This is our Warhammer journey

Chapter 465 Death Guard: Father, it's time for your son to save you.
Boom!

Another unclean creature collapsed, howling in agony.

Another demon lord who could change his appearance also fell.

However, despite both being heading towards death, their attitudes are completely different.

One side is in despair and pain, while the other is beaming with joy, reflecting the attitude of the people behind them.

It's clearly part of a grand game, but its nature seems completely different from the past. The battlefield that will decide everything isn't here, nor in Macragge, but behind them—

In Coss.

As his comrades dragged him back to the ship's command center, Morag raised his head.

His body was regenerating. The Chaos Wizard tried many methods to repair his body, but found that the most effective ones were the ancient remnants that they had long ago abandoned in the apothecary. As the writhing muscles regenerated, all sorts of thoughts surfaced in his mind.

This is unprecedented.

Why fight here? Is he fighting for the Father of Genetics or for the Merciful Father Nurgle? Does the Merciful Father Nurgle even care about them?
The Death Guards grew increasingly dazed and confused, and Morag pondered deeply.

Since joining the Plague Garden, he had rarely thought or questioned things in this way.

Morag stood up from his brief recovery and subconsciously stroked the book that Silent Lord Warlord Vox had given him.

Vox's death saddened him greatly; he was one of the few comrades he could truly confide in within the Death Guard.

In the aftermath of the Great Rebellion, the Legion was long influenced by the indescribably repulsive Typhon, and during the long period when Lord Mortalian was not in control of the Legion, the converts among its members were fanatical and abhorrent.

They were obsessed with witchcraft, fanatically worshipping the god of plague, and even forgot that they had a genetic father. However, the fact that many of them were so numb that they gradually became unaware of themselves made it even more difficult for Morag to confide in anyone.

If that's the case with the Legion, are they truly acting in accordance with the will of Mortarion?

Does Nurgle's behavior betray Mortalian's covenant with Him?

An unprecedented sense of confusion enveloped him.

This prompted Morag to instinctively move to the edge of the command platform, activate the communication system, and try to contact Mortarion in order to obtain power from the Father of Genesis.

Unlike other legions, the Deathguard Legion has always been loyal to Mortalian, and the descendants of Barbaros have always been the most loyal children of the Lord of Death.

Boom!

It was another spell from the Myriad Transformations Demon Lord.

Pink supernatural flames struck the warship, igniting large sections of armor and burning away the tiny creatures within, leaving that section of the warship's structure as fragile as foam board.

Then the fire demons tore through the walls and targeted and annihilated these warriors who had deep ties with Mortarion and Nurgle.

These Tzeentch demons were brimming with confidence, as if simply using all their strength to keep Nurgle's army here would bring about something unprecedented.

Morag raised his eyes from the array of screens surrounding him and looked out over the entire command hall.

The Death Guards numbly began to fight back. The corridors inside the warship, now transformed into living beings, spewed out digestive fluids, and various creatures crawled out of the caves, colliding with the invaders.

He lowered his head again, awaiting his master's reply.

His master is Mortarion, that much is certain.

Did he fail?
No response.

Or is it just another instance of being caught in some kind of strategic planning, waiting for everything to start over once again?
Morag comforted himself in this way.

Something had changed. The burden that had always weighed on their shoulders had never truly disappeared; now it was laid bare. Morag could clearly feel something shattering. Now, all that remained in his body and mind was physical exhaustion, the result of weeks of sleepless nights, and—

wide awake.

The malice disappeared.

The voice in my head disappeared.

The books tied to his hands swayed precariously, emitting a strange glow. He saw people bustling around him, the old men from the fleet, and his own compatriots.

Although their faces had long since rusted and decayed over the years, leaving behind a trail of fungi, Morag was still able to recognize their names from their bloated bodies that had grown alongside the bridge, and from their faces covered in fungi and rusted steel.

They must have always been there, but now Morag finally remembered their names.

When they arrived, and who they replaced.

My vision is recovering, and the fog is dissipating.

This made Morag instinctively uneasy; he felt that something had changed, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

He shifted his position in the command seat, beginning to hope for news from the Father of Genetics. He gently pressed the control valve, entering a channel specifically set up for this purpose. Various military messages immediately came through, encrypted with a code that only he could decipher, from sources that only he could access.

Morag suddenly realized that the military deployment before him was so chaotic. The Plague Warriors were fighting on their own, with no communication between them. The Death Guard’s pride in its resilience and order was naturally rendered useless in such a loose state.

Did this just happen?

Morag frowned.

Or has it existed for a long time?
Morag didn't understand.

He began to take command of these loosely organized squads.

He needs to make his own decisions.

With no other commanders nearby to communicate with, and Kugas still protecting his plague, Morag tried his best to gather his troops and direct them to concentrate in what he believed to be a relatively safe direction. This allowed his hastily assembled army to grow rapidly in a short period of time, consisting of troops from seven different Brotherhoods and a considerable number of warships, all remnants from ten thousand years ago.

With the help of these forces, they achieved some results, but at an extremely slow pace, advancing under the cover of the fleet, letting it destroy the pre-set defenses, and then having the infantry rush out of the shadows to attack the remaining enemy.

Repeat this process again and again, trying to ignore the trauma, disregard the depleted energy, and disregard the physical damage.

Morag seemed to be guided by something.

As the command stabilized, more and more people gathered around Him, and now they finally resembled a legion. Void ships could be lifted and lowered here via a powerful gravity platform and transported to the landing sites carved out on those chaotic reefs.

On a reef, Morag led his troops to continue gathering, keeping a low profile, with walls rumbling beside them from the naval gunfire.

Corpses lay strewn across the ground, mutilated and broken, reduced to charred remains and ashes.

He could hear the sounds of impacts and gunfire coming from ahead, so he ordered his men to speed up.

Someone is waiting for him here.

A plague wizard from the Silent Lords Warband was on his last breath, leaning against a huge support pillar. His staff was charred black, and the light from his helmet goggles and the writhing tentacles on his body had either been extinguished or were just withered, limp remains.

Morag ran to him and bent down to lift his head out of the greasy sewage.

"Vox".

He said respectfully.

He knew this body didn't belong to Vox, but he just recognized him.

Morag respected this noble fellow countryman. Compared to the Death Guard, who had long since become completely lost over the years, Vox had always been gentle, averse to fighting, thoughtful, and even capable of writing books.

Even Nurgle praised his books, for life was born from the books he wrote.

Those demons.

This is truly rare. The vast majority of Death Guardians are now like the elderly who have lost their minds after a blessed space war, unable to even remember who they are, where they are, who attacked them, or who they attacked.

Morag cherished the gift his brother had given him.

"I thought you were dead."

Vox, the warband lord, coughed weakly and reached out to touch Morag.

He seemed to have gone blind, or rather, the body he controlled no longer possessed that function.

Morag grabbed his hand.

He knew these brothers had died in battle, and that those who fell into the hands of the Dawnwing were destined to die, but brothers are brothers.

"I'm probably going to die."

Vox gave a bitter laugh.

"Perhaps the lion was much more merciful than the other four, at least giving me some time to think before I died."

"Time for clear thinking."

He then emphasized this point.

"This joke is not funny at all."

Morag responded with a smile.

Unlike Typhons, who is arrogant because of the Primarch's favor, they have a deep respect for the Primarch, not only for their power but also for everything that they represent.

The Lion's choice to choose mercy is as absurd as the Luojia's conversion to the Empire's truth.

"Ha, just take it as a joke."

Vox looked at Morag, who seemed unchanged, and his sorrow deepened.

Look at what they've all become!
They still yearn for a better future and unity, but reality is so cruel.

"You escaped now?"

"I told you, I'm dying," Morag asked with concern.

"Vox replied."

The Dawnwings' bottom line is that they will not choose to torment these fallen brethren, and this bottom line is being inherited by the Legions they influence.

They will die, and die a quick death.

There is no chance for redemption, nor do they need to confront their mistakes like those dark angels.

"Then why did you find me?"

Morag roughly guessed what his companion was thinking, and the reason he was able to contact him was probably because of the books he had given him.

There's nothing surprising about this.

Vox's book can give birth to demons, and the book will only end when he dies.

This universe is bizarre and wonderful, and there are always people with unique skills that no one dares to claim, not even the gods, to fully understand the subspace.

"Send them away."

Vox pointed to the fleet behind Morag.

“You must come with us.”

"no no."

Vox shook his head in refusal.

"Time is running out."

He tried to stand up, but strangely, blood gushed out of the seals on his armor like a fountain.

"The Lord of Death is dealing with Lord Karna; it's a war that cannot be won."

He opened his mouth to explain.

More words, more blood.

“Our father is in danger, Nurgle is going to sacrifice him. You are too slow. You all must go and help him. You must, you must be quick!”

The dying Death Lord's soul was fading away, his words already incoherent.

Morag lowered his head, trying to hear the fragmented words.

Where is he? Where are they fighting?

"Coss is still in Coss."

Vox's helmet fell towards the pillar.

"He's right behind us, quick, everyone go help him."

There are many landing sites, and they are very large.

Their extended portion occupies most of the Void Isles. It may take the Death Guard Legion many days to defeat the Tzeentch Army, break through here, and then face the other ninety-nine isles.

“We have never fought for our father, but for the fulfillment of His ambition. Our father was forced to give up everything early on, and now He wants to abandon him. Even if you succeed, the Plague will create a new offspring for Nurgle, but what about our father? He will only be abandoned.”

"Vox said sadly."

Perhaps it would have been better if he had died on the spot, so he wouldn't have had to face all of this soberly.

This is too painful for the Death Guard.

In the lion's jungle, the expected resistance often fails to materialize. These death guards, far removed from the influence of the plague god, become unusually quiet, even able to communicate calmly, much to the surprise of the Caliban inhabitants and dark angels who watch over them.

But adhering to the rules established by the Wings of Dawn, they will not respond, and naturally, there will be no pity.

It's too lazy to listen.

No, perhaps there is still a chance.

Vox scratched his head.

But he really didn't know what to do.

"Go save him, go to Koss, even if it means dying together."

He could only repeat this phrase, instinctively not wanting the legion to obey the plague god's orders again and to rebel against them.

Don't waste time here with Tzeentch's army, and don't go to your death for the orders of the Plague God. Think about what they really want to do.

"This is far too greedy! This is utterly absurd."

Morag exclaimed incredulously, "And how can you be sure this isn't a lie fabricated for you by another god? We've seen what that one looks like."

When are the gods not greedy?

Vox questioned, "He took advantage of the Father of Genetics' kindness and wove a colossal lie with Typhon. Now that the lie has been exposed, he is too busy to care about himself. He will only choose to abandon everything and then unleash all his vicious methods on others."

"As for whether this is a lie fabricated by some god, does it matter now?"

"."

Morag fell silent.

Is it important?
important.

But how does it compare to Mortarion?
unimportant.

Mortarian liberated them.

This is something that other rebel legions and those who came after them could never truly understand. Vox, including many of the Death Guard, was not a blind fanatic. He understood that the Primarchs had weaknesses, and he understood that the Gene Fathers would fail. In that war against the slave owners, what truly brought Barbaross to decisive liberation was the Imperial fleet.

But he will never forget that first struggle for freedom.

Unless you have personally tried to live a breathless life on the filthy white lands of Hell, unless you have witnessed firsthand how the hill lords of Barbaros trampled on cowardly mortals, unless you have seen what the Lord of Death did to liberate them, you cannot truly understand.

This is why, despite the fact that Typhon, the hybrid of the aliens, and many other Chaos rogue warlords and pirate leaders were trying to weaken Mortalian's influence to satisfy their insatiable desires, the Death Guard never broke.

Because the Legion’s first members are still grateful, they will never forget everything Mortarion did.

Vox is one of them.

Why does Mortarion often get angry at offensive words?
Because he truly cared, he truly loved everything he had, but he knew that making disastrous decisions would ruin it all, and his conformity would harm many people.

Mortalian's mistake was that he was an absolutely unshakable, unwavering Primarch who could not afford to make any major mistakes, yet his body housed an ordinary, drifting, and error-prone person.

Vox fell silent, and the conversation ended abruptly.

The soul has completely departed from this body.

"."

That's enough, there's no need to ask any more questions.

Morag already understood.

"As ordered."

He uttered only one word, lifting the mangled body left behind by Vox so that at least he wouldn't slip back into the sewage.

“I hereby swear, Lord of Silence.”

The uncrowned lord of the Death Guard, Mortarion's close confidant, makes a promise to his companion.

“I will do it. I will get to the Lord of Death’s side, even if it is a dead end.”

Then he stood up.

The Death Guard is advancing ahead, the treads of the Plague Chariot kicking up clumps of mud as it rushes toward an enemy position.

Morag's warriors followed closely behind it.

"All units, halt."

He issued an order, commanding the attacking troops to halt.

"A new mission."

He switched the helmet display to the tactical map of the Koss sector.

The road ahead will be very difficult.

The Nurgle army around him looked at him differently, and the Plague Fleet's machine spirits were struggling, as if something was wrong.

Perhaps it's another conspiracy by some chaotic god, perhaps his so-called free will is nothing but a mirage, perhaps it's another choice that was predetermined long ago, perhaps when they find themselves in a situation just like now, still blocked by thousands of enemy troops, perhaps they will also face the Primarch directly.
Think it over, Morag, and do what you truly want to do without being coerced.

At least give it a try and see if you can do it this time.

"Locate the nearest shipping lane."

Facing the waves of malice gradually filling the surrounding area, he still gave the order:
"Let's go back."

(End of this chapter)