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

Page 364

What did you also feel?

Angron turned his head and saw Mortarian staring intently at him, the pancake in his hand trembling, the sunlight shimmering on the light cream.

Angron nodded, and Mortalian let out a hissing sound as he breathed. Now Angron was beginning to suspect that Mortalian might actually have some kind of respiratory illness.

He saw the flatbread corpse in Mortalian's hand let out a silent scream. Even though the Lord of Death was motionless and expressionless, the flatbread had been crushed and the filling had spilled out.

Are you still going to eat?

Angron suddenly asked, looking at Mortarian who seemed lost in thought, and then instinctively handed him the pancake.

This proves that Mortarian hasn't recovered yet.

Angron gave a simple thank you, then finished it in one bite. Desserts always brought him a good mood, and he grinned.

Angron stood up and patted Mortarian.

I felt that he had successfully eliminated another enemy of the empire.

Anglong said,

I was planning to attend the award ceremony the Empire was giving him, but then this mess happened on the way.

Mortarian slowly stood up; now he looked more like a tall, thin straw.

You don't have to be so hypocritical...

The Lord of Death spoke, his voice hoarse.

Death Guardians never shirk their own death, nor do we mourn it.

Mortarian took a deep breath.

"...I only hope that we can get to the battlefield as soon as possible."

Here,

Mortarian gazed into the distance, the pure blue of Macurag reflected in his eyes, mingling with the green of Barbarossa.

Lingering or resting here is disrespectful to the deceased.

Motalian said.

Meanwhile, Guilliman pondered whether the third-person pronoun mentioned by the two Primarchs was Hades, and what exactly "feeling" meant.

Oh dear, I have an exam tonight, so it's a little later than usual.

I'll try to cover as much as possible, because the Great Rebellion doesn't involve the main storyline, so I can't jump too quickly. Explaining it in a few sentences feels a bit rushed, but not jumping ahead would strain my production capacity.

The main character's major rebellion has a big plot to go on, it's not just about to drop to 40k.

Chapter 428 Version Update

"I'm very sorry."

Hades spread his hands, and rough, scarlet cracks climbed up his breastplate, radiating an unsettling red light from the inside out, like the final cracks when ceramic shatters.

"Failed,"

Hades said the voice sounded like the whispers of a ghost in the dead of night, or like the desperate cries of someone across the distant coastline.

Mortarian felt only coldness, then the suffocating feeling that gripped him, the nightmare that forever haunted his soul, the pain that made it impossible to breathe.

Hades stared at him, expressionless.

He was no longer the commander Mortarian knew; he was more like his original self, his eyes fixed on Mortarian. In a daze, Mortarian remembered seeing those eyes in the fog of Barbarus, through greasy isolation goggles.

But he is no longer the same person he once was. He has walked countless roads and crossed countless rivers; only he knows the hardships of those rugged paths and the depths of those turbulent rivers.

"I failed in my duty,"

Hades' voice seemed to come from the deepest part of the ocean.

"Billions of lives will perish, demigods will fall into darkness, and I could not stop it all. I calculated everything, but I did not foresee that they would change their goals."

"Death, I have not yet finished the journey I was meant to take."

Mortalian let out a dying scream from his lungs, coughing fitfully. He tried to speak, but his lungs and throat, devoid of air, prevented him from making a sound.

He wanted to say, "Hades, screw your bullshit! Even that damned emperor didn't fight as hard as you."

He wanted to say that if anyone had ever successfully slapped the warp, it could only be you, Hades, it could only be you!

He wanted to say, you have finished the road you were about to travel, and the rest, he, Mortarian, would walk the rest of the road, even if it meant death!

Hades, tell him who did it, tell him what your life's desire was, tell him the things you didn't have time to do, tell him! Tell him!!

Let him go slap that damn subspace!

Mortarian struggled frantically, the familiar feeling of suffocation gripping his throat. He fought desperately against the pain, but the invisible enemy gave him no chance to resist.

Hades!

Mortarian roared, frantically clawing at any opportunity, "Pluto, Pluto! Answer him, answer him!!"

The cold, lifeless waters of the River Styx slowly rose, the flowing water brushing against the armor of the Lord of Death, seeping into the gaps in the armor, and the air bubbled and rose, passing by Mortarion's eyes, floating unrestrained towards the distant waters.

He sank into the River Styx...

—Pluto, answer him! Answer Mortarion!

In the still darkness, crimson shimmered.

“Motalian,”

"Be careful, fate is starting to turn back."

Mortarion snapped his eyes open. The Lord of Death was gasping for breath. He ripped off his gas mask, and the fresh air from Macurag stung his respiratory tract. He almost collapsed, the last words from his dream buzzing in his ears.

He looked up, the blinding light almost bringing tears to his eyes. He turned his head and saw Angron leaning over from the desk, pressing down hard on one of his shoulders.

Angron was frowning, looking at him with extreme concern.

Mortarian let out a gasp like a tuberculosis patient on the verge of death.

【fine,】

Motalian said, taking a deep breath, his breathing becoming even again, the morning light shining on him, dust motes dancing in the air.

It was just a nightmare.

"[Nightmare,]" Angron said, slowly releasing his grip on Mortarion's hand.

Are you sure that was really a dream?

【Yes. 】

Motalian said he put his gas mask back on, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Killieman, shocked, in the document room, his quill pen trembling.

When will Makado arrive?

"Motalian asked abruptly," Guillman replied, slowly shaking his head.

It may take some more time.

...Motalian recalled those words. Motalian knew his own fate, so...what would be the fate of Guilliman, or rather, Macragge?

The already disrupted destinies began to mix together, concocting an even more potent poison.

------

"finally reached……"

Pharmacist Radon breathed heavily, spores spraying from his respirator. Nurgles frolicked at his feet, and he bent down to touch their heads.

"Dear Father, wish me success in guiding my lost and rebellious son back to the right path."

He spoke, panting, and the Space Marines beside him moved away in disgust, even though the distance between them was considerable enough that the spores swirling in the air coalesced into pretty little sprays.

"All right,"

Radon said,

"The seven Blessers are in place. Thanks to Guilliman's mercy, it is now easy to enter Ottaramar."

The blue-armored Space Marine chuckled. Rodan couldn't distinguish them, but all he needed to know was that they had reached an agreement with him.

How strange… Radon thought. They seemed to think they were doing the right thing. Did they even know what the right thing was?

"The Lord of Macurag is too arrogant. His empire is riddled with holes in our eyes. The infiltration is complete. He has already lost."

Radon nodded, then suddenly remembered a question.

Are you all in cahoots?

His voice faded into the wind, and no one answered.

Radon sighed, feeling the scars growing on his ailing body, knowing full well that those he had worked with were not competent.

At least, he still hasn't figured out how many of them there are.

--------

Seven curled up in the crowded throng. The slums in Herion were cramped and dark, with only one light hanging from the ceiling, casting a swaying white glow.

He came from an agricultural world and was supposed to travel by ship to visit his cousins ​​in the world of Nest City, but during the voyage, the starlight went out.

Seven found it hard to describe what exactly happened at that moment. The entire spaceship was violently shaking, and then it plunged into an endless night. It was the first time he realized that the Geller force field outside the ship could also make a sound similar to breaking glass.

Then chaos erupted. People in the lower cabins cried loudly, jostled and pushed each other, and someone shouted something, but it wasn't Low Gothic, which Seven couldn't quite understand.

Time seemed to have passed for a long time, yet it also seemed to have passed in an instant, since time anchoring in the warp was achieved through the Star Torch.

Seven was finally awakened by a crew member's loud shouts. He groggily awoke from the sweaty crowd and was told that the ship had found its way back and that the great Lord Macragge had saved them!

Then came a long, bumpy ride, and with a feeling of hunger and deprivation, he was jostled by the crowd into the Hellion orbital platform above Macurag. He was crammed into the Hellion immigration hall with hundreds of thousands of other refugees, waiting for the moment he would be allowed to pass.

Seven felt an itch under the curly hair at the back of his head. He scratched it impatiently with his hand. He raised his hand and saw traces of dirty blood embedded in his dirty fingernails.

Seven cursed under his breath. Coming from an agricultural world, he knew exactly what was happening; his body was lacking essential vitamins, and it had warned him of it.

He reached his hand behind his head again and, under his disheveled hair, he could vaguely feel three lumps growing together.

They were like living things.

Beep be ...

Chapter 429 The Winner is Guilliman

There's always a lot going on for Robert Guilliman, especially now.

Papers piled up in his office like an avalanche, and two command boards were even broken from being pressed down. Information flooded in like a tsunami, from the deployment of legions to the placement of refugee ships.

Due to the sheer number of refugees, Guilliman had to urgently allocate four more spaceports to accommodate them, while simultaneously expediting the screening and release of refugees.

If it were anyone else, or even another Primarch, they would be overwhelmed by these countless complicated and tedious documents.

But he is the Lord of Maclaga, Robert Guilliman. You can question the working speed of anyone else in this universe, but you cannot question Robert Guilliman.

Guilliman put down his pen and finished reviewing.

He put down his pen with satisfaction, feeling a profound sense of joy at completing his work. Killieman picked up his tea and began to savor it.

He now has seventeen minutes and thirty-six seconds of rest time. Next, intelligence from the eastern part of the 500th world of Otramar will arrive. Three minutes later, the security data for Macurag will also be updated, followed by the legion's deployment...

As Guilliman sipped his tea, he stared expressionlessly at the two Primarchs sprawled on the sofa across from his desk.

Angron was asleep, his head tilted back against the sofa, his relaxed muscles rising and falling with his breath.

Meanwhile, Mortarian bent over, carefully examining the map of Otrama placed on the low table, occasionally circling and marking it with his pen.

Seeing movement from Guilliman's side, Mortalian raised his eyes from the shadows.

The two stared at each other in silence, when Angron, who was fast asleep, let out a perfectly timed snore.

Killieman took a deep breath.

【Excuse me,】

Killieman said politely,

You two can go kill time elsewhere.

He watched as Mortarian slowly raised one eyebrow.