Mortarion was a demigod walking among mortals. This was no mere figure of speech; even in the vast galaxy, only a dozen or so Primarchs created by the Emperor could stand beside him.
And if one added qualifiers such as "most resilient" and "greatest endurance," then even those equally magnificent Primarchs could not compare to him.
The Death Guard had inherited Mortarion's endurance and resilience, making them one of the most formidable heavy infantry Legions among the Astartes, while he himself had developed both traits to their utmost limits.
Yet even so, when Typhon's voice rang out, Mortarion still felt an indescribable pain.
It was as though countless ants crawled through his body, gnawing at his flesh and organs, dissolving his bones with their acidic fluids, then burrowing inside to suck out his marrow.
The Pale King trembled all over, using Silence to support himself. From the corner of his eye, he glanced around at the Deathshrouds surrounding him and saw that those equally unyielding warriors were helplessly collapsing in agony.
Everything before him seemed stained with a faint dark green, like the product brewed from moss and algae that had grown wildly in endless swamps before dying and rotting away. Vast amounts of life force were transforming amid corruption and decay into another kind of existence.
Yet what truly terrified Mortarion was that within this power where decay and rebirth coexisted, he felt not only a profound hostility toward the Warp.
On the contrary, after deathly silence came a warm, intimate, familiar presence that was calling to something within him.
The Lord of Death knew that thing all too well. He had once burned ten million beings with that trait to death—those evil sorcerers, those damned mutant Psykers.
When Mortarion sensed that restless psychic power within himself, the creed