Mortarion felt that nothing was going his way.
He did not want to admit that it was because his luck was simply too terrible—
In truth, ever since he could remember, he had generally been unlucky. The only fortunate thing in his life might have been falling onto Barbarus, then meeting comrades worthy of entrusting themselves to one another.
But then he realized that perhaps falling onto Barbarus had merely laid the groundwork for an even greater misfortune. You could not make someone with nothing suffer any more, but you could first let them see sunlight before tossing them back into the abyss like garbage.
Even now, he stubbornly clung to the belief in his mind—the world should not be this rotten. He had lived through years when he was treated like a normal person, years when those around him were treated like normal people—therefore, the world should not be this rotten.
But he was probably truly tired.
When Mortarion realized that everything he had stood for had ultimately been part of some higher being's plan—it was hard not to lose heart. Guilliman, whom he had once regarded as his mortal enemy and the most difficult part of the plan, was merely a chess piece in Their scheme as well. In that respect, they were the same.
In that respect, this damned universe was equally rotten. No one could escape it—not the slaves beneath their feet, nor the lofty primarchs in positions of power, nor even the gods themselves. None could do as they pleased. Every existence was bound, dragged into the abyss by the vortex of fate, fighting one another until both sides were ruined.
[I don't think I can lure Him away.]
Mortarion spoke calmly. The dim light filtering through the viewport cast a faint glow over his