*The Endurance, Interrogation Room.*
*Now.*
The interrogation room, though small, felt vast. The blinding lights attempted to illuminate every corner, but shadows still lurked. It wasn't man pursuing knowledge, but knowledge chasing after man, consuming those who dared to understand it.
The Primarch sat at the cold interrogation table, contemplating everything.
Heavy, almost suffocating breaths echoed, interrupted by the laboring of a gas mask.
Mortarion sat, his hood completely concealing the only eyes through which he viewed the world.
Despair and fear were his cage and chains.
Confusion, terror, terror, terror. He felt as if he was pinned atop the steepest cliff of Barbarus, with carrion birds pecking at his flesh.
The gaze of the Almighty never wavered from him. He was the chosen unfortunate, the blessed one.
The master of the garden loved his toy.
He... he was His... No, no, no!!
He was Mortarion, the liberator of Barbarus, the leader of the Fourteenth Legion. He wasn't one of those beings. He wasn't!
He was human!
Mortarion clung desperately to his identity. He was still here, nothing had happened yet, he hadn't been taken—
Despair, a feeling He relished.
He blinked.
Mortarion stood still, the dim light of The Endurance slowly revealing the bodies at his feet. Bacteria grew, viruses celebrated.
No Space Marine held their post. Disease had taken them, countless growths of decay proliferated within them.
Swollen bodies, tightly bound in power armor, pus seeping from the seams. Mortarion wondered if their spasms were pathological or a desperate attempt to grasp their fate.
"Father."
Father!
The towering Primarch bent down, pain and weakness evident. The plague was consuming him too.
"Father... kill me, please kill me."
He gently reached out, removing his power armor glove, his pale skeletal hand gently resting on his progeny's neck.
"I'm sorry."
Death was Mortarion's final mercy.
Yet, the power of the Reaper was stolen.
He never truly understood death.
The neck twisted at an unnatural angle, no blood, just a semi-opaque fluid seeping out. He wasn't dead, no, he was already a corpse, trapped in his own body.
He looked at him with hazy eyes, his throat emitting a raspy cry.
No, no! Don't look at me like that!
Mortarion rose, almost fleeing.
He was a coward. He abandoned his progeny, his warriors. He was powerless.
The endless torment seemed eternal.
He gave up. Surrender, kneel, give his progeny a tomorrow.
Mortarion stood there, gasping for breath, despair cloaking him in a black mantle. He was merely alive, utterly desolate—
No. No, Father, don't kneel. Don't!
Don't kneel, you promised to liberate us all!!!
Father, Father, Father!
Mortarion!
A burning sensation returned.
The Primarch opened his eyes, the blinding light piercing them. Mortarion blinked in confusion.
Was it an illusion? The future? Or reality?
Hades looked at him.
"Are you alright, Mortarion?"
Mortarion ignored him, the Primarch rose as if sleepwalking, the chair screeching on the floor.
Father, Father, Father!!!
Mortarion shook his head, walking aimlessly towards the door.
Hades quickly followed, discreetly touching Mortarion. Thankfully, his soul was still blindingly pure.
But why did he suddenly rise? What had Mortarion just seen?
When Hades followed Mortarion out, he instantly knew the answer.
The narrow corridor connected to the interrogation room was now a sea of pale green.
People. All of them.
Kneeling people.
Kneeling Barbarians.
Those who had glimpsed the truth.
"Do not kneel."
Mortarion's raspy voice echoed, causing ripples in the narrow corridor.
But no one heeded him.
Countless Death Guard, fully armored, knelt on one knee. Their bolters, meltaguns, and chain scythes silently breathing.
When Hades spoke of the sub-space beings, the despair Mortarion felt, the illusions he saw, slowly seeped through his connection with the Death Guard.
They saw that "future."
To some extent, Mortarion and the entire Death Guard saw the Legion's ultimate fate.
Decaying amidst filth.
Some Terran veterans could restrain themselves, trembling in place. But those who had been with Mortarion since the liberation of Barbarus immediately dropped their training and ran over.
They felt the Primarch's despair.
"Stand up, do not kneel!"
Mortarion roared, the sound exploding in the corridor.
The kneeling knees did not move.
Space Marines have an inseparable, soulful connection with their Primarch.
Especially when a Space Marine genuinely reveres and adores their Primarch.
The emotions and state of the Primarch are something every Space Marine can faintly perceive.
Balasin stood guard at the end of the corridor. Just moments ago, The Endurance felt like a swamp filled with flesh. Despair and disease spread everywhere.
But the illusion quickly vanished, leaving only the cold walls of The Endurance.
Balasin was the first Death Guard to snap back. His heart was filled with suffocating pain and despair.
Realizing what might happen next, Balasin immediately ordered all non-essential crew to return to their quarters on alert.
Then he contacted the hardline veterans to replace the Death Guard's defense.
The massive emotional upheaval of the Primarch even drew some Terran-born to the scene. They didn't kneel but stood at the edges, like guarding knights.
The Primarch's shout echoed, but no one left.
Was it a silent plea or a desperate cry for help?
Or both?
The Primarch suddenly turned, slamming the interrogation room door shut, quickly returning to his seat, covering his eyes in despair.
Seeing the scene in the corridor, Hades swallowed hard.
Not just Mortarion, but the entire Legion connected to him received the Primarch's recent vision.
He seemed to have caused a significant problem.
But... Hades wondered, he didn't remember being so careless.
No, now wasn't the time for self-doubt.
"Mortarion?"
Hades cautiously inquired.
Mortarion grunted weakly.
He knew why his progeny knelt. They were begging him not to kneel.
Begging him to stand, to lead them.
He... he couldn't.
Just like the weak child thrown off the cliff by Necare.
The sensation of the Death Guard's neck still lingered on his hand.
"Mortarion, let me continue what I know."
Hades's ill-timed words were urgent and sincere.
"The sub-space beings are not invincible. They're trapped in the laws of sub-space, while the physical world repels them."
"Compared to physical combat, they're more adept at mentally deceiving humans. As long as one maintains a firm mind and rational thinking, they won't easily be swayed by these beings."
"And even the sub-space
beings in the physical world can be defeated by destroying their bodies and banishing them back to sub-space."
"We can try to fight them. They're not unbeatable."
Mortarion remained still.
"That vision... what was it?"
Hades swallowed hard.
"It was an illusion."
"But if we remain complacent... it will be our future."
Is that so?
Mortarion always considered himself a materialist, but everything that just happened, the sudden illusion, the overwhelming despair...
"You knew all along?"
Mortarion's sudden question made Hades shudder.
"Yes. I... I've seen such visions too."
Mortarion glanced at Hades, then lowered his gaze.
"Why did you follow me then? Follow a Legion destined to be consumed?"
This last comrade who climbed the peak with him, Hades, if you knew everything on the Emperor's Dream, why didn't you leave?
Hades remained silent.
"Because I know the future isn't set in stone. We can still seize the present."
"Maybe we're destined not to save everything, but at least, we can save ourselves."
Mortarion looked up at Hades.
"So you sought the Think Tank, right?"
Hades stood firm.
"Yes."
"We can still do something."
"Before everything happens."
*Terra, The Palace.*
*Just now.*
Countless tasks flooded in. He sat in his wooden chair, monitoring various data, checking numerous documents, then categorizing this vast stream of information, packaging them into different information packets, stamping his emblem, and sending them out.
It was a workload unimaginable to others, but the elderly man was diligent.
However—
"Bang!"
A doll on the bookshelf behind him suddenly exploded.
The noise made the elder turn sharply, the complex flow of information instantly interrupted, bottlenecked.
The pure black painted doll had cracked.
Malcador sighed.
Emperor, my lord, my dear friend, did you really not choose wrongly?
He had never seen a Legion falter during its integration period.
The complex flow of information resumed, and Malcador sighed again, sending out a special edict from the Palace.
***Thank you for subscribing, happy reading
I did my best with these two chapters... wrote all day, so many discarded drafts.***