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

Mortarion lowered his head and walked back to the village with his father along the ridge of the field.

Why did he stay in Heller's Pass?

Because this is the village closest to the Supreme Overlord, and because he can go to the top of the mountain to take his revenge at any time, he is always obsessed with it!

This was not only because of the torture he suffered since childhood, but also because he once called the alien his adoptive father.

This name is an insult to Wop!

No one except him deserves this title, not even the Emperor.

Mortarion had never revealed to Wop the past in which he called the alien his adoptive father. It was like a poisonous thorn deeply embedded in his flesh, burning his dignity day and night.

The God of the Warp used conspiracy to separate them and let the filthy aliens taint their relationship. He swallowed the shame silently, and only the flames of revenge could burn away this filth!

So he stayed, in this village where he could see the mountain, until the day when he could wash away the shame.

But now, Mortarion suddenly felt relieved.

What does he want to prove?

He just wanted to prove to his father that he was his pure offspring.

But Wop's recognition was like a gust of wind, easily blowing away the haze that had lingered for many years.

The shame that gnawed at him day and night was nothing but a cage he had built himself.

He could be obsessed with revenge, but he should not hinder the liberation of Barbarus. That revenge would come, but only after his people were free.

He is the Primarch, the patron saint of mankind.

If he abandoned his duty for his own selfish desires, what difference would there be between him and Asuryan? What kind of guardian deity was he?

His brother wouldn't be so childish, and neither should he.

Mortarion's gaze pierced the swirling poisonous fog like a sharp blade, gazing at the Overlord's Palace looming on the distant mountaintop. He slowly moved his lips:

"One day, I will come back to find you!"

No matter what, Nakre must die!

His shame must be washed away, and there should be no stain between him and Wop!

……

"We're leaving."

In the torchlit clearing in the center of the village, Mortarion stood tall and imposing. He slowly scanned each face, flickering in the firelight. "You can decide for yourself whether to leave with me. The choice is yours."

"Will you continue to crawl under the rule of the overlord, barely surviving like an ear of wheat waiting to be slaughtered, awaiting the next scythe; or will you leave with me, unite more people, and ignite the flames of revolution?"

The crowd was whispering, fear and confusion intertwined in their eyes.

Worp and Mortarion kept their promise and they did guard Heller's Pass.

The Overlord's army has never set foot on this land again until today.

Even in this attack, no one was hurt.

Mortarion swung his scythe alone, wielding the enemy like harvesting wheat.

"We thank you, Lord," the man began cautiously. "But what about the fields?"

The other villagers all lowered their heads.

Yes, what should we do with the fields?

How can we feed so many people without the fields?

Staying here means continuing to bow down under the overlord's scythe.

They are kept in a cage of poisonous fog like livestock and harvested one after another like ears of wheat.

But hasn’t this been the way our ancestors have been surviving for thousands of years?

Where would they go after leaving Heller Pass? Where could they go?

Could Mortarion give them answers? Could he give them assurances?

Mortarion could give it, but he wouldn't.

What he needs is a warrior, and a warrior should be tough and fearless, not the lesser of two evils.

"You have one night," Mortarion's voice cut through the murmur of the crowd. "At dawn, we will depart."

It was obvious that after they left, Nakre's revenge would surely come to Heller Pass.

Mortarion could have taken them all by force, but he had given them a choice.

If they still choose to cower under the shadow of the overlord and be willing to be slaughtered, then these souls tamed by fear will never become the spark that ignites the revolution.

Chapter 124 Returning from the expedition, Nidie is gone (5K)

Barbarus is always shrouded in mist. The mountains belong to the overlords, and the valleys are home to mortals.

Vast farmlands surround the defenseless village, and when night falls, the villagers gather in the open space in the center of the village.

To save precious fuel, they would keep bonfires burning there all night.

If the village population is small enough, they will also abandon the open space and gather in larger houses.

But no matter where they are, the results will remain the same.

The fire can keep them out of the cold, but it will also expose their position, and the overlord's puppets may come to them at any time.

In despair, they could only pray that the overlord on the mountain would show some mercy and allow them to reproduce in view of their declining population.

Wise hegemons will not drain the pond to fish. If they are not even given this little room for survival, they will be forced to take risks and cast their greedy eyes on the territories of other hegemons.

However, when faced with the territories of other hegemons, the hegemons were merciless in their plunder.

It is much faster to snatch population from the enemy than to wait for the mortals in one's territory to take decades to reproduce.

"Tonight, maybe we're safe."

Someone was whispering in the darkness.

People don’t know whether they believe it or not, they have become numb.

Not long ago, they were still thanking the Overlord for his kindness.

After all, according to convention, the lord only comes to harvest the population twice a year.

But now, in just a few months, the harvest teams have swept through the village like locusts, carrying off all the young and middle-aged people.

What's even more ridiculous is that the puppets are still blaming the villagers for failing to protect the overlord's property.

But the villagers couldn't tell which overlord the puppets belonged to, they all looked equally hideous and ferocious.

Even if they recognize it, can they resist?

The result of resistance is even more brutal massacre, and they have learned the lesson.

The darkness was just a dozen meters away, and the fire could not fully illuminate the surroundings.

Thick darkness swallowed up everything ten steps away, and the flickering firelight was as weak as the breath of a dying person.

The smoky bonfire stank of rotting wood, and the damp firewood groaned painfully in the flames, spewing out more choking smoke than heat.

Mothers holding their babies huddled closest to the fire; their children, who needed warmth the most, were often the first to stop crying in the smoke.

"Boom!"

Suddenly, a rustling sound came from the depths of the thick fog, like countless sharp claws scratching on dry bones.

The villagers all understood what the sound meant: the puppet in the darkness was examining them, selecting tonight's harvest.

But no one dared to escape, and no one dared to resist.

Many people have long been numb, and even fear seems unnecessary.

A few people unconsciously huddled together, shivering as they squeezed towards the center of the fire, but it was not to ward off the cold, but just to find some comfort that was better than nothing.

Those on the periphery may not be harvested, and the fire cannot protect them.

The twisted silhouette of a humanoid monster staggered in the darkness, its swollen body barely maintaining its horrific human proportions. Its two deformed lower limbs dragged at a strange rhythm, and the tattered shroud made a dry friction sound as it moved.

The face drooped like a melted wax figure, with no trace of blood beneath the pale skin. The corners of the mouth were raised at an angle that went against the human body's anatomy, frozen in a creepy smile.

The Pale King, as people call it, is a monster bred from the deepest nightmares, and there are hundreds of such monsters in the Overlord's puppet army.

It walked into the crowd and picked and chose among them unscrupulously.

"Wow--"

A heart-wrenching cry suddenly broke the silence.

His mother shuddered all over and instinctively covered the baby's mouth and nose with her palms. Her tears sparkled in the firelight, but she dared not fall.

The Pale King's head suddenly twisted at a strange angle, his wax-like face staring straight at the source of the sound, his claws raised high like a hunting mantis.

In an instant, a sharp cold light tore through the darkness.

The giant sickle drew a perfect arc of death, and when the sickle blade sank into the Pale King's back covered in rotten flesh, a wet muffled sound was heard.

The sickle was pulled back suddenly, bringing out a large ball of sticky, rotten black blood, dragging the horrible puppet into deeper darkness.

The villagers remained seated, no one daring to look back to confirm.

They didn't know to whom the sickle belonged. Perhaps it belonged to the executioner of another overlord, or perhaps it was their own lord who finally showed his majesty in person and punished the other overlords for their plunder.

In either case, the harvest will happen, and the lord's protection is not priceless.

The fire crackled, illuminating the numb faces.

Sometimes they even hoped that this scene had not happened, so that the Pale King might have completed the harvest and left, and they would not have to worry anymore.

Then, blood-curdling screams and tearing sounds, as well as gunshots, came from the darkness.

There was so much noise that they even heard someone shouting.

But still no one turned back.

The young child turned his neck, but the adult held his head down tightly.

"Snapped!"

Light footsteps came from the darkness, and a thin figure broke into the numb crowd.

The young man walked quickly towards the mother, who was still holding the baby tightly.

"Let go, you're suffocating him!" The young man's scolding voice was irresistible, he simply grabbed her wrist and twisted it.

The baby's face had turned crimson purple. The young man knelt on one knee in the mud, placed the baby face down on his forearm, and patted the back with his hands until the baby made a faint choking cough and then a weak cry.

His crying gradually became louder, so vivid and so angry, as if accusing this absurd world.

The villagers remained numb, huddled in place and motionless.

They hugged their knees and buried their faces in their arms, as if this nightmarish night had never existed as long as they couldn't see it.

Only the mother whose child was taken away raised her head, her distracted eyes slowly focused on the young man, watching him carefully hold the baby, watching the wrinkles between his brows deepened with concentration.

When the baby's cry finally broke the silence, she saw the young man's tense jawline relax slightly, and his blood-stained hands were trembling slightly.

He handed the baby back to the mother's arms and scolded her loudly, "Let him cry, what are you afraid of? We are here!"

The mother looked back in a trance, and the faint firelight outlined the fight in the darkness.

The Pale King's distorted outline was particularly clear in the darkness, but those fighting them were not puppets of other overlords, but a group of mortals.

Mortals are clearly livestock kept by the Overlords, but at this moment they are fighting with the Pale King.

Her gaze was suddenly caught by the young man's palm, which was glowing with a strange light.

He just made a fist in the air, and the pale king who was about to pounce on him suddenly stiffened, and his wax-like neck tilted back at an unnatural angle.

A woman with thick braids suddenly jumped up from the side, her sickle drawing a perfect arc of death.

With the dull thud of the blade sinking into the pale flesh, the nightmarish head flew high into the air, spraying foul-smelling blood in the air.

The young man whistled, "Nice shot, Kvir!"

The woman raised an eyebrow, "You too, Karas."

She shook the sticky black blood off her scythe and continued to fight the other Pale Kings.