Stop All This

When he shouted the last syllable, his voice was broken.

The word "Man" was like a piece of glass that had been smashed hard, sharp and short, exploding in the air, and then turned into a vague, choking-like ending.

The respirator mask on his face has long since disappeared. Without the cover of the mechanical filtering device, his entire face is exposed to Guilliman's sight.

That was not the Mortarion who was stubborn but still had light in his eyes when he was arguing about numerology with his brothers in the Emperor palace ten thousand years ago.

It was a face that had been soaked in six thousand years of despair, and even sadness had become numb.

But at this moment, the numbness was torn apart.

His dark green eyes were filled with an emotion that Guilliman had never seen before, like a bursting flood.

That's despair.

Pure, unadulterated, unpretended despair.

He felt exactly the same despair as he felt thousands of years ago when he watched his legion fall into the arms of Nurgle due to Typhus's betrayal.

No, deeper.

Because at that time he could at least be angry, at least he could draw the sword, and at least he could carve the name Typhus on the hilt of the sword afterwards, wipe it every day, and curse it every day.

Now he can't do anything.

He was pinned to the ground by nine golden dragons and could not move.

His descendants are waking up one by one in the distance, collapsing one by one, and kneeling in front of Adeptus Custodes one by one, begging for a dignified death.

And he, their Gene-Father, could only kneel here, across the golden sea of fire, watching the scenes unfold silently.

The voice of Guilliman came from above his head.

The voice was not loud, but in Mortarion's ears, every word seemed to be amplified countless times, like thunder exploding in the eardrums.

"I want to stop too, brother."

There was no sarcasm in Guilliman's tone, no arrogance of a winner, only a deep exhaustion as deep as the mud on the seabed, "But should we let them be like this for the rest of their lives?

In this bad, dirty Garden of Nurgle, they won't even die at all."

Mortarion's body froze.

Will not die.

He knew what Guilliman said was true.

The blessing of Nurgle gave his descendants near-immortal vitality. Even if those rotten bodies were blasted into pieces, they would be reunited under the nourishment of Warp energy.

They can be injured, suffer, and collapse, but they will not die.

Unless the golden flame of Emperor is used to burn their souls together with their bodies.

"What if I don't wake them up?"

Guilliman's voice continued, with a hint of helplessness in the tiredness, "Are they really not clear?

Just being affected by the power of Nurgle, he couldn't even commit suicide.

Can you bear to let them face this forever?"

Mortarion can feel that the restraints of the nine golden dragons are weakening little by little.

It's not that Guilliman is letting go of them, but that his struggle is weakening.

His muscles no longer spasmed, his bones no longer creaked, and his body seemed to have been evacuated, limply lying on the charred ground.

The flames of the golden dragon were still burning around him, but the burning sensation was no longer painful.

Compared with the emptiness in his heart at this moment, the physical pain was simply a gift.

He even hoped that the flames would burn stronger and burn his whole body to ashes so that he would no longer have to listen to those voices.

In the distance, a cry of Death Guard penetrated the roar of the flames and reached his ears.

"Emperor ah...Emperor ah! Look at me... look at what I have become..."

The voice was old and hoarse, carrying a despair that had been suppressed for countless years and had finally found an outlet.

It's not like the cry of a warrior, but more like the cry of an animal whose tail has been stepped on.

Mortarion's eyes suddenly turned to that direction.

He saw Death Guard, his heir, kneeling in front of Adeptus Custodes, tearing at his breastplate with both hands.

The fragments of Ceramite were scattered on the ground, revealing the dark green rotten flesh underneath that had been integrated with the corruption of Nurgle.

There was no nose on his face, and there was only a hole that was oozing pus.

His lips were missing, his gums and teeth were directly exposed to the air, and his teeth were covered with tiny maggots.

Mortarion made a vague, suffocating sound from his throat.

He wanted to close his eyes, but his eyelids wouldn't obey.

He wanted to turn his head, but his neck was as stiff as iron.

He could only watch, watching Death Guard take the Chainsword from Adeptus Custodes's hand, awkwardly put the blade on his neck, and then trembled, delaying in pulling the starting motor.

He didn't dare.

He is afraid of death, even though he is begging for death.

That was the inertia of ten thousand years, the survival instinct planted in his body by Nurgle over the past ten thousand years, even though intellectually he had lost all hope.

Mortarion's eyes began to turn red.

Not that kind of tragic red, but an ugly red, like eyes swollen from crying.

His nose quivered, his lips trembled, and a thin sound came from his throat, like a mouse gnawing on wood.

It wasn't choking, it was him trying desperately to hold back the urge to cry.

He is Primarch, he is Gene-Father of Death Guard. He cannot shed tears in front of his enemies, his brothers, or his heirs.

But he couldn't help it.

Tears fell from the corners of his eyes, leaving two fine lines on his pale cheeks.

The tears were not clear, but mixed with dark green pus, which was the last remnant of Nurgle's blessing in his body.

He cried very quietly, with no sound, only his shoulders were shaking slightly, only his chest was rising and falling violently, and only his lips were moving constantly.

"Ah... ahhh..."

He finally made a sound.

It was not a meaningful word, just a low, drawn-out wail, like a wail welling up from deep underground.

That's not crying, that's the soul screaming.

The wailing sound echoed in the ruins, intertwined with the cries of Death Guard people in the distance, forming an elegy that no one could understand.

The nine golden dragons on his body dispersed at the same time.