From the Deepest Depths of Darkness

Faster. Mortarion told himself, faster—then he clenched his fists, and the scythe became an extension of his arms. A fraction of a second later, Mortarion faintly felt the sensation of flesh being cut.

It was only a little, but it was more than enough for him. Then, he smelled a stench that belonged only to rotting corpses, followed by a scream—a scream that shouldn't have been born, yet had been born nonetheless. It didn't belong to nature, but came from...

Nightmare.

Yes, it came from a nightmare.

Mortarion retracted his scythe, and the two severed corpses fell limply to the ground. The rotting, rusty Power Armour, due to its weight and gravity, became embedded in the flesh itself, and half of a diseased lung was thrown out, yet the lung's owner was not completely dead.

In fact, he was staring at Mortarion, muttering something incomprehensible.

"You will be reborn, Father, you will be reborn."

Mortarion listened patiently to him finish speaking, then raised his foot and crushed his skull.

The last traitor on the Endurance was thus killed.

This was a good thing, but he found his hands were trembling. Staring at his hands, he slowly closed his fingers and gripped the sickle. He used enough strength to calm the trembling.

Stop shaking, Mortarion thought. I just did what I was supposed to do, and what I had to do.

But his warnings failed; he couldn't stop the trembling. Mortarion then realized a reason that could explain it—he had a premonition of where the war was headed.

They won't win no matter what.

Horus Lupercal is a bloodthirsty wolf, unlike Leman Russ Russ, whose savage fangs are hidden, only revealed when he truly needs to drink blood. And once he bites into something, he will never let go.

Now is the perfect opportunity to make him bite something.

Consider this: most of the combined fleet's ships were trapped within those supernatural, gigantic vines. Unless Horus suddenly got hit on the head by something and became an idiot, he would definitely have the fleet start aiming and firing volleys.

Like a roll call. Mortarion thought with extreme indifference and nonchalance, "That bastard will kill all our people ship by ship, just like a roll call."

He picked up his sickle, turned to his Seventh Company, Nathaniel Garro, and asked, "How's the repair work on Hangar 6 going?"

"They replied two minutes ago that it's in the final stages," Garro said meticulously. "But I think they'll probably need a few more minutes; this isn't an easy task."

"Indeed," Mortarion said.

He raised his hand and examined the scythe closely. Something flowed through his heart like water, and he couldn't help but think of Horus Lupercal's face in the holographic image.

The face was completely different from the Horus Lupercal he remembered, yet extremely similar. In terms of facial features alone, there was no difference; even the smallest details were exactly the same as before.

Horus remained as handsome as a meticulously sculpted statue; he didn't appear to have grown naturally, but rather as if he had been molded into this form by some material. Handsome, gentle, and convincing.

But the real difference wasn't in his face, but in his eyes, and what was in those eyes sent chills down Mortarion's spine.

Even now, just thinking about it makes the Lord of Death feel like he's being tormented by a cold wind.

He narrowed his eyes and asked Garro another question, "How exactly do you think Typhus managed to turn so many people against their will?"

It was obvious that Nathaniel Garro was somewhat uneasy about his problem.

"I don't know, Primarch," the Seventh Company, the "Combat Company Commander," replied to his question.

He is of Terra descent, not Barbarus descent. Many Barbarus Death Guard would call him "One-Shot Garro" with a hint of sarcasm, which is certainly not a good nickname, but it does reflect his one-sided personality to some extent.

If it were someone else, they might have considered the question more carefully before speaking, but Garro would answer immediately and tell Mortarion directly that he didn't know.

Mortarion smiled.

"I don't know either, Garro." He told his company commander, a hint of frustration in his voice that wasn't easily detected. "I always thought I was a good Primarch, but now I'm finding that things don't seem to be the case."

"The Primarch?" Garro called out to him dryly.

Mortarion glanced over and saw a look of bewilderment on Garro's face. He was wearing blood-stained armor, and at his feet lay the mangled corpses of his former brothers and comrades.

Then, with a mixture of sadness and determination, he told Mortarion, "The answer doesn't matter."

The Lord of Death remained silent for a long time before finally agreeing with him.

"Yes." Mortarion nodded. "The answer doesn't matter."

He began calling the people in charge of the repair work in the sixth hangar, led by Techmarine named Amuteli, who was a very stubborn but also very reliable man.

He yelled into the channel, bluntly telling their Primarch, "It's finished!"

"Really?" Mortarion asked.

"Really! The transport planes and shuttles are all ready and can be deployed at any time!"

How many?

"Forty-six!" Amuteli shouted again in response to the Primarch's question. "Enough to hold all of us, since we're almost all dead anyway!"

"He doesn't understand what he's saying, Primarch. Amuteli is a bit out of his mind today," Nathaniel Garro quickly added before Mortarion could speak.

The Lord of Death glanced at him calmly, shook his head, and showed no strong reaction to the Techmarine's words.

"We'll be at the hangar soon to meet you, Sergeant," he said calmly. "But I'd like you to check all the planes one last time before we arrive."

"Okay," the sergeant said curtly, and immediately asked a question. His tone made Garro think of something, and the Seventh Company could even picture his ugly face with those gray eyes.

"Where are we going, Primarch?"

"Can you see through the porthole?" Mortarion asked him.

"Certainly."

You can see those vines too, right?

"Yes."

"Many of our ships are trapped by them, and the Endurance is no longer a suitable vessel for combat," Mortarion said, glancing down at the ground.

On the dark metal deck, a fungal carpet was swaying gently. This was just an appearance; in reality, the Endurance was collapsing, transforming. It was transforming from what they knew into something else entirely. No one said it aloud, but everyone could vaguely sense it.

"Therefore, we need to find a fast and heavily armed ship to help those trapped vessels escape. But before that, we need to figure out which ships are still loyal to the Imperium and which have been completely taken over by traitors."

"Understood, Primarch," Amuteli said, his voice returning to its usual low, normal tone. "We'll wait in the hangar."

Mortarion hung up the call and turned to Garro, saying, "We're all a bit mentally unstable today."

Nathaniel Garro was stunned for a moment before he realized that this was the Primarch answering his earlier question. He wanted to say something more, but Mortarion had already turned and left.

Two Death Guard bumped into him as they passed by, one of them half-jokingly reminding him, "Time to go, you stubborn fool, be careful not to fall behind."

"Shut up," Garro said impatiently, hurrying after him.

He had begun to agree with Mortarion's words in his heart.

--

"Horus again?" Vulkan asked.

"It's Horus again," said Arterius Numenziam.

The Salamanders's company commander didn't seem to like the news; he kept a stern face as he spoke. Vulkan pondered, then reached for his Warhammer, Thunderhead lay to the side.

This subtle movement caused a heavy killing intent to rise on the company commander's face, and then he asked, "Refuse?"

"No, not yet." Upon hearing this, the Lord of Drakes shook his head, his eyes filled with focused concentration, as clear as an overflowing spring. "I must figure out what he's thinking, Artels."

"It's dangerous to talk to him," the company commander said tactfully.

"I know," Vulkan said. "But..."

He picked up the Thunderhead, turned it over, and set it aside, his brows furrowed.

"It seems you've made up your mind." The company commander sighed.

"I rarely make a real decision about anything," Vulkan replied seriously.

Artes Númeián said nothing more. He nodded to his Primarch and walked out of the command room once more.

Vulkan stood there, stroking his weapon, and waited for Horus. This inexplicably reminded him of Ullanor, strangely, yet naturally, as if it were an instinctive reaction.

It was raining that day, and deep craters lay in the ground. Phosphex flames burned the Orks corpses, burning for a long time in the rain. Armies filled the land, and people looked up at the Emperor and the Primarch, ready to hear the words of the Master of Mankind. The future of mankind was clearly visible, a broad and promising road.

That day was wonderful, in every respect.

So, from when did things turn out this way?

"Brother," Horus's voice rustled from the Cogitator before him. "Did you see it?"

Without needing to ask, Vulkan knew what he was referring to.

"Don't call me that, I saw it," Vulkan said. "So? What brings you here again?"

"I just want to tell you that you can't win," Horus said with a slightly amused smile. "The final victor of this war will definitely be me, do you understand?"

"It's still uncertain who will emerge victorious," Vulkan replied, his brows furrowed, yet he struggled to maintain his composure.

He had already given up hope of winning; any rational general could easily have predicted the course of the war. He was enraged by Horus's attitude.

He couldn't understand—how could you face the deaths of your brothers' offspring so easily, so naturally?

You're murdering them and you seem happy about it?

Yes, in a moment of daze, Vulkan inevitably mistook this thing for Horus once again. He always had to constantly remind himself to realize this, which was painful but also very necessary.

"You can't win." Horus suddenly changed his tone, stopping his chuckles and becoming very serious.

"This war is merely a microcosm of the future. I have many ways to dismantle the resistance I may encounter, but you have none. If one side in a war possesses weapons that the other cannot counter, then who will win this war, Vulkan?"

Your father will put an end to your ambitions.

"You're wrong. It is I who will end him," Horus said. "I will utterly tear apart his lies and expose the face beneath his mask to everyone."

"But I won't kill him, because he is, after all, my father. Even if he's a fraud, I'll make sure he lives. The same goes for you; I won't let any of you die. The Imperium and humanity need us."

"This war you started won't turn out the way you say it," Vulkan said in a deep voice, gripping his Warhammer. "Do you understand? And I don't like your tone. You act as if you really are Horus, but you're not; you're just a monster."

"A true monster is better than a hypocrite. Perhaps I would make the galaxy bleed, but that would be better than letting humanity be deceived by his lies," Horus suddenly said, his voice filled with hatred. "You are the one who doesn't understand, Vulkan."

"You--"

"--We don't need to continue discussing this matter," Horus interrupted him. "You can't convince me, and I can't convince you. We are among the most stubborn in the galaxy, all of us are like that, so let me tell you what I will do."

Vulkan silently began to listen.

For some reason, a scene appeared before his eyes. Whether it was his own imagination or some kind of blood connection between brothers, he clearly saw certain things, and these things sent chills down Vulkan's spine.

He saw the thing draped in Horus's skin standing in the darkness, whispering to a tall corpse. The darkness was not the darkness familiar to humans; it did not come from the night, but from terror.

"Playing around is over," Horus said. "First, I will give the order to fire."

Dozens of warning lights, bright red, flashed across Vulkan's Cogitator in an instant, rapidly filling his field of vision. Deadly artillery fire grazed his fleet, heading straight for their rear.

"You bastard!" Despite being prepared, the Lord of Drakes still cursed out.

Horus ignored him and continued his narration with a calmness that transcended the mundane, completely detached from flesh and blood and worldly affairs. His voice carried a power that was irresistible, undeniable, and beyond doubt.

Where did that power come from? Vulkan gripped his Warhammer tightly.

"I will cripple your manpower. I will send destroyers to harass your ships that are preoccupied with their own problems. I will have cruisers follow closely behind, biting into your flesh like hounds. Then I will have the flagship open fire, shooting you all down and turning you all into space junk."

"My tactical intentions are very simple and direct, and you cannot resist them, especially you, Vulkan. Your fleet can do nothing but watch helplessly as I create a massacre. Because you've always been like this—incompetent, seemingly powerful, yet fond of silence."

Horus abruptly stopped speaking and took a soft breath on the other end of the channel.

"Try to struggle, brother, while you still can."

He hung up the call.

Also, the code.