head.
"Prepare to face him in battle, Mortarion—we are ready to set sail."
The old man fell silent once more and departed into the darkness. The Pale King remained where he stood, watching Malcador leave, before turning back to gaze once more at the river of stars before him.
"…No matter what," Mortarion said softly, "at least for now, I will thank you, Magnus."
. . .
The winter of Fenris had ended.
Overnight, Valdrmani lost its edge, the storms ceased their howling, and the packs retreated with low whines into the muddy slush of melting ice. The people of Fenris stood in confusion, watching as the continents slowly solidified once more.
Anyone who could understand the language of the wind knew that Fenris's winter had vanished forever.
And yet, there was still one place where the blizzard had never ceased.
That was where the Wolf King, Leman Russ, had gone.
There, the storm did not weaken—it only grew more violent. Even if the surrounding plains burned under a blazing sun, as hot as midsummer, the moment one stepped onto that land, they would be plunged into a world of endless darkness and howling snow.
Of all who trespassed into it, only the bravest—those who truly revered nature—might find their way out after becoming lost. The rest would leave their lives behind in that frozen tempest.
No one knew what had happened.
On the twenty-third attempt by the Space Wolves to organize a band of warriors to venture into the storm in search of their king, Leman Russ appeared before his sons—his body covered in frost, his hair and beard turned white with snow.
The blood upon him had long since dried in the cold winds, leaving behind only an air of sorrow.
"Go back!" Thus roared the Wolf King to his sons.
"All of you, go back! In the name of Leman Russ—you are forbidden from setting foot upon this land! You are forbidden from even casting your gaze upon it!"
The wolves obeyed their alpha with absolute loyalty. Having gone leaderless for so long, they gathered around their king with low whines. Yet their king—who seemed to have endured far too much—remained silent.
He was no longer the man he once was.
From deep within his hollowed eye sockets flickered a gaze of exhaustion and age.
After returning to his people, the gravely wounded Leman Russ spent nine months leading his most trusted warriors, along with the Rune Priests still capable of fighting, to scour every inch of Fenris.
No one knew what the Wolf King was searching for. But from time to time, careless young whelps would catch sight of a necklace around his neck—one seemingly made of shattered eyeballs, faintly glowing with a dim red light.
Nine months later, the Wolf King, who had kept his head bowed to the earth, finally lifted his gaze once more to the heavens. When he beheld for the first time the red-and-white river of stars that illuminated Fenris day and night, the Lord of Winter let out a broken, anguished howl.
He could not understand.
Leman Russ did not understand.
He could not understand!
Magnus… The Wolf King thought in pain. Every attempt to think deeply felt like his soul was being flayed by blades. For Leman Russ, at this moment, thinking had become an unbearable burden.
Any perceptive Primarch would have known that beneath Leman Russ's savage exterior lay a disciplined and loyal mind.
It was not that he could not think.
But as the Emperor's executioner, as one who had taken part in the eradication of lost Primarchs, as the most loyal of blades, Leman Russ did not allow himself to think too much.
For sometimes, thought brought pain… doubt… and even betrayal.
Fenris had taught him this: if you could survive upon its brutal land, then you did not need to question the reasons behind things.
You did not need to understand why Fenris's winters were so long.
You did not need to understand why the land itself devoured those who lived upon it.
You did not need to understand why the savage beasts delighted in consuming men—
You did not need to know these things.
You only needed to survive.
Leman Russ did not need to know. He only needed to remain loyal to the Emperor and carry out his commands.
The Wolf King knew—the Allfather was right.
But now, his brother's blood stained his armor. A bone-deep agony gnawed at him, and Magnus's curse still echoed in his ears.
At last, the Wolf King began to understand.
What Magnus had done.
What Magnus had faced.
What decision Magnus had made.
What resolve Magnus had steeled himself with.
And in Magnus's eyes… what role had he himself played?
Leman Russ knew the war across the galaxy still raged on. But the motive that had once guided his actions had been shattered. The hand that gripped his sword was no longer steady.
He no longer knew whether his next step would be right—or wrong.
In the end, seated upon the throne of the Fang, the Wolf King issued his command to his Legion:
The Space Wolves were to depart immediately for the Eye of Terror.
And the Wolf King himself, along with the Thirteenth Company of the Space Wolves, vanished into the deep tunnels beneath Fenris on the eve of the fleet's departure.
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