"You ask what I did?"
"Why ask when you already know?"
Calas Typhon suddenly laughed, his power armor emitting the creaks of something long neglected.
Amid the strange sounds of mucus writhing and dripping, the servos seemed to have jammed, clicking and clacking as they tortured the listener's nerves.
Those sounds that resembled mere noise wove together, becoming a strange melody.
It was like a spring breeze brushing over flowers, an autumn wind withering fallen leaves; life was born here and withered here, and the cycle of life and death was contained within it all.
Mortarion instinctively felt that this sound was strangely familiar. Though the primarch's mind had reviewed every memory from his past in an instant, he was certain he had never heard it before.
Then where did that sense of familiarity come from?
"Look at these heads, Mortarion." Calas Typhon addressed the primarch by name. For an Astartes, that was a very subtle insult.
Even as First Captain, it was still an affront to the lord of the legion.
But the Lord of Death had no mood to dwell on such trivialities. His agile mind immediately reached the conclusion: Calas Typhon had killed every Navigator aboard the warship, so how were they meant to arrive at Ullanor on time, as the Warmaster had ordered?
Without Navigators, Warp travel was impossible. That was practically fatal to Horus's orders.
Calas Typhon watched shock and astonishment appear on his gene-father's face, sneering endlessly within his heart.
He had pretended for far too long. At last, the time had come to reveal his true self.
Look at him, Mortarion—so hypocritical, so foolish. He claimed to hate and despise all psychic powers, yet he tolerated the existence of Navigators and Astropaths.
His beliefs and principles were so fragile. The slightest irresistible obstacle