Brothers...

It wasn't that Guilliman took it back voluntarily, but rather that the flame sensed the signs of his inner collapse and deemed him no longer a threat.

Guilliman said nothing and withdrew the golden dragons that had been circling around Mortarion.

They circled in the air a few times, then transformed into countless Mars, dissipating into the golden sea of fire.

Mortarion lost his balance and fell forward, his hands bracing themselves on the scorched ground.

His ten fingers sank deep into the ashes, his knuckles turning white.

He knelt there, not to Guilliman, not to the Emperor, but to his sons who were weeping in the distance.

He wanted to go over, to pick up the soldier who was begging for death in his arms, to hold him close, and to tell him that his father was here.

But he dared not.

He was afraid to see those eyes—the eyes that had haunted him for ten thousand years in countless nightmares, the eyes that belonged to his offspring.

Those eyes, peering out from behind the masks of the Death Guard ten thousand years ago when Typhus unleashed the Nurgle Plague, held incomprehension, fear, and pleading.

They didn't understand why the Gene-Father couldn't save them.

I don't understand why I've become this awful.

They couldn't understand why their father, who always claimed to protect them, could only watch helplessly as they rotted on the deck.

Mortarion was afraid to hear their questions.

It wasn't a verbal question, but a silent message conveyed through those desperate eyes. "Why?"

He knelt in the filthy mud, his forehead almost touching the ground, his shoulders trembling violently.

His posture was strikingly similar to how he looked as a child in Barbarus.

He was like that back then, huddled in the poisonous fog-shrouded wilderness, being forced to drink newly concocted poison by his adoptive father.

He endured the high fever and vomiting alone, as well as the muscle spasms and burning sensation in his internal organs.

No one came to save him; no one could save him.

He had sworn that he would never let his offspring experience this loneliness.

But now, his descendants are kneeling before the Adeptus Custodes, in the exact same posture they knelt before him years ago.

"Enough! Mortarion!"

Are you planning to kneel down right here?

"Do you intend to kneel in this mud with your descendants?"

Guilliman's voice was like a whip, lashing at Mortarion.

The voice was no longer one of weariness and helplessness, but of pure, undisguised anger, like a volcano about to erupt.

Before Mortarion could even look up, a blue-gold Power Armour boot slammed into his shoulder.

The force was so great that Mortarion's body was like a stone thrown by a catapult.

It rolled a dozen times on the scorched ground, crashing into a still-burning dead tree and snapping the trunk in half.

He fell amidst splinters and Mars, his rotting fleshy wings pierced by branches, dark green blood seeping from the wounds.

He didn't stand up; he just lay there, watching his body heal little by little.

The broken bones were put back together, the torn muscles grew back, and the pierced wings healed.

He lay in the ruins, and stopped crying.

It wasn't because he didn't want to cry anymore, but because his tear ducts, in their violent churning, somehow bumped into something.

He simply stared at the black sun in the sky with his dry, bloodshot eyes.

"Is this the Gene-Father?"

Is this what they call the Lord of Death Guard?

Guilliman's voice came from afar, and the footsteps were approaching, each step shaking the ground.

"Open your eyes and look properly! Take your hands off your ears and listen carefully!"

What is the current situation of your children?

Mortarion did not move.

He heard those sounds.

The distant cries, sobs, and pleas of the Death Guard could be heard.

Several of them, after regaining consciousness, even sang military songs from the Great Crusade period using their damaged vocal cords.

The military song was terribly off-key because his lips were missing and half of his tongue was rotten.

But the melody remains; it was sung by warriors of countless Chapter during the Great Crusade, a glory belonging to all of Astartes.

The song echoed in the golden sea of fire, like a final chorus of souls before the end of the world.

This song is repentance, this song is tears, this song is weeping...

But there was no sense of relief, and absolutely no joy to be found.

They used to sing this song to celebrate victories, mourn the loss of their comrades, or sing it again before setting off for the next battle to evoke memories of the battlefield.

But now, what can this song represent?

It's simply that his mouth could no longer speak, and he couldn't even express his repentance to the great Emperor of Mankind, so all he could do at the end was sing this elegy.

"They are crying, Mortarion! They are crying!"

Are you going to cry along with me? What kind of father are you?

A hand grabbed his collar.

The hand lifted his upper body from the rubble, and Mortarion's face was pulled in front of Guilliman.

His vision was blurred, and he couldn't make out Guilliman's expression.

But he could see those blue-gold eyes, and burning within them was an emotion he had never seen before, so complex and indescribable.

It wasn't anger, nor pity, but something he dared not recognize.

Are you going to leave them to face all of this alone?

What difference would it make if I didn't wake them up?

Even in this terrible and filthy place, they won't die at all!

You can't bear to let them live like this forever, but can you really bear to let them face all of this alone?

Guilliman released his grip.

Mortarion's body fell back into the ruins.

He struggled to say something, but his throat felt like it was blocked by something; his lips moved, but no sound came out.

He stretched out his hand, his pale and thin hand grasping haphazardly in the air, like a drowning person clutching at a last straw.

The fingers touched Guilliman's forearm and immediately recoiled as if electrocuted, gripping the blue-gold arm guard tightly.