I Don't Need to Lie to You Anymore

That is the Son of Hope, the Lord of War, the controller of Law of Eternity, the incarnation of Material Universe--Robert·Guilliman.

His Gene-Father's brother, his Gene-Father's redeemer, Imperium of Man's regent.

"Get up."

Guilliman said.

Black Templars's warriors stood up.

He didn't hold on to anything, didn't stagger at all, his body had recovered, and Smart Atoms accomplished everything with the blessing of that hand.

After he stood up, the hand retracted from his shoulder.

Guilliman no longer looked at him, but turned around, his gaze passed through the golden sea of fire and landed on the center of the burning that was the strongest, hottest, and most difficult to look directly at.

Mortarion came out of the sea of fire.

He was tall and thin, and in that burning Garden of Nurgle, every step he took was slow, as if he was wading through a quagmire.

But in that slowness, every step was extremely steady, like footsteps engraved on a stone slab that could not be erased at all.

Those golden flames licked his Power Armour, leaving scorched black burn marks on the surface of his carapace.

The pair of rotten fleshy wings were folded behind him, and several holes were burned out in the membrane of the wings, exposing the black bones underneath.

He holds Silence in his hand.

The dark green light on the sickle looks particularly dim against the golden background.

But Guilliman knows that the dimness is just an appearance.

Sixty-million-year-old Daemon Primarch, Nurgle is the ultimate bearer of blessings and the master of plague.

The sickle in his hand has harvested hundreds of millions of souls.

It was not harvested in war, but a plague drifted across a planet, hundreds of millions of people fell, and the sickle was just waved in the air.

Mortarion stood in front of Guilliman.

Four or five steps apart.

That is the distance between duels and brothers.

"Guilliman."

Mortarion's voice was hoarse and low, "You shouldn't have come.

I was supposed to be the one looking for you.

I will prepare the best toxins for you.

Prepare the strongest poison juice.

Wait until your Macragge blows the poisonous wind, wait until your Five Hundred Worlds rains down plague, wait until your Ultramar turns into a piece of rotten soil.

Your body should rot, your marrow should melt, and your soul should perish and sink in the swamp of my home Garden of Nurgle, companionship with those reptiles forever and ever."

Guilliman's mouth corners rose slightly.

"Ah, then I really thank you, Mortarion."

His voice was light and airy, as if he was teasing a child who was having a tantrum, "But I just want to see you.

Meet the first company commander of Death Guard."

Mortarion's brows furrowed.

The first company commander of Death Guard, that is the position of Typhus.

Not his.

"Let's talk."

Guilliman tilted his head in an innocent manner. Those who didn't know better thought he was asking what the weather was like today, "Where are your Death Guard and Primarch?

Isn't Typhus the real Primarch?

Or have you been successfully promoted during these ten thousand long years?"

Mortarion's face twitched.

Typhus, the name he hates most in his life.

That person was his first company commander and was once his most trusted heir.

It was that Xenos hybrid bastard who secretly released the Nurgle plague in the Death Guard fleet, dragging the entire legion into the abyss.

He could have resisted, he could have drawn his sword, he could have not knelt down to the fat man.

But seeing his children rotting one by one on the deck, watching them wailing for him to save their lives, watching the light in their eyes being extinguished little by little in the plague - he had no choice.

This sentence is to rub salt into the wound.

And it's the kind of method where you stab the wound hard, then sprinkle a handful of coarse salt on the wound, then pour a bottle of white vinegar over it, and finally ask you "Does it hurt?"

This tone, this needy tone, this deliberate sowing of dissension overlapped with the figure he had seen in Siege of Terra, who was not wearing a helmet, had red war patterns on his face, and smiled openly and unrestrainedly.

Barbarian Khan.

"You're a bad student, Guilliman."

There was a hint of helplessness in Mortarion's voice.

Guilliman's smile is even brighter.

"I'm not a bad learner."

He paused and put his hand on Emperor's Sword's sword hilt, "I just don't have to act anymore. You are not worthy of my acting, brother."

"It's so sad, look at what you look like now, Mortarion."

Guilliman's voice was not loud, but in the burning ruins, every word was as clear as if it were engraved on a stone tablet.

He didn't yell, roar, or even raise his voice, he just stated a fact calmly.

That calmness was more harsh than any taunt.

"You who once believed in numerology and hated Psionic Energy the most, now your whole body is surrounded by the disgusting aura of Nurgle.

The cracks in your Power Armour are filled with maggots, your breath carries a rotten sweetness, and every heartbeat of yours is delivering nutrients to this Garden of Nurgle.

You become the thing you hate most."

Mortarion's lips moved but no sound came out.

His eyes fell on the blue-gold armor - not the gold of Emperor, not the light gold of Eldar, but a blue gold as deep as the sea, like the last star before dawn.

That is Fate Armor, which Belisarius Cawl took a thousand years to forge, and after being transformed and blessed by Guilliman countless times by Psionic Energy, it has completely become his essential possession.

Just like Emperor's Sword of Emperor, just like Sanguinius's face, just like Dorn's stubbornness.

The runes Law of Eternity and Atomic Law were engraved on the armor, glowing slightly in the golden flames.

"And you are still as handsome as ever, my brother."

Mortarion's voice contained a complex emotion, including envy, self-deprecation, and something called "missing" that he had lost for a long time.

Guilliman's mouth corners rose slightly.

"After sleeping for ten thousand years, it has some beauty and beauty effects."

As soon as he finished speaking, his smile disappeared.

The relaxed expression, like that of brothers chatting, faded from his face, like the ebbing tide revealing the sharp rocks below.

His eyes changed from gentle to sharp, from sharp to cold, and from cold to some indescribable killing intent that sent chills down the spine.

He did not draw his sword, he just clenched his fist, and the fist covered with blue armor slowly raised.

"Golden Dragon Hell-Suppressing Strike!"