Warhammer: I don't want to become a stinky can!

Page 376

No…no no no no… Mortarian thought, the enemy has already begun to attack him…he cannot fall into their trap.

Even if he eventually takes the worst path, he should struggle as much as possible before he collapses.

Perhaps Hades is already dead.

Mortarian thought,

But he cannot die now.

Mortarian cannot die, he cannot surrender, he cannot fall; he must stand here.

If he fails, it would be disrespectful to the path he has already walked and the people he has met.

He can't do this.

This is disrespectful to an old friend; it is a mockery of all his previous efforts.

This is...this is wrong.

So Mortarion began to pray, raising his scythe and aiming it at the Space Marines who, with a single glance, felt themselves shattered.

Muddy raindrops slid down his face.

He wanted to use the souls of his enemies to comfort the deceased.

Even if the price is...

Mortarian trembled as he recalled the phantom he had seen on that Eldar planet.

But he had already made up his mind about all of this.

That's it! Great!

Chapter 444 Metamorphosis

Butterflies, moths, or most lepidopterans, undergo a long and painful pupal process.

This process is not as peaceful as it seems on the surface. The caterpillars, which have absorbed a lot of memories, will melt in the pupa, their bodies turning into a thick liquid, with only a few organs remaining. Everything else will become nutrients for the newborn insects.

Those organs will regenerate, absorbing the concentrated nutrients from the caterpillar's body, growing a new body, new eyes, and new wings...

Finally, what emerges from the pupa will be a life completely different from the one that was before.

Some have asked whether a newly born butterfly is still the same caterpillar it once was, or whether it is a unique life form parasitizing the caterpillar.

Some have hypothesized that caterpillars themselves cannot be considered a life form; they are merely eggs that "can move on their own" before metamorphosing into butterflies.

Just as a fish that sets foot on land can no longer be called a "fish",

The caterpillar that escapes gravity may not even be itself anymore.

But it must learn to fly.

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Long ago, when Mortarian was still unable to get used to the poison gas, and when he was still imprisoned by his adoptive father,

Mortalian could smell that peculiar odor, which was particularly strong every time the alien foster father came out of its laboratory.

That wasn't a pleasant smell; even Barbarus's poison gas was more tolerable to Mortalian.

Mortarian had cautiously peered through the crack in the door and seen the puppets haphazardly sewn together from human corpses.

That's the stench emitted when a human corpse decomposes.

Mortarian thought so, and long afterward, he still believed it.

But when he knelt on the ground of Barbarossa, trembling as he dug out the bodies of the revolutionaries with his bare hands, Mortarian did not smell the odor.

Yellowish-black pus dripped from between his fingers, mixed with pale bone fragments. He smelled Hades' vomit behind him, the salty, metallic scent of the corpse's family's tears, but not that smell—

That smell, etched deep into his bones by the atrocities committed by his alien adoptive father, filled him with loathing and fear.

The stench of highly decomposed corpses was also more palatable to Mortalian than anything else.

Later, when Mortarion struck a freak lord with his scythe, amidst the creature's piercing scream, he once again smelled that familiar scent.

That's... the smell of psionic energy.

Mortarian let out a deep breath.

After that, the scent stayed with him, emanating from the Death Guard's think tank, from Macado, from the Emperor...

No matter how many gas masks he changed, no matter how strong the gas he used to stimulate his nostrils, Mortarian could always smell them—it was a olfactory sense of the soul, one he could not escape.

Besides the long and arduous ordeal, it did indeed provide Mortalian with convenience, ensuring that even the smallest spark of psionic energy would not be overlooked by him.

Mortarian raised his hand, pus dripping down, and beneath the giant scythe, the laughable, poorly made imitations of the Death Guards' corpses reeked of unbearable decay.

They thought these poor imitations would sway him, but they were wrong.

Even if it causes him pain, it will not shake him.

Mortarian had long been prepared for this.

He now stood in this dense forest, the brutally felled branches and the purplish-red organs hanging from the branches all testifying to the ferocity of the battle that had just taken place.

Mortarian stared at his shattered armor, hesitated, and slowly raised his arm to his nose—

He smelled that odor.

It came from himself.

Mortarian remained silent, chanting for Hades, trying to slow the process.

A faint sense of powerlessness responded to him, but in this sea of ​​green pus, this pitiful, nearly dried-up darkness could not save him.

He recalled that he had once fallen into a dream called the Death Guardian, and that it was the waters of the River Styx that ultimately saved him.

But now… Mortarian clenched his fist, then released it, and the brittle armor crumbled and fell from his hand.

Everything here is attacking him—those large enough to be seen, those small enough to be imperceptible. The real battlefield is in the dimension of microorganisms, where billions of lives perish.

He could no longer rely on his old friends.

Even though Mortarian was proud of the scene of Hades defeating Magnus.

He can no longer rely on the Death Guard.

Because he was all alone at that moment.

This was his destiny, this was Mortarion's destiny, and the day had finally come; he faced it alone.

...He needs to become stronger, even more powerful.

Powerful enough to survive.

Mortarian took a deep breath, then shakily lifted his feet and began to trek through the dense forest.

No visible enemy stood in his way; the battle was left to bacteria, fungi, and viruses.

Time stands on the other side of them.

For Mortarian, this was a dead end.

But he needs to survive.

Only by living can other possibilities exist.

Survival, that is the law of Barbaros, the supreme and unshakeable law.

Only the strong survive.

If life is lost, then it proves that they were not resilient enough.

Mortarian trudged along, the weeds with their abundant fleshy growths brushing against his legs, the growths clinging to his leg nails and emitting a foul odor.

Even torrential rain cannot wash them away.

Mortarian had no interest in picking them.

He felt tired, but for someone who excelled at long battles, fatigue was just the simplest feeling.

Buzzing, black-headed flies covered in fleshy sludge swarmed around Mortarian, chirping merrily as they landed on his shoulder armor, tilting their heads and rubbing them.

Mortarian ignored them. The rain poured down, and the murky raindrops slid down his neck, seeping into the gaps between his body and armor. The armor's circulatory and power systems had already been destroyed.

He was soaked to the bone as he walked through the dense forest.

This planet is alive.

Mortalian realized that this was a massive, living incubator, catalyzing him, catalyzing the Primarch into another being.

Everything here, every blade of grass, every tree, every living being, is prepared for him, and is celebrated for him.

This is a dead end.

As Mortarian thought about it again, that feeling of despair washed over him once more, like a maggot gnawing at his very bones.

"boom!"

A loud thud was heard as the object crashed heavily to the ground, splashing foul-smelling liquid from the puddles.

Mortarian vomited, spewing out a mixture of viscera and blood. He struggled to prop himself up so that his exposed face wouldn't touch the ground.

In a daze, Mortarian returned to that rainy night of his childhood, when his alien foster father threw him off a cliff and ordered him to climb back to the mountaintop before dawn.

He fell downwards—

Motarian took a deep breath, coughed violently, and continued climbing forward.

He needs to survive...

He needs to survive...

He can't die yet...

Those unfulfilled wishes, those vows made before, those beautiful memories—he couldn't lose them, he couldn't just give them up like that.

Mortarian...remember quickly...

He recalled the prophecy he had seen, on that strange Eldar planet, where Mortarian had seen himself.

That wasn't him, but it was also him.

That was... his most primal self, and also... some kind of monster that broke free from Mortarion's past body—

A monster that cannot be killed by the Death Guard, Hades, Karastifon, or accepted by humans.

The smell is extremely fishy.

Everything here is aimed at Mortalian; it's a dead end—but for the other him, it isn't.

But how can he reach that other side? How much should he sacrifice? What should he do?

Mortarian climbed,

Seeing the giant fall, those green, fleshy creatures scurried out of the grass, chattering like bloated potatoes. They were small, huddled together haphazardly, and screamed in soft, delicate voices.

They jostled and pushed their way to the crawling Mortarian, following him as if marveling at his resilience and wretchedness.

Mortarian stared intently at the beings in his deep-set eyes, but they did not try to attack him; instead, they followed him closely.

...Motalian, what else have you forgotten?

Motalian took a deep breath; he needed to live… he needed to remember everything…

The truth before life was born—

He needs to accept himself.

Mortarian gasped for breath in agony; the stench grew even more intense, tearing at his soul and making him dizzy. He couldn't help but scream.

As Mortarian struggled, a thin layer of smoke rose around him.

Macurag's Calamity Day, the Eradication of Barbalus, the Burning of Prospero, the Trial of Nichea, the Warmaster's Celebration, the Battle of Urano, Ibsen's Great Expedition, Conrad Coz's Atrocities, Horussky, Liman's Feast, Randan Barbalus's Purgatory, Calastifer's Betrayal, Mars, Terra Macado, the Illusion, the Space Marines, the Imperials, the Last Alien Lord, the Death Guard, Hades, Calastifer, Mortalian, the Alien Foster Father, Nacre Barbalus, the Airborne Warp, the Subspace Laboratory—

It floats in the vast ocean.

It has always remained silent, yet it has always existed.

It has always hated, always devoured, and always withered away.

It is the dark cloud—

He's a wizard!!!