Warhammer, I'm a nanny, not your father!

Typhon let Debbie ride on his shoulders and galloped with her along the ridge of the field. The wind blew past their ears, blowing Debbie's flaxen hair into a flying flag.

"How childish."

Motari stood quietly on the ridge of the field where waves of wheat were rolling. It was harvest season again. The golden ears of wheat cast tiny spots of light at his feet. The hunched figures of the villagers rose and fell in the sea of ​​wheat, harvesting the wheat stalks with sickles.

Wop gave them the day off because he wanted to join them, just as his brother had done.

If he wanted to lead them, he could not stand high above them and remain spotless; he had to bend down, step into the muddy wheat fields, and go among the people.

But there were no tools for him here.

He had grown up again, and the sickles used by mortals were too small for him.

Mortarion's eyes swept around, finally landing on a scrapped blade harvester.

In the Dark Age of Technology, these agricultural tools were everywhere in Barbarus. Their sharp metal blades gleamed coldly in the sun, tirelessly harvesting crops and plowing the land for humans.

However, since some time ago, the Barbarus people have forgotten the technology to operate these precision machines and can only use pack animals to drag them laboriously.

Due to the lack of the most basic maintenance knowledge, these steel behemoths can only be allowed to slowly damage and sink into the mud.

Mortarion walked slowly towards the abandoned machine. He opened the long-deformed shell, making a harsh sound of metal friction.

The internal mechanical structure is intricate, and the gears and transmission shafts have long stopped working, but they still maintain their final posture, as if silently telling of their past glory.

Mortarion reached his hands deep into the machine, dismantling the structures that no one could understand without any instruction, and finally took out a huge sickle with a cold glow.

Its material is unknown, but it has shown little to no rust over thousands of years.

The weight was enough to break a mortal's spine, but Mortarion simply weighed it casually, drawing several deadly arcs through the air.

Very handy.

Under the horrified and astonished gaze of the villagers, Mortarion dragged his huge scythe into the wheat field. Every swing of the scythe was accompanied by the crisp sound of wheat stalks breaking neatly, and the golden wheat waves lay low in front of him like a tide.

Mortarion's tall figure stood out among the waves of wheat.

He didn't need to work with a hunched back like a farmer, as the specially made sickle perfectly complemented his height.

He was a natural farmer, and he swung his sickle with ease, as if with an innate rhythm.

Mortals are ignorant because of their limited knowledge, but they are not stupid.

Although there was still a lingering fear in their eyes as they looked at Mortarion, there was now a hint of indescribable closeness that quietly seeped in.

The overlord would not bend over the muddy ridges and sweat with them.

Mortarion understood why mortals feared, and he knew how to dispel that fear.

Over the past few months, Wop has been teaching patiently, and he has been listening silently.

He heard the villagers' whispers and understood the fear in their eyes.

The oppression of the overlords has brought too much darkness and despair to the people of Barbarus, but there are still many people trying to ignite the fire in their hearts.

Mortarion called it fortitude, the greatest quality in the world!

Perhaps they themselves have not even realized that their obedience and escape day after day have already planted the seeds of resistance in their hearts.

But they are like scattered grains of sand, each grain is full of anger, but they cannot find the strength to unite.

The shackles of fear are heavier than chains, and a poisonous fog obscures the path ahead.

There are no torches to guide the way, no horns to awaken courage, and even despair has become the most familiar comfort - because they have long learned to use numbness instead of breathing in the suffocating darkness.

They lack leaders and hope.

Mortarion has always been dedicated to learning how to ignite the flame of hope for the people of Barbarus.

Wop's teachings always echoed in his heart - the awakening of the leader is a necessary prerequisite for awakening the people. Only when he himself truly sees the light of hope can he pass this light on to the people struggling in the darkness.

Therefore, he must be more resilient!

If even he cannot move forward firmly on this thorny road, who will lead the people?

Not only did he wield his sickle in the fields and work with the people, he also tempered his own beliefs in silence until his tenacity could be transformed into a torch that could dispel the fog.

The silence we are accustomed to will eventually turn into deafening thunder at some point.

Someday they might give everything to Him, and He would always stand among them.

At dusk, the sound of the horn spreads like ripples among the golden wheat waves.

This long sound is both a signal to finish work and a warning bell urging the villagers working in the fields to return immediately.

"Mortarion, it's time for us to go!" As dusk fell, Typhon was waving his arms vigorously at Mortarion.

Mortarion looked back as he and the other children sorted the wheat into sheaves and piled them onto the wagon, tying the heavy ears into neat stacks.

Mortarion looked across the golden waves of wheat, where a thick, poisonous fog gathered at the edge of the fields.

Every night in Barbarossa was dangerous, and they had to return to the village before sunset.

The villagers drove their carriages back, and the children's laughter still echoed in the air.

Suddenly, a loud noise tore through the twilight.

The carriage overturned with a loud bang, and the cries of children and Typhon's heartbreaking cries for help intertwined in the smoke and dust:

"Motarion, help me!"

The villagers who had already walked far away suddenly looked back, and after catching a glimpse of the rolling fog, they tightly grabbed the wrists of the children who wanted to turn back, and ran towards the village entrance without looking back.

Mortarion, scythe in hand, rushed towards the overturned wagon, the one Typhon was in charge of.

Fresh wood stumps were exposed at the broken part of the wheel, like a hideous wound.

Debbie was pinned under the overturned carriage, blood gushing out from the wound on her forehead, leaving a glaring red mark on her paper-white cheek.

The villagers greedily piled up the sheaves until the old skeleton groaned under the weight.

Now, these golden harvests have become the cruelest instruments of torture.

The muddy ground whimpered ominously, and with every struggle, the heavy frame sank mercilessly, crushing the girl's fragile body, as fragile as dry firewood, inch by inch into the shadow of death.

"Step aside."

Mortarion wedged his sickle hard into the earth, bent over to grip the axle, and with a low growl of effort, he lifted the heavy carriage.

The mud whimpered unwillingly, pulling out sticky threads between the frame and the ground.

Typhon picked up the dying Debbie with trembling hands. The girl was as light as a dead leaf, but her blood soaked through his clothes.

He gritted his teeth, lifted her body onto his back, and ran towards the village entrance.

She was badly injured and only the teacher could save her.

It's all his fault. If he hadn't insisted on showing off, Debbie wouldn't have been hurt!

"leave."

Mortarion pulled out the sickle that was deeply embedded in the soil. The sharp blade drew a sharp arc in the air, stopping the other villagers who wanted to rescue the wheat sheaves.

"You don't understand! This wheat is our life!"

Mortarion leaned over and stared at the hysterical man. "This is not a request, it is an order. Leave now. They are coming."

Faced with Mortarion's iron tower-like body and the huge sickle, the villagers finally retreated.

They exchanged glances and unconsciously took steps back. The determination displayed by this usually taciturn young man at this moment was frightening.

But who are they?

"It's too late." Mortarion's voice slowly sank into the twilight.

A black shadow suddenly rose from the wheat waves like a night crow, and the unharvested ears of wheat did not move at all as it passed by.

The dark cloak almost blended into the twilight, and the only sound was the slight hissing of the bronze dagger as it attacked Mortarion's throat like a venomous snake.

Mortarion's scythe swung out at the critical moment, and the collision between the steel handle and the bronze dagger produced a string of dazzling sparks.

As soon as the assassin's sword was blocked, his figure floated back like a ghost.

However, Mortarion's wrist suddenly turned, and the scythe seemed to be injected with life in his hand, and the scythe blade drew a perfect arc of death in the air.

A cold light flashed, and the assassin was startled to find that his vision suddenly tilted.

His body was broken neatly like a harvested ear of wheat, and his filthy internal organs were scattered in the twilight.

While the villagers were still in a daze, this fatal confrontation had already ended.

The assassin's severed body lay quietly at the edge of the wheat field, its foul-smelling blood slowly seeping into the soil.

Someone let out a heart-wrenching scream, and fear spread like a plague through the crowd. They stumbled and fled towards the village entrance, leaving behind only messy footprints and a few trampled straw hats.

Mortarion did not leave. He lowered his eyes and stared at the remaining upper body of the assassin.

"Di Salem, who gave you the courage? Where is Nakre?"

Desalem is Nakre's right-hand man, a lesser overlord and a self-confident schemer.

He had long lingered in the shadow of the Supreme Overlord, licking the scraps from the feast of power like a hyena.

Mortarion knew these tricks too well. If Nakre really had the courage to face him, why would he hide behind the scenes?

The servile reptile before him had merely smelled an opportunity to curry favor with his master, and so he eagerly bared his fangs.

"Nackre may not take me seriously, but he fears my father."

Disalem's severed body was still twitching in the mud, his broken spine exposed like pale stone steps, and his intestines twisted and turned in the pool of blood with every futile struggle, like a severed snake.

Mortarion's gaze was eerily calm, as if observing the final twitch of a dying insect.

A thick fog gradually enveloped Mortarion, and the poisonous mist was enough to suffocate mortals.

But Mortarion simply inhaled deeply, letting the poison fill his tempered lungs.

The puppets rushed forward from the darkness, and Mortarion's figure turned into a blurred afterimage in the crowd of corpses. The silver light from the sickle intertwined into a web of death, and the whistling sound of the blade tearing through the air became one.

When the last ray of cold light faded away, the puppets still maintained their killing posture, but in the next second they fell apart like knocked-over building blocks, the broken pieces bouncing on the muddy ground, emitting the stench of rotting flesh.

Mortarion took another deep breath, and the poison gas made him feel inexplicably nostalgic.

"Xiao Mo, you're not going to become a drug addict carrying a gas canister around with you, are you?"

Mortarion's breath hitched, and he unconsciously tightened his grip on the scythe handle. "You don't like it?"

"If you must smoke, then go ahead, but at least do it behind others' backs, not in public, and don't let other brothers know."

Worp rarely expressed his likes and dislikes publicly, but Mortarion's quirks were truly unusual.

Mortarion explained through gritted teeth, "It will make me tougher."

"You're already resilient enough, Little Mo." Wop's voice was low and gentle. "In the years since I arrived late, you've endured the torture of the Overlord alone, yet you've never let the pain distort your humanity. If this isn't resilient, what is?"

The long-lost warmth in Mortarion's chest suddenly surged. "Then I won't smoke."

His father said he was the toughest. Is there any better recognition than this?

Mortarion: "How's Debbie?"

"never mind."

The injuries Debbie suffered would have resulted in a very high mortality rate in the feudal era of ancient Terra, when medical care was scarce.

But the Barbarus can survive in a world filled with poisonous fog, and their tenacity far exceeds that of ordinary people.

Even without Wop's spiritual power to heal her, she wouldn't die.

Mortarion: "Typhon has really changed. He cares about Debbie. That's not fake."

Wop raised his chin slightly, "Don't you see who taught him?"

He seldom boasts about himself, but he does have extensive experience in teaching people.

The mind is the most easily conquered city in the world.

The gates are the fragile drawbridges of ego, the defenders are the hungry desire for recognition, and praise is a Trojan Horse. This was true of Typhon and Mortarion.

The corners of Mortarion's lips also rose slightly, "Father, let's go."

"Back to the village?"

Mortarion: "Let us leave this place. For too long, I have sought revenge against Nakre. Vengeance will come, but not today. I should not waste my time here. I am the Primarch, I have a mission, I must save the people of Barbarus!"

"Little Mo," Wop lowered his voice to a very low level, like a feather falling on the lake, "You just need to be yourself. You don't have to prove anything to anyone."

"Yes, Father, I promise."