Barbarus, the southern marshes, Mortar Village.
It was the third year since Hades's arrival in the south.
Mortarion stood in the dilapidated courtyard, holding up a man who was about to kneel before him.
The man was hunched, old, and blind. One eye was foggy white, while the other was filled with tears.
In that tearful eye, Mortarion saw a mix of emotions: fear, unease, gratitude. The man was on the verge of choking up.
"Do not kneel," Mortarion whispered.
"You have been enslaved for too long. This should have ended long ago."
He looked at the trembling villagers in the courtyard, raising his voice slightly. Yet, even then, Mortarion's voice was as soft as a wisp in the wind.
"I offer you a new path."
"Join us! If you lack weapons, we will forge them for you. If you lack armor, we will craft it. Stand, all of you!"
"There's no need to fear sorcery any longer!"
"Join us."
The villagers listened in terror to this stranger. He was tall and gaunt, like a reaper swaying in the wind.
His words seemed magical, each filled with inspiring power. Yet, his tone was gentle, reminiscent of a lullaby a mother might sing.
But most of the humans here were utterly consumed by fear. They were broken, submissive, unable to think of anything beyond their immediate surroundings.
Even with the stranger's words of hope, memories of a brighter future, of change, of leaving, had been forgotten.
The village leader, named Regan, cautiously looked up at the stranger holding his hand.
Those amber eyes stared back, looking at a man small and ugly, completely overtaken by fear.
"Sir, we are eternally grateful. But the fields here must be replanted."
He shrugged timidly, as if expecting a harsh punishment for his refusal.
But nothing happened.
Those hands still held him gently, those eyes devoid of disdain or contempt. They just looked at him, then at the villagers behind Regan.
Then he let go.
"Very well, the choice has been made."
Mortarion nodded, putting his hood back on.
He picked up his scythe, turned, and disappeared into the mist.
Within the fog, Mortarion watched the young man stumble and run through the toxic mists.
The further from the village, the more lethal the poison.
After his departure, the young man left the village, following the trail of scythe marks Mortarion intentionally left behind.
"Let's see your determination, your resilience," Mortarion thought silently.
A disturbance came from the other side of the fog. Mortarion glanced over, then resumed his initial posture.
"It's him. It's been a while."
As Mortarion observed the young man, his thoughts drifted to the past.
Most of the northern strongholds had been taken, except for the region near his foster father, Nakray. The other northern lords had been slain.
The main northern stronghold was busy producing and consolidating its territory. The attack on his foster father, Nakray, would have to wait.
But the progress of the Death Guard was much faster than Mortarion had anticipated.
The key to this rapid progress was the south.
Initially, Mortarion had only sent a vanguard to protect the local people and organize an armed resistance.
But first, Hades alone held off the southern lords' attacks, providing a foundation for cooperation with other villages.
Then, with Hades's help, they acquired the technology to produce cannons and siege hammers.
With the support of long-range heavy firepower, this Death Guard vanguard successfully attacked and occupied the lords' territories.
In the Death Guard's battles, the mission to eliminate the southern lords went exceptionally smoothly. They didn't even need Mortarion's help.
Mortarion's visit this time was just to inspect the southern Death Guard and see if there was anything he could do.
But after hearing Tifon's report, he realized that Tifon was even more competent than he had imagined. He led the Death Guard to liberate most of the southern regions.
Now, only two or three strongholds remained.
Mortarion had no role in this.
He wouldn't directly ask Tifon to hand over leadership. He wasn't a tyrant like his foster father. He gave his subordinates enough space to grow and earn their own glory.
Moreover, he and Tifon were friends.
So Mortarion let Tifon continue leading in the south, while he went to visit the small villages that had been intentionally overlooked due to their location.
Just like in the beginning, Mortarion killed the monsters attacking the villages and then entered the villages to persuade.
Thinking about this, Mortarion unconsciously frowned.
Abandoning these peripHerillal villages to attack or integrate larger human strongholds was an efficient strategy. Tifon was smart.
But it shouldn't be this way.
Every potential rebel fighter should not be overlooked.
So Mortarion came, moving from village to village—
—the young man in the fog fell, struggling in the mud, his limbs twitching as if trying to crawl forward.
A resilient child.
This young man never looked back.
He never thought of retreating.
Mortarion thought as he quickly approached, pulling out a wool mask soaked in herbal liquor.
He went over, gently lifting the young man from the dirty ground, pressing the wool mask to the young man's face, looking at a resilient fighter.
"If you don't turn back, it will continue to be this painful."
Mortarion whispered softly,
"It's painful. Are you strong enough?"
The young man struggled to breathe, anger and defiance squeezing him. His breathing became dangerously rapid—
"Make me strong enough."
After squeezing out these words, the young man finally passed out, completely entrusting himself to Mortarion. Of course, he trusted this stranger who had been in his life for less than two hours.
Mortarion expertly carried the young man, retracing his steps.
There was no need to worry about the young man. With a mask to filter the poison, this Barbarus native would be fine soon.
Sometimes, all the resilient people of Barbarus needed was a breath of clean air.
The thick layers of white fog continuously tugged at Mortarion's robes, futilely trying to keep the reaper in place.
Unperturbed by the mists, Mortarion's steps never faltered.
But when he reached a depression where the fog thinned, Mortarion stopped, looking in that direction—
From the dense fog in the distance, a figure emerged.
It was his old friend, Hades.
*This chapter was inspired by the short story of Barbarus native Death Guard Vorkx, "Horus Heresy - Unity".*
*Yes, that young man is Vorkx! (A famous Death Guard, who later became a plague marine)