Slaughter

"An extremely advanced state of mind and understanding of the current meta."

That was how Hades put it.

"...Do you need to rest now, Old Morty?"

Mortarion was clearly speechless. The primarch glanced at Hades, mist hissing from his gas mask.

That was a story from a thousand years ago... I had long since forgotten it.

What could Mortarion see?

Mortarion could see nothing.

Mist, mist, mist—Mortarion's world was filled with hazy fog. At times, he was one of those drifting, intangible things; at others, he was trapped here.

There was no path back to reality in sight.

But Mortarion knew he had to return.

Those fools who could not comprehend the Warp had smugly built an altar to a False God with their own hands, one capable of destroying human civilization. Mortarion's instincts had warned him long ago, yet he had once more been bound by the shackles of the Warp.

Mortarion even began to miss Magnus.

Only primarchs familiar with Psychic Power understood what they were doing—they did not believe in Numerology and had never tried to understand Mortarion's words.

If humanity did not wish to be utterly destroyed and become a heavenly kingdom the moment The Emperor rose, then they should act at once and stop this catastrophe instead of accelerating it.

Ignorant.

People who only looked at the surface.

Angels and flies on the outside... Mortarion knew what people would choose. There was no need to say more.

Only the white mist flowed silently.

The atmosphere was stifling.

Guilliman spoke in a voice only the three primarchs could hear. Led by the silent Soulless, they headed toward the Cult of the Underworld's grand cathedral after visiting an Ecclesiarchy church.

The entirely black cathedral of the Cult of the Underworld had a cold, austere style.