The stench of corpses filled the wastelands of Galaspar. Near the hive city, bodies had already been piled into small, towering mounds.
On the bloated hive city, a massive hole was clearly visible, with wisps of smoke and fire occasionally drifting out.
Mortarion silently watched as his two brothers descended from the shuttle, slowly pressing his parched lips together.
Originally, each Primarch, upon being reunited with the Imperium, would be guided through their integration by the Primarch who found them, learning how to be a proper Legion Master and gradually assimilating into the Empire.
Mortarion's mentor was supposed to be Horus, but due to a twist of fate, it was Malcador who oversaw his integration into the Imperium instead.
As a result, Mortarion had little direct interaction with his so-called "blood brothers."
Even so, he had learned to identify them from Malcador's descriptions of each Primarch.
The figure walking ahead was relatively short, clad in an obviously distinct suit of master-crafted black steel power armor. However, unlike most, this intricate and refined armor did not cover his hands, instead revealing silver-white cybernetic limbs—metal so flawless and resilient that it seemed indestructible.
Mortarion caught that detail immediately. That must be Ferrus Manus. According to Malcador, Ferrus was, like him, born on a death world and pursued logic and efficiency to an extreme degree.
That was good news, Mortarion thought.
Through his previous conversations, he had realized that he wouldn't get along with all of his brothers. Within Malcador's vague and carefully worded descriptions, Mortarion had picked out those he would likely dislike.
For instance, one of his brothers was a psyker. Another was obsessed with glory and grandeur, a trait that Mortarion found utterly incomprehensible.
But Ferrus was here. That was promising. Mortarion hoped his brother would fairly judge the achievements of the Death Guard, as this assessment would determine how the Imperium would position his Legion—and which battlefields they would be sent to.
Behind Ferrus, an exceptionally tall figure approached silently.
This man was massive, even taller than Mortarion himself, and broader than if three unarmored Mortarions were stacked together.
Apart from the Emperor, Mortarion had never seen anyone taller than himself.
He felt a brief moment of tension but forced himself to relax, keeping his gaze locked onto the second arrival.
A fleeting question crossed his mind—why wasn't the taller one walking in front?
That thought quickly passed.
The second figure wore a suit of emerald-green armor, sculpted with intricate dragon-scale engravings. Due to the precise angles of the carvings, even under Galaspar's dim daylight, the armor shimmered with a radiant brilliance.
His skin was an unusual shade of pure black, and fire burned within his eyes.
That must be Vulkan, Mortarion thought.
According to Malcador, Vulkan was a compassionate Primarch.
Compassion? Would he understand the Death Guard's compassion through death? Would he judge them fairly?
Mortarion did not know. He simply stood in silence, waiting to welcome his two brothers.
Beside him, the Deathshroud Terminators also stood wordlessly. Yet, Mortarion knew there was one person missing from their ranks.
The feeling of being judged by others was unpleasant, and Mortarion could feel irritation creeping in once more. However, meeting two brothers who, at least on the surface, seemed agreeable helped to dull his unease.
But soon, he would realize—he was wrong. Terribly wrong.
As they drew closer, even someone as taciturn as Mortarion could immediately sense that something was off.
The newcomers remained silent, and in Vulkan's flame-lit eyes, Mortarion even caught a glint of moisture.
Mortarion's heart clenched abruptly.
Doom had arrived.
"Greetings, Brother. It is good to see you."
"Ferrus Manus, Lord of Medusa, Primarch of the Iron Hands."
Ferrus gestured for his honor guard to step back while extending his iron hand toward Mortarion.
"Mortarion, Lord of Barbarus, Primarch of the Death Guard."
"I am also pleased to meet you," Mortarion muttered behind the cover of his respirator mask.
Compared to his brother's firm and resonant voice, Mortarion's was hoarse and rough.
They shook hands—his brother's grip was powerful and unyielding.
Then, slowly, Mortarion shifted his gaze to Vulkan and extended his hand as well.
Vulkan hesitated, managing only a strained smile before taking Mortarion's offered hand.
"Vulkan, of Nocturne, Primarch of the Salamanders."
The Lord of Fire burned hot—so hot that even through power armor, Mortarion could feel the searing heat, like molten rock.
They released their grip quickly.
"I've reviewed the data from this battle and the Death Guard's performance," Ferrus Manus took a deep breath, his deep-set eyes fixed on Mortarion as if restraining something.
"But I would still like to hear it from you—explain this campaign to us in your own words."
Mortarion blinked slowly. Something felt off. But he decided to proceed, introducing his two brothers to the Death Guard's victory.
The Lord of Death turned slightly, allowing his brothers a clearer view of the towering mound of corpses.
Vulkan swayed slightly.
"These were the rulers of Galaspar's tyranny. But now, every single one of them is there."
"The tyrants oppressed the people, treating them as property, crushing them generation after generation."
"But now, that oppression is no more."
"The Death Guard uprooted the entire governing system of the Galaspar system. Not a single remnant was left behind."
"In a single day, we dismantled their entire regime."
Saying this, Mortarion felt some satisfaction. His Death Guard had not failed him, nor had he failed them. He had eradicated tyranny.
"Brother… Mortarion, may I ask you something?"
Vulkan's voice broke the silence.
"?"
Mortarion turned to look at Vulkan in confusion, but the shadow of his hood concealed his eyes.
"Those… those people moving on top of the corpse pile—what are they?"
On the densely packed mountain of bodies, ragged figures moved sluggishly.
At first, Vulkan assumed they were scavengers looting valuables from the dead, but after watching for a long time, he realized they were not taking anything—not even a single piece of jewelry.
"They're counting," Mortarion said indifferently.
"The oppressed need to feel for themselves that their oppression has ended. They need to stand up on their own."
"So…?"
Vulkan was puzzled.
"So I told them to count exactly how many tyrants had died, so they could comprehend the weight of their oppression's end."
Vulkan was utterly speechless.
He could not understand. He could not force himself to understand. Was this some kind of tradition from Mortarion's bleak death world?
"You… did you ask these people if they wanted to do this?"
Vulkan carefully asked his final question. But Mortarion's response shattered him.
"?"
Why would he need to ask?
These raggedly dressed people could not possibly comprehend Mortarion's reasoning, and with so many matters to handle, he had no time to concern himself with such things.
What? Talk to a local? He would rather sit in the medicae bay for a while.
Vulkan finally broke. The Fire Dragon spoke slowly but with unwavering resolve.
"Brother… you cannot replace one tyranny with another."
Mortarion froze.
Was Vulkan calling the Death Guard tyrants?
They had brought liberation. Mortarion had even ensured that the people personally witnessed the execution of the tyrants.
Tyranny?
He had barely done anything—why was he being accused?
Then, suddenly, Mortarion remembered that this particular brother was known for his mercy.
He let out a subtle breath of relief.
He's just too merciful, Mortarion thought.
If Vulkan had grown up on Barbarus, in a world of death, he wouldn't think this way.
But then Ferrus spoke. He first turned to Vulkan, offering a look of reassurance. Vulkan nodded, signaling that he was fine.
"So, brother, is this what you wanted us to see?"
"Setting aside words like 'tyranny'—I imagine Guilliman would be interested in discussing those—but I don't focus much on such things."
"What I want to ask is: Since you purged all of Galaspar's administrative officials, where do you plan to find their replacements?"
Mortarion was momentarily stunned. After a pause, he spoke slowly.
"The Imperium will send administrative personnel. They have already dispatched the tax department."
Ferrus gave a small smile, but the furrow in his brow did not relax.
"Brother, we all have our own views on the Imperium's taxation, but surely you realize that for a massive hive-world system like Galaspar, the Imperium cannot send that many administrators in such a short time."
In reality, aside from major planets or crucial strategic locations, the Imperium rarely sent full administrative teams to newly conquered worlds. Typically, they would deploy a tax department, install a few symbolic bureaucrats, and then leave the rest to the planet's native population.
Mortarion fell silent. He had not considered the administration of the hive cities after the war. He only knew that their factories had ceased operation.
But isn't that just how war works?
"The Death Guard can oversee local governance."
"I hope that is a viable solution."
Ferrus replied mercilessly.
"But on this planet, where administration requires specialized education, I doubt you'll find enough qualified officials in the short term."
Mortarion said nothing. He quietly hid himself within the shadow of his hood, but he knew—he was not defeated.
"This is my first time dealing with such matters. No one told me that, beyond war and victory, a Legion must also concern itself with the affairs of mere mortals."
"But the Death Guard's performance in battle was far from satisfactory, Brother."
Ferrus pressed on, aiming to tear Mortarion down with words.
"The fleet suffered excessive losses. And in this campaign, the Death Guard's casualty rate—compared to other battles—was astonishingly high."
The Death Guard had lost over ten thousand troops in this battle alone, though most were newly inducted recruits.
Ferrus stared disapprovingly at his grim, gray-cloaked brother. Poisonous fumes and tattered robes concealed most of Mortarion's body, obscuring any visible reaction.
Could this newly returned brother share Perturabo's cold, detached attitude toward his own Legion and sons?
No Primarch would praise such an approach.
Mortarion shifted slightly, causing toxic mist to swirl through the air.
"These were necessary sacrifices to liberate this region," he rasped.
Ferrus noted how eerily hoarse Mortarion's voice was, as though it had been eroded by acid over time. Given their physiology, it should be nearly impossible for any Primarch to suffer permanent damage.
"Did you truly liberate this place?"
Ferrus asked.
He simply could not comprehend this brother's strange logic—his tendency to avoid the real issue when the data and reality spoke for themselves.
Was he truly indifferent to the immense sacrifices?
From Mortarion's behavior thus far, Ferrus had deduced that his brother placed great importance on certain ideological "values."
But not in the conventional sense—not a pursuit of glory, nor a deliberate choice to attack Galaspar for the sake of honor.
After all, by any measure, this battle could not be described as "glorious."
Ferrus knew that his dear friend Fulgrim pursued perfection and honor on the battlefield, winning each war with style and elegance.
But he was ashamed to compare their past victories to what had transpired here, on Galaspar.
A meaningless battle.
Ferrus thought.
Enormous sacrifices and losses, all for the conquest of a star system that could not immediately contribute to the Imperium's production—one that, in fact, required further Imperial support.
The scales were not balanced.
Why hadn't his brother abandoned this place? Why not let the Imperium simply surround this sector, waiting until it was truly needed before launching a coordinated assault with other Legions?
Before making his judgment, Ferrus had conducted an exhaustive review of his brother's campaign, ensuring a comprehensive assessment of its outcomes.
There were at least three pocket empires nearby, all better suited for the Death Guard's first campaign. Mortarion could have made his first war speech atop one of their picturesque homeworlds.
"Brother, based on reality and post-battle evaluations, I do not believe this campaign is worthy of inclusion in the annals of the Imperium."
By tradition, a Legion's victories were recorded by Imperial scribes and publicized across the Imperium.
Legions that triumphed under difficult conditions and demonstrated exceptional prowess would be further honored, sometimes even receiving direct commendations from the Emperor himself.
But not all battles were recorded.
Disgraceful battles—those with excessive losses or unimpressive outcomes—would be buried, vanishing into the vast currents of Imperial history.
Clearly, this campaign was unfit to be the Death Guard's debut battle—the one meant to establish their reputation among their brother Legions.
Ferrus was thinking on Mortarion's behalf. After all, some of their brothers were far less forgiving.
He turned to the silent, motionless Mortarion, whose toxic mists continued to swirl.
"You—"
You will not insult me or my Legion's victory. You merely seek to steal the Death Guard's triumph, to judge this war by your so-called standards.
War has only one standard—victory or defeat. Do not shackle us with your tedious criteria, do not rob us of our victory.
Mortarion knew this kind of hypocrisy all too well.
During his younger years, when he was still weak, his foster father would assign him all manner of tasks. And every time Mortarion completed them, his father would simply move the goalposts, changing the standards.
Just like now.
They had won, yet now their victory was being judged on whether they had enough mortal bureaucrats afterward?!
Poisonous, seething words—words to defend himself and the Death Guard's honor—were about to spill from his lips like a toxic cloud—
Then, behind him, there was a disturbance in the ranks of the Deathshroud.
Ferrus and Vulkan, standing before him, looked past him with puzzled expressions.
Mortarion halted his words and turned around.
There, standing fully armored in the cataphractii-pattern terminator plate of the Deathshroud, was Hades.
On his left shoulder, the emblem of the Death Guard.
On his right, the cogwheel of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Hades took a slow step forward, as though he had just climbed a mountain, wearied by the journey.
Hades clasped his fists against his chest, performing the Aquila salute.
"Apologies for the interruption, my lord. The data you requested has been collected."
What data?
Mortarion was glad to see Hades awake and felt guilty for not visiting him.
But now, all those emotions—including the anger from before—were drowned in confusion.
His face was full of doubt, though fortunately, his respirator mask concealed it from Ferrus and Vulkan.
Hades, however, gave him no time to react and quickly continued speaking.
Ferrus and Vulkan, noticing that Mortarion was neither annoyed nor reprimanding the Deathshroud warrior for interrupting, assumed this was all part of Mortarion's plan and chose to remain silent.
"The secondary survey report on Galaspar's hive city distribution and production capacity has been completed. The population structure and original division of labor have also been preliminarily assessed."
"The Adeptus Mechanicus's Tech-Priests have analyzed the findings as well."
"The conclusion is that Galaspar is suitable as a Death Guard recruitment world, so your previous concerns can be put to rest."
What?
He hadn't considered using Galaspar as a recruitment world—
"Is that so?"
Ferrus's words interrupted Mortarion's thoughts.
Ferrus fixed his gaze on Hades, his eyes lingering on the Adeptus Mechanicus cogwheel emblem on the warrior's shoulder pad, lost in thought.
If he had been sent to Mars at the time of the Death Guard's founding, he wouldn't have been able to receive an official Adeptus Mechanicus insignia, would he?
But Ferrus quickly shifted his attention back to what Hades had just said.
If his peculiar brother intended to turn Galaspar into a recruitment world, then his actions suddenly made much more sense.
It was certainly more logical than simply seeking to "liberate" it.
After all, Galaspar, as a massive hive world, had an abundant population and resources, with the capability to produce vast quantities of weapons and ammunition.
Ordinarily, the Imperium wouldn't grant such a valuable world to a Legion—it was simply too rich.
But the difficulty of conquering this system meant the Imperium had little interest in it.
By disregarding the blockade, insisting on its conquest, and suffering heavy losses in doing so, the Death Guard could now petition the Imperium to designate Galaspar as their recruitment world.
Could it be—
Ferrus cast a meaningful look at Mortarion.
Could it be that he had deliberately eliminated all administrative personnel to increase the Imperium's difficulty in establishing control, making it easier for the Death Guard to claim the system's resources?
Such foresight… how unexpected.
Typically, aside from Guilliman, few of the returning Primarchs focused on securing recruitment and supply sources for their Legions so early.
Ferrus also knew that Mortarion's homeworld, Barbarus, likely couldn't sustain a large population.
Was Mortarion's previous behavior merely a smokescreen to conceal his true intentions while reporting to the Imperium's administrative offices?
So that's how it is…
No, Ferrus thought, Primarchs rarely had much fondness for the Imperium's bureaucracy.
"I see, I misunderstood, Brother."
Ferrus said, "We are all brothers, you can rest assured."
"May I ask a few more questions regarding your plan to make Galaspar a recruitment world?"
Mortarion stood silent before him.
Then, Hades' voice rang out—hoarse like Mortarion's, yet firm and powerful.
"My lord, Lord Mortarion, busy with the affairs of the Legion, has entrusted this matter to me. Please allow me to answer your questions."
"Very well."
Ferrus was not the type of Primarch to dwell on such formalities, so he went ahead and asked about the structure of Galaspar and its surrounding star systems.
To his satisfaction, the Death Guard Techmarine answered his questions with concise summaries and abundant data.
"Good, very good."
"I am pleased to meet such an outstanding Death Guard Techmarine. What is your name?"
"I am Hades of the Death Guard."
<+>
Mortarion stood in silence, watching his two brothers board a distant shuttle. With a thunderous roar, the judges departed.
Throughout the conversation, it had been Hades answering Ferrus and Vulkan's questions.
At first, Mortarion was puzzled, even slightly irritated, but he quickly noticed that his two brothers' attitudes toward him had shifted.
Especially Vulkan—when Hades "casually" mentioned that search-and-rescue teams had already been dispatched to retrieve children for future Death Guard indoctrination, the once-darkened Vulkan practically radiated light.
Nothing had changed except for the decision to use Galaspar as a recruitment world, so why had their attitudes shifted so dramatically?
But since Mortarion had no objections to acquiring another recruitment world, he simply remained silent and listened to Hades' responses.
Mortarion blinked and turned to look at Hades, who was still standing there.
Hades had undoubtedly figured out some unspoken evaluation criteria—he had learned the rules of this game.
Would Mars teach such things?
He was about to ask—
However, on the other side, Hades, feeling lightheaded, suddenly realized his nose was bleeding. The immense volume of calculations and data processing had left his brain overheated.
His chest ached—his second heart felt like it was about to burst.
The sheer shock of waking up only to hear that Mortarion was about to meet Ferrus and Vulkan had been overwhelming.
He had even considered the possibility of Vulkan getting into a fight with Mortarion.
There was no time to hesitate. Drawing on his memories from his past life regarding the other Primarchs, Hades had rushed to the meeting.
When an Apothecary tried to stop him, Hades quickly calculated that walking a few steps or even engaging in a brief scuffle wouldn't land him in a Dreadnought—so he decisively flipped the Apothecary over his back and bolted.
At the same time, he had contacted Garro, Vorx, the other Captains, and Enrique, demanding all available data on Galaspar.
Without hesitation, he had also ordered Vorx to conduct real-time searches to supplement the information.
The good news was that Galaspar was indeed an ideal recruitment world, and he had successfully bluffed his way through.
Hades looked at Mortarion, who still seemed bewildered, as if he were about to question him further.
Mortarion, you mother—
Bang!
Unable to hold on any longer, Hades collapsed to the ground.
<+>
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