The End of Extinction (VII)

The silence traced a deadly path through the air, its sharpness undiminished even now, stained with black blood. ◦•●◉✿ ✿◉●•◦

Typhus' head was severed in an instant. He was no match for a Primarch, even though he had broken free of the constraints of the human form and become a complete blasphemer.

Some boundaries can be blurred, others cannot. Just as some people can be corrupted, while others can only be destroyed.

The Lord of Death withdrew his scythe and watched as Typhus's head fell to the ground. The creeping fungus that spread across the bridge instantly engulfed the head, along with the headless body.

And so, in the next instant, Typhus —the complete Typhus —rose from behind Mortarion.

The single horn on his head still grotesquely protruded, his armor was rotten, and the ironic insignia of his Deathshroud remained on his shoulder armor. Mortarion stared coldly at him, while Typhus returned a smile that was utterly repulsive.

His skin was pale, an oily pale, with bluish-gray veins bulging beneath his skin, throbbing incessantly on his face; the blood flowing within was completely black, like solidified gel. His eyes were like tiny, finely spaced insect nests, containing hundreds of insect eggs waiting to hatch.

Looking at him, Mortarion smelled a pungent stench, an odor emanating from inside Typhus's body, from his blood, and from every molecule that made up his current form.

Warp, witchcraft, evil. Nothing more than that; corruption remains. He knew it all too well.

"You should know this won't lead to anything, Mortarion," Typhus said.

Mortarion raised his scythe once more.

"You have tried a hundred times, but not once have you truly harmed me. As I said, I am immortal. What good will it do you to cut off my head and cut me into pieces? It is merely a small episode in the cycle of life and death, something destined to come. When it passes, the season of rebirth will arrive."

Typhus chuckled and stomped his feet, causing the fungal carpet beneath him to swell with a deep green sap.

"Do you see it?" he asked. "The power of the Father has already manifested, like a seed taking root in the soil, a bud already in full bloom."

"Your voice has never made me feel so nauseous as it does now," Mortarion said.

He charged at Typhus, who merely feigned resistance, which ignited the Primarch's deeper rage. The sound of the scythe cutting through the air was as violent as an explosion, and he dismembered Typhus once more.

Pools of grayish-black liquid gushed from the severed limbs, which insects devoured. The corpses beneath the thick fungal carpet were soaked with the sap. Mushrooms and flowers bloomed from their eye sockets, and vines engulfed Typhus's remains, enabling him to rise again.

"There's nowhere to run, and resistance is futile, my friend." Typhus looked at him with a hint of pity. "Your resistance is meaningless. I'm not mocking you, but telling you a truth. Take a good look."

He raised his swollen right hand, the diseased and proliferating flesh filling the armor completely, making the hand look bloated and comical.

He pointed to a porthole, but Mortarion didn't even bother to look. He drew his Lantern and with a single shot melted Typhus's entire right hand. The latter sighed, this time too lazy to even put on a show of resistance, simply bowing his head and awaiting death.

As the blade sliced through, Typhus was reborn from beneath the fungal carpet.

"You really should take a look," he said slowly. "That way you'll understand where you are now, Mortarion."

"I'll see, after I've completely eradicated you, you pest," the Lord of Death replied with a cold laugh.

Silence slashed down, cleaving Typhus in two at the waist. Mortarion raised his foot and crushed his skull. "Pests" descended from the ceiling, their creeping fungus spitting him out. Silence struck him again, but Typhus did not dodge; he simply began to speak.

"I have been waiting for this day for a long time."

Mortarion smashed his face with the handle of his scythe.

Strictly speaking, I haven't betrayed you.

Mortarion chopped him up.

"This is my nature, I was born with this talent, and my resilience is merely a byproduct. I was born to carry on my father's glory, and therefore I have not betrayed him."

Mortarion pierced his abdomen with silence, lifted him up, and shattered him into pieces in mid-air.

"But I have indeed planned for this day for a long time. A very long time, Mortarion, so long that I almost couldn't bear it several times. Fortunately, every day and night I have endured has paid off even more today. Just one look at that porthole and you will understand how much effort I have put into you."

Mortarion killed Typhus once, twice, three times, and four times.

Countless times.

He melted him with the lamp of the dead, shredded him with silence, smashed his face with his bare hands, and trampled him into a pulp with his iron boots. He killed him as if he were killing an insect, and he was doing it faster and faster, while Typhus's words still did not stop.

→

He had only one request: he wanted the Lord of Death to gaze out the window. Mortarion could probably guess why, but he was unwilling to do so.

He had to fight, he had to resist—admittedly, resisting an enemy that cannot be killed might sound foolish, but resistance itself is meaningful.

He stands here, fighting for humanity and for the Imperium —that is the meaning.

Not everything needs a suitable reason; some things simply must be done. For example, humanity must rise up, the Mortarion must rebel, and Typhus must die.

Yes.

Mortarion told himself— Typhus must die.

"I secretly placed ritual arrays on every ship," said Typhus, who had been cut in two, black blood dripping from his eyes.

"The time has come, that's what I told them. And your numerology adds even more power to my ritual. You're fascinated by the number seven, aren't you, Mortarion?"

Typhus's head smiled in the sky.

"Seven, omnipresent. Even the number of your fleet is a multiple of seven. Seventy-seven warships, how magnificent! Add to that this Warp Storm that started in Calth and is about to sweep across half the galaxy, and the power of the Father is finally being revealed. Take a look out the window."

A burst of laughter erupted from the fungal carpet, and in an instant, it seemed as if hundreds of Typhus were speaking. His voice was omnipresent, penetrating everywhere, coming from the ceiling, from the portholes, and even from beneath Mortarion's feet.

The Primarch looked down and saw a pair of dark eyes gazing up at him. A crew member coughed up blood and looked at him pleadingly from beneath the creep. His face was already rotting, and insect-like features spread and writhed across his twisted features.

The Lord of Death drew his gun and sent him to his rest.

"Take a look out the window." The fully- Typhus walked from the other end of the bridge. "Just one look, my friend, and you'll understand why your resistance is futile."

Mortarion, holding his Lantern, finally did as he was told. Typhus's ecstasy was palpable; he even trembled with excitement.

Has the Lord of Death finally decided to yield?

Outside the porthole, enormous vines are growing among the stars.

They spread from one warship to another, like a jungle. The stars were obscured, and a deep green mist, visible to the naked eye, permeated the vines and foliage, tightly enveloping all the ships. Such a supernatural scene, so sinister, sent chills down one's spine.

The entire right flank of the combined fleet, and even half of its central area, had been swallowed up by this bizarre cosmic jungle.

The source was none other than Typhus's flagship, the Terminus Est. Its exposed stern section had turned a completely dull yellow, with a sickly glow shining conspicuously where the engines had once been.

And the Iron Blood.

It was like a poor little insect caught in a spider web, tightly bound. Mortarion stared at Perturabo's flagship and, in a daze, saw three large, rotting eyes at the very top of the vine-like spider web, looking down on everyone.

Mortarion looked away.

"Do you see that?" Typhus looked at him expectantly. "There's no hope of victory anymore, my friend. Accept your fate."

"Fate?" The Lord of Death scoffed. "I have two brothers who can see so-called fate, and they both scoff at it. Fate? Ha."

He raised his Lantern with a cold laugh, aiming at the porthole. The entire bridge was completely covered by the fungal carpet; that was the only gap left. Typhus had gone to great lengths to show him what might be a despairing sight, but he had also left a loophole.

The only loophole. How ridiculous. Even the best-laid plans can have a flaw.

The Lantern was a private possession of the Emperor, crafted by an artisan from the Industrial World. Forged from bronze, brass, and steel, it fit perfectly in Mortarion's hand. Over the years, it had served in numerous battles.

It is deadly, for anyone and for anything.

Mortarion pulled the trigger, the Lantern buzzing in his hand.

"This is not the end," he warned coldly. "One day, I will kill you completely."

The Lantern pierced the porthole with ease. Amid Typhus's howl, Mortarion coldly fired the final shot, melting his skull.

The forces of the universe began to take effect, and through the shattered porthole, it began to greedily devour everything on the bridge of the Endurance: fungal carpet, corpses, flies, and Typhus.

The Lord of Death raised his right hand, using the Silent Grip to secure himself to the deck, and activated his Magnetic Boots. He watched the dark green fungal carpet spin and fly out of the window, back to the command console, where he began manually inspecting the ship's interior before immediately returning to the communication channel.

"Perturabo!" He was no longer cold; his voice was filled with anxiety as he began to call out. "Answer me, brother."

Also, the code.