73: The End of Silence (V)

Death arrived as promised, without the slightest delay.

It descended upon the bridge of the Endurance, accompanied by Typhus's loud laughter, as if it were a proclamation. But Typhus —that blood-soaked traitor—showed no sign of unease.

Infected zombies surged forth from behind him, including ordinary crew members and Death Guard. The plague became visible, boiling in the eyes of the Deathshroud and the Primarch.

Mortarion swung the Silence, its terrifying blade whirling like a harvester, instantly decapitating several swaying zombies. The helmets covering their heads slowly fell to the ground, splattering a pool of pus.

Black blood gushed from the wound, and flies eagerly swarmed onto it, feasting on it. The headless corpse slowly fell, and Mortarion strode forward.

The Lord of Death had seen far too many wars; he rarely fought with such fury. The Deathshroud followed closely behind him, like a small boat struggling through a sea of plague.

Typhus watched them with a smile, his eyes cloudy as if he were ill. He coughed, fragments of internal organs and dark liquid gushing from his throat, but he didn't seem to care as he smeared them on his armor, letting his Power Armour become even dirtier.

Mortarion stared at him intently, anger surging within him, but it didn't truly make him lose his mind.

He understood that Typhus must have something to rely on to dare stand there like this—but what was that reliance?

Was it his evil witchcraft, or the victims harmed by his witchcraft?

Primarch slaughtered, he began to think about the battle in the way Karas Typhon thought. He came up with several possible answers, but he ruled them all out one by one. In the end, he even threw the way of thinking aside.

Karas Typhon, a Barbarus, shared his hatred of witchcraft. He was Typhon's right-hand man and comrade-in-arms. Together they had traversed the desolate mountains of Barbarus, fighting for the Imperium and conquering countless worlds.

That person's tactics would never include witchcraft or betrayal.

Therefore, there is no longer Callas Typhon, only Typhus.

Realizing this, Mortarion's expression grew even more grim. Though his thought process was lengthy, his actions were swift. They quickly crossed the Sea of Plague, while Typhus remained standing in place.

The Lord of Death coldly raised the "Lantern" in his hand, and at that moment the muzzle of the energy pistol from the Emperor's private collection burst forth with an extremely bright and intense light.

The white beam of light struck Typhus precisely in the chest, an attack that should have reduced his armor and flesh to nothingness. But Typhus merely let out a scream before straightening up and standing still.

Mortarion stared at him for half a second, then, amidst the overwhelming stench, he put away his Lantern and began to stride forward.

The Deathshroud immediately realized the Primarch's intentions and began clearing away the groans of the groansing patients, not intending to let them interfere with the battle.

The Lord of Death himself walked straight toward Typhus, his steps steady, the blade of his giant scythe eager for blood. In response, Typhus also raised his scythe. The next second, the blades began to clash.

Mortarion held nothing back, each strike aimed to kill Typhus. The latter tried to defend himself, but the difference between the Astartes and the Primarch was immense. In less than four rounds, the Silence had cleaved open his chest.

The Ceramite shattered, flesh and bones were cut open, and the scene exposed inside was like a nightmare that would never be forgotten.

Typhus's gaping chest cavity was filled with countless white worm eggs. His two hearts were like worm nests, riddled with holes from which maggots moved in and out. His spine and sternum had turned into a melting substance, pitch black, dripping with a foul-smelling liquid.

His internal organs had melted away, and pus mixed with fragments gushed out with a "plop" from the wound created by the Silence, hissing and steaming on the deck.

A chill ran down Mortarion's spine—he looked at his former comrade with disgust and bewilderment, the question rising to his lips but he swallowed it back down.

He twisted his wrist, and the scythe swung down again, aiming for Typhus's head. The latter squinted in the stench of decay; death was imminent, yet he still had the strength to force a repulsive smile.

The next second, Mortarion's scythe stopped in mid-air, unable to penetrate any further. Typhus's right hand shot out like lightning and seized it. His strength at that moment was enough to contend with a Primarch, as was his tenacity.

With his chest wide open, the traitor took a slow step forward and burst into laughter.

As his laughter rang out, the Deathshroud that had been fighting suddenly and inexplicably stopped moving, followed by wails and screams.

A series of soft explosions began to emanate from inside the Terminator Armour. Dark liquid seeped out of the Power Armour through the cracks, and the members convulsed and collapsed to the ground, quickly becoming still.

Mortarion watched this scene with a mixture of shock and anger, then suddenly realized something.

"Yes." Typhus' smile faded, replaced by a serious expression as he nodded.

"This isn't the witchcraft you imagine, Mortarion. Witchcraft isn't nearly this powerful. This is the might of the Plague God, the manifestation of the corrupting influence of Nurgle. So you can't win. From the moment I appeared here, your defeat was inevitable."

Mortarion hissed out two curses, then abruptly withdrew his scythe. He looked sadly at his fallen guards, his anger reaching its peak at that moment, and the rebukes flowed naturally from his mouth, no longer stuck in his throat.

"I curse you, you vile traitor! How could you commit murder so easily and naturally?"

"Murder?" Typhus chuckled. "Perhaps you should look more closely; they're not dead."

What?

Mortarion frowned sharply, but out of the corner of his eye, he did catch something strange at that moment.

He wanted to observe more closely, but the next second he heard several consecutive sounds of bones cracking. Then, amidst the screams of the people in their Deathshroud, their bodies began to deform and twist.

A deep green light emanated from the gaps in their armor, and countless flies suddenly appeared, using their mandibles to bite open the supposedly indestructible Terminator and begin to suck their melting flesh and blood.

The air grew increasingly foul, and amidst their screams, they gradually merged into one, becoming a living seedbed.

"Do you understand?" Typhus asked patiently. "The Father isn't as cruel as you imagine. He rarely asks us to kill; He only asks to spread His glory. He is generous and only asks to share."

Mortarion looked over in silence, and the last thread of reason in his mind finally snapped gently.

He roared and charged forward, the scythe cleaving Typhus in two in an instant. His head flew high into the air, and instead of hitting the ground, it was carried by swarms of flies towards the seedbed.

Mortarion drew his pistol again and began firing ruthlessly and decisively at the seedbed and Typhus's head, but none of his shots hit. A swarm of flies swarmed over, shielding Typhus's head from the bullets.

In less than half a second, the traitor's head had reached the seedbed. His dirty, blood-stained face sank slowly into the dim, yellowish solution right before Mortarion's eyes, and the seedbed began to tremble violently.

Perhaps it was only a second, or perhaps a million years later—in the very center of the seedbed, where diseased flesh and blood converged, a decaying human figure began to slowly rise.

His skin was gray, his skin and muscles completely rotten, to the point that his bones were visible. The flies stole the armor of his Deathshroud and fitted this traitor with Power Armour from different people.

He began to rise, his bones cracking, and Typhus convulsed, bending over and spitting out a large clump of grayish-brown mucus from his throat. His back bulged, from which cracked horns and flutes burst forth, revealing the protection of his Power Armour, from which a real, deep green mist surged forth.

Typhus straightened up, began to smile, and a twisted, menacing horn emerged from above his forehead, revealed to the world as he trembled.

A chill ran through me.

"What exactly are you?" Mortarion asked.

"Why don't you find the answer yourself?" Typhus replied patiently.

"This ship—" he waved, gesturing. "—Go, I'll be waiting for you here, Mortarion. You can search the entire Endurance for the answer; you'll find it."

I'd rather kill you first.

Typhus smiled and stepped out of the seedbed, opening his arms wide. "Come on then, you can try. I'm part of the answer too."

Mortarion strode forward, his scythe flashing, and in the blink of an eye, he had inflicted more than a dozen deep, bone-revealing wounds on Typhus's body. His armor and flesh had grown together, rotting and morbid, yet their defensive capabilities were stronger than when they were new.

Not only that, the Primarch even felt the sensation of the scythe cutting into his flesh was no different from chopping a rock. But how could this be? What—what was all this?

The eyes beneath Typhus's horn watched him patiently, then shook their heads.

"You can't kill me now," he said.

"The Father watches over this place; I am protected by Him. I cannot die, I have no end, I am the source of disease, the embodiment of cancer. I endure pain, I sow pain, I scorn pain. I constantly teeter on the edge of life and death; I am a morbid eternity, Mortarion, I will not die."

The Primarch simply remained silent and continued wielding his weapon. At the same time, he sent Perturabo a message containing the conversation, the video recording, and a text message typed via a neural link.

"You won't die?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yes." Typhus nodded slightly.

"Very well." Mortarion sneered. "Let me test whether you are truly that terrifying."

--

The Lord of Iron silently watched the video and text sent by Mortarion. In his cold contemplation, he realized that his brother was undergoing torture.

This was absolutely torture.

To witness firsthand such supernatural horror unfold on one's own ship, to see the guards become breeding grounds for such treachery, while a traitor makes an immortal declaration.

It's hard for anyone to remain rational in the face of something like this. He believed in Mortarion's resilience, but he still couldn't help feeling a little worried.

Perturabo solemnly moved the horrific scene aside and, following Mortarion's advice, did not call upon him or inform the Death Guard fleet of what was happening on the Endurance.

He lowered his head and began to continue reviewing the current battle situation.

Horus's fleet is engaged in fierce combat with the vanguard led by Vulkan, and the battle has reached a fever pitch. The warships are navigating each other, turning that area of stars into an absolute death zone.

Perturabo frowned, drew more ships from the Iron Warriors to reinforce the flanks, and told them to be ready to push forward at any time.

The Iron Blood still has about 40% of its artillery positions capable of firing normally. It is indeed unable to move, but it can still contribute to the battle to some extent.

This could be considered a stroke of luck amidst misfortune. He issued the order to fire freely, locking the artillery positions onto the enemy ships ahead, and then turned his attention back to the interior of the Iron Blood.

Whether by coincidence or not, the Death Guard traitors' attack coincided with the battle on the warships, and both reached a fever pitch.

At least several thousand traitors were now attacking the battlefield that Forrix had opened up, a number that made Perturabo's expression even more serious—how could that traitor named Typhus have managed to turn so many people against him?

Or was it Horus's doing?

He silently noted this down and began directing nearby squads to provide support. The engine room, which Forrix was in charge of, absolutely could not be lost. As long as the engine functioned properly, even if critical internal components were damaged, the Iron Blood could continue to move.

While remaining deep in thought, Perturabo issued command after command. His mind was icy cold, and he rarely spoke, issuing all his commands through the simplest and clearest written instructions.

As the commander-in-chief, he bore the death and loss on every part of the battlefield, and the most terrible and heavy responsibility in this death star field, but he did not show the slightest weakness.

Nothing could melt him again.

Even if

Perturabo closed his eyes, raised his right hand high, and slammed it down on a screen. A piercing alarm blared throughout the bridge, crimson lights flashed incessantly, and everyone froze, turning to look at their Primarch.

"Evacuate!" the Lord of Iron commanded succinctly amidst the buzzing of flies. "Put on your gas masks, evacuate the main bridge, and proceed to the backup bridge!"

"Sharp," a voice praised from above the bridge. "But not sharp enough."

Perturabo looked up and, amidst a swarm of flies that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, spotted a dim, yellowish eye.

He coldly raised his Warhammer.

Also, the code.