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

Page 375

I don't know, but it's not Mortarian—

"Then you can just wait for Mortarion to come and rescue you!"

The old man's angry shout reached the ears of the two Primarchs clearly this time.

Killman and Angron quickly dragged and carried the dozen or so World Eaters who were already in a state of suspended animation, and ran towards that direction.

The rough red sand stretched out beneath their feet, initially still carrying the heat of the stars, but slowly, these sensory realities faded away.

Space blurred like a fiercely burning crimson flame; where the flames rose was the desert, and where they didn't reach—

The two Primarchs, who were running wildly, saw the World Eater's bulkhead, saw Macardo desperately holding up his scepter, and saw a huge sage firing fireballs at the demonic tide like an automated firing platform.

Angron was the first to leap, landing back on the hard metal floor, followed by Guilliman.

Macado deftly pulled the scepter from the floor, and flames immediately surged towards the old man. Guilliman was about to pull the old man back when...

But before he could reach out, Macado dodged with incredible agility.

"Mind your own business!"

"Follow closely!"

Makado nimbly weaved through several figures far larger than himself. With a casual wave of his scepter, he struck his target, and Angron saw blood and fangs spray from the air of the demon soldier whose face had been hit by the tip of his scepter.

Angron had met the Imperial Regent, Macardo, but that was at the Council of Nicaea; he had never met Macardo in private.

This is a person with a warlike bloodline.

Anglong made his judgment.

Trapped in the illusion for hundreds, thousands, or even thousands of years, the two Primarchs were clearly not in their best condition. Macador's team escorted them, and the two Primarchs didn't even have to do much.

Makado and Jin led the way, with the Great Sage's firepower platforms fully activated, while Makado was responsible for striking hard against the crimson demon army emerging from the gunpowder smoke.

Flames burned on Macado's scepter, flames that seemed to come alive with the old man's swings—no, his swings—precisely branding permanent marks onto each unfortunate member of the demon army.

Angron believes that Makado is by no means the sinister and treacherous minister he is rumored to be—at least, the treacherous ministers in people's minds would not use such a direct and brutal method of attack.

With Makado's guidance and lead the way, they quickly reunited with the Death Guards who had come to their rescue.

Angron was pleased to see that among the white-helmeted warriors were rescued World Eaters.

Guilliman was pleased to see that none of the deepest warriors were Ultra Warriors—

He wasn't sure if the "ultramen" he encountered were still in his team.

Although the Death Guards didn't seem to welcome Macado, they appeared to be forced to stick close to him and fight alongside the old man.

As the group gradually entered the territory they controlled, the demonic tide began to recede, and Makado, who had been silent all along, suddenly spoke.

"How is Mortarian?"

The two Primarchs paused, Guilliman and Angron exchanging a glance, noticing the surprise in each other's eyes. Mortalian—Macragh was also in trouble?!

The Death Guards who followed them answered the question: everything was alright for now; communications had not yet been restored, and they had a three-hour communication delay with the ground.

Makado took a deep breath and looked at the two disheveled Primarchs who had just escaped danger.

“I was prepared to support Mortalian—not you…”

The old man said through gritted teeth,

"Because the subspace prophecy here clearly points to him."

Great!

Chapter 443 Motalian is also in despair today.

Mortarian awoke in a state of despair and fainting.

No surprise.

Motalian thought numbly as he sat up from the ruins, rubble falling from his body.

Through his blurred vision, he saw a vast, vibrant forest. He was in a clearing in the dense woods, and he saw creatures flitting about among the trees.

The good news is that they can't come over for the time being.

Mortarian quickly checked his current condition.

Wet blood trickled down his forehead, and he felt a slight sense of suffocation. The gas mask that Mortarian was wearing had been hit by shrapnel from the phosphorescent bomb and was no longer of any use.

Unable to be repaired, the Lord of Death decisively removed the gas mask. The sharp shard that had pierced through the mask even pierced his face, leaving a clearly visible bloodstain across the corner of his mouth.

He took off his mask, and a strong, fishy stench immediately hit my nose.

Mortarian took out bandages, pulled out a few bottles from the unbroken jars at his waist, poured them onto the bandages, and then wrapped the bandages around his mouth and nose.

From the moment he removed his mask to the moment he put it back on, only a few seconds had passed, but the stench had already given the wound around Mortarian's mouth an unnatural sheen.

Mortarian only hoped that worms wouldn't grow on the wound—meaning he would have to be exposed to the gas again to treat it.

His vision had returned. He gripped his scythe tightly and looked down to see that he was in the middle of a broken altar.

The dark altar cracked open, oozing pus, and seven corpses collapsed on it, with gravel from the Makulag Hospital scattered on top of them.

This is clearly not Makula.

Mortarian realized that this was a teleportation array.

He was transported to a godforsaken place, and Mortarion sincerely hoped it wasn't the Warp—it shouldn't be, since the veil hadn't been so thin at that time.

So... from the very beginning, the enemy's plan was to teleport him away, freeing him from his Death Guard.

Instead of attacking Makula.

He was the enemy's target.

Mortarian wanted to take a deep breath to calm his turbulent emotions, but his instincts stopped him; the habit he had developed on Barbarossa had taught him to try not to breathe.

His breathing was shallow and slow, like someone on the verge of death in a deep coma.

A rustling sound came from the woods, and damp rain vapor drifted through the air.

Mortarian gripped his scythe tightly, the blade flashing coldly. He stared intently at the other end, slightly bowing, ready to harvest at any moment.

Mortarian swore that it was the most blasphemous being he had ever seen, the one that disgusted him the most.

The bloated body slowly emerged, its entire form resembling a giant that had been submerged in water for a long time. Its skin was a pale, decaying green, and its abdomen had a huge mouth large enough to swallow three mortals, with rotten yellow teeth sticking out.

Generous one, Rothigs Rainfather.

It bowed comically, as if to show respect to Mortarian.

"We look forward to your return,"

"Everything here is prepared for you, and you can enjoy it at any time,"

"you--"

A wisp of smoke rose from the pistol in Mortarion's hand, and the Lord of Death stared expressionlessly at Rain Father, whose stomach was blooming with blood.

Mortarian pondered whether he should engage in close combat or remain silent and observe—even with his overwhelming hatred and fighting spirit.

But the thought of fighting a pile of vomit that could explode at any moment slowed Mortarian's actions.

"All right,"

The rain father finally gave up on his seven-word opening, and the gash on the demon's belly quickly flipped back, instantly showing no signs of injury.

“You should go back to your loving family, Mortalian.”

The great demon said sadly, even squeezing out two drops of pus-filled tears from beside its tiny, bean-sized eyes.

The demon's greasy words licked at him, and Mortalian felt goosebumps rise on his skin. What was that bastard saying? Mortalian couldn't understand a single word.

“Everyone in the garden misses you. You would have been His good child—it’s not too late to come back now.”

Rainfather said slowly, disliking these words. They should have been spoken by Plaguefather Kugas, who was on good terms with Mortarion, while Rainfather favored Karas.

But now... Karas, whom it itself gave wings to, has gone astray, and the Plague Father...

Rain Father shuddered imperceptibly, and the fat on its body rippled outwards.

It doesn't know if any of the unfortunate ones are still "alive," and the plague father might already be—

Even just thinking about it sent a chill down Yu's father's spine. Absurd, utterly absurd. When did the concept of "death" come to befall a demon?

It's dead!

It died in that monster's territory!

This is not the "death" that a benevolent father governs; it doesn't even qualify as death.

Even if the Rain Father's consciousness is halted, it shouldn't dwell on it too much. The Plague Father will reappear—the Compassionate Father will reunite the concept of the [Plague] and grant it new life.

Currently, the concepts of "plague" and "disease" are temporarily vacant. They can use them through nearby concepts, but they do not own them.

Some of the concepts that the compassionate father originally held have also been left vacant.

The loving Father is regrouping them, which leads to a loss of His energy, so He focuses on only one.

That one of His favorite children, Mortarian.

The rain father realized he was still talking to him, so he forced a smile and tried to make Mortalian realize that this was a warm and harmonious family.

Mortarian stared silently at Rain Father, believing that no matter how he fought, the demon's bodily fluids would inevitably splatter onto him.

With the armor slightly damaged, this was the last thing Mortarion wanted to see.

Mortarian remained silent, feeling an itch from the wound on his lip. He was now isolated and helpless on an entire enemy planet.

First, he cannot surrender, for surrender means corruption, and means the fate he witnessed that day.

Secondly, he cannot die, for death would mean surrender, and his soul would be imprisoned in this subspace, becoming a permanent slave to the enemy.

Finally, he must, while satisfying the first two points, fight against his enemies as much as possible and harm them.

Mortarian was a pessimist; he didn't believe anyone would come to his rescue at this moment, neither Angron nor Guilliman were capable of resolving such a situation.

As for the Empire's true anti-psychic expert... Mortarian gave a wry smile that barely betrayed his true feelings.

He could roughly imagine what Hades would ultimately face—but Hades was still alive, otherwise Hades wouldn't have—

【no way,】

The Lord of Death's hoarse voice rang out, faint and almost silent.

In the name of Hades, I will remain loyal to humanity.

Respond to him.

Mortarian was pleased to see the demon let out a terrifying scream.

But then—

"That monster! It's dead! Dead! Humanity is beyond saving!"

The father's bloated body instantly turned into a puddle of pus, seeping into the soil, and as the father disappeared, the extremely foul-smelling raindrops began to fall.

Mortarian heard the sound of corrosion on his armor.

died?

Perhaps he should have realized it long ago, so why was he still deceiving himself? Mortarian thought, as he saw the figures of those Space Marines appearing in the forest, bulky and slow.

died?

Mortarian asked himself, then why was he still able to gain power through prayer?

"It might be a lie," Mortarian thought, "but even if it were true, he couldn't afford to be swayed or hesitant by his enemy's words now."

He hasn't seen Hades' body yet... Is he really dead? Or... can Hades see his body?

The rain suddenly intensified, with large raindrops pelting Mortarian's hood and instantly corroding the fabric. The stinging water droplets streaked across his face, and Mortarian heard the sound of flesh being eroded.

The makeshift gas bandages were instantly destroyed.

Mortarian breathed, his body's defense system began to work, operating beyond its limits, as if in mourning.

He is now alone on a planet prepared for him by his enemy, his armor and mask utterly vulnerable.

The poison gas we use now is far more deadly than the gas used on Barbarossa back then.

Motarian gasped for breath, a deep, profound sense of despair climbing up his heart, gnawing at his flesh like maggots.