90 Chapter 90: Side Story 4.1 - You Call Yourself Mortarion?!

*Warning: This chapter depicts a confrontation between the Death Guard of this story's timeline and the Death Guard from the original Warhammer 40K lore.*

*Note: This is a practice chapter, focusing on fleet warfare. It might not be logically consistent and the protagonist's power level might be inconsistent. This is a side story and doesn't affect the main plot. It's a long chapter.*

In this grim age, the Primarchs are no more, and mankind struggles to establish faith in the false Emperor.

In a state between dream and wakefulness, a vague pain envelops him.

He grows like a plant, slowly sprouting in the garden of the Scythe of Death, a ship shrouded in darkness.

Moss and bodily fluids surround him, devoid of the chattering creatures whose shrill laughter he despises.

Like him, his progeny sleep, lost in this endless dream, allowing the Scythe of Death to carry them into the distance.

A warm light gradually illuminates, the ship slightly trembles, and the gentle winds of the warp brush the fine scales of his wings.

Reluctantly, Mortarion opens his eyes. Above him, towering like a communication mast, is the Lantern of Silence, imprisoning the soul of Nurgle. It screams.

"Release me, Mortarion! Kill me! Kill me!!"

The lamentations of his father improve Mortarion's mood. With a wave of his hand, the murky, fluid-covered viewport clears, revealing the next target of the Reaper.

Time to bestow the benevolence of the Plague Father upon mortals.

However, beyond the viewport, a fleet drifts slowly.

Mortarion's eyes widen, his vision obscured by a white mucus. The *Endurance*! It's intact, pure, and unblemished.

A trickle of pus seeps from the gaps in his breathing mask. He coughs, struggling to breathe. How is this possible? How?!

"Attack," Mortarion murmurs.

"All units, go stealth. Block all communications."

Oh, Plague Father, let us hide in the embrace of death.

"All ships, form up around the Scythe of Death. Fourth Knight and My Dying Daughter, take point."

"Vox, lead your Silent Host to the frontmost ship."

Is this a gift from the Plague Father? Or is this still a dream?

The light cruisers on the fleet's perimeter are the first to detect the enemy.

But it's too late. The enemy's fleet, arranged in a triangular formation, emerges from the warp, tearing through the fleet.

The roar of plasma engines fills space, their metallic sheen swallowed by mucus. The corrupted flagship, heavy yet accelerated to its limits, suddenly appears on the radar!

The Death Guard warships on the outer layer react swiftly. Countless torpedoes lock onto their targets, illuminating the void with their detonations.

Nova cannons, pre-deployed on the fleet's perimeter, unleash their fury, tearing the heavens.

Enemy ships are destroyed, debris scattering everywhere. Large fragments become burning meteors. An unprecedented misty fluid disrupts the entire space!

The Death Guard's fierce firepower only manages to destroy the outermost cruisers of the enemy fleet. The Fourth Knight in the center of the fleet continues to accelerate, its pointed prow targeting the side of the *Endurance*.

Mortarion stands at the altar's center, surrounded by his Deathshroud. He senses the naive souls aboard.

Death, grant me mercy.

Mortarion stands in the command room, fury burning within.

Are the cruisers patrolling around the *Endurance* just for show?!

The sudden appearance of a familiar enemy flagship, the ominous feeling it brings, the green vegetation clinging to its hull, the pervasive mucus... It's all too familiar.

The enemy fleet continues to accelerate. There's no time left.

The *Endurance* must be the top priority.

"*Endurance*, turn and face the enemy."

"Maximize void shields and gravity fields."

There's no time to accelerate.

"Ships, close ranks. *Finality* and *My Dying Daughter*, move to intercept the enemy's path. Face them head-on, maximize void shield power, and engine output."

"Cruisers, charge."

If the enemy chooses to sacrifice their outer ships to ensure their attack, then he can also choose to sacrifice his ships.

Mortarion smiles. His past self still relies on such outdated tactics?

Bright explosions scatter throughout the dense fleet. Numerous ships shatter, but they successfully slow down the spear aimed at the heart of the Death Guard.

However...

"We're close enough," Mortarion murmurs.

Even with the disparity in forces, it doesn't matter. The plague and disease will choose their master.

Psychic energy explodes!

The once bustling hall is now empty, save for the plummeting temperature and frost.

Green and flesh spread like tumors in the lower corridors of the *Endurance*.

Lights go out one by one, leaving only a humming echo.

Fog begins to spread.

No one is spared.

Mortal crew members collapse, retching, soon becoming part of the growing flesh in the corridors.

A light shines through the fog, casting an eerie green hue.

He sees it.

With every step, Mortarion sees a different past.

Hades?

Absurd. Utterly absurd.

A dry smile forms beneath his mask.

Do you still think anyone trusts you?

Do you still think you can trust anyone?

No one truly wants to stand by you, Mortarion. You're not worth choosing.

Except for the Plague Father, everyone has abandoned you.

They only crave your power, your wealth. Betrayal is your inherent tragedy. The more trust you place, the more pain you feel.

Calas Typhon. He savors the name. But his Calas is no longer Calas Typhon. He's Typhus now. After betraying Mortarion, he received his reward.

After betraying him!

After sacrificing him and his legion!

Mortarion!

Even Calas has turned his back on you. What do you hope for?

You weakling.

You've just replaced one traitor with another.

He will betray you, I swear.

Mortarion will catch the next traitor and let another version of himself taste the poison of betrayal.

Bells toll, echoing in the dark depths of the *Endurance*. The plague and he arrive together.

Mortarion grips Silence, the tall Primarch now standing in the *Endurance*'s grand hall. Behind him, countless Terran veterans don their armor.

The areas destroyed to halt the enemy's advance burn fiercely.

He sees it. Is that...

The future?

A body ravaged by plague, a cursed bloated pale form, mucus seeping from the gaps in the power armor, and grotesque tattered wings sprouting from the back.

Is that his fallen self?

Mortarion feels a tightness in his chest, a faint stench permeating the air. The touch of his scythe, Silence, fades.

"Mortarion?"

"Mortarion, considering we're on a light cruiser, we could still escape, right?"

A familiar voice, with its odd suggestions, brings Mortarion back to the present.

He takes

a deep breath.

"No, it's fate. I realize we must face it."

Wearing Terminator armor, the current Deathshroud Hades blinks. So, if he runs now, would he make it?

However, an intangible malice stares him down.

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There's more to come... This is probably a side story, updated weekly (?)

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