Emperor's Bane

Chapter 1023 The Kings' March (Part 1)
Frankly speaking.

Mortarion did not initially harbor the idea that Horus could be replaced.

Prior to this, he had at least experienced a serious period of ideological turmoil.

After all, ambition is unlikely to be an innate virtue.

Even the most brilliant and ambitious monarchs would not make a vow to unify the world when they are born.

Only when he continues to grow, when his vision, strength, and status rise continuously, whether due to his innate background or his acquired efforts, when he realizes that he should be superior to others and believes that he is stronger than those at the top of the pyramid, will the poppy flower called ambition begin to spread rampantly.

As for Mortarian...

The first poppy in his heart sprouted on the day Horus became the warlord.

Back during the Great Crusade, ambition was still a rather foreign concept to Mortalian. At that time, the Death Lord was indifferent to so-called power and rule, and he didn't even care about the honors he gained in the war: otherwise the Death Guard wouldn't have been considered a marginalized legion.

It should be noted that although they cannot compare to the darlings of the stage like Shadowmoon Wolves or Ultramarines, the Fourteenth Legion's capabilities and achievements are equally remarkable.

They were key figures in at least dozens of tough battles during the Great Expedition, and in the field of chemical warfare, they possessed authority comparable to that of the Dark Angels Legion.

If Mortarion wanted, he could erect his own statues in hundreds of worlds.

However, at that time, the Primarch did not want these.

Or rather, from the day he left Barbarus in a semi-forced manner, Mortarian never really understood what he wanted.

Power? Glory? Status?
He looked down on these things.

Family? Friendship? Adoration?

He didn't care that much.

Ultimately, the Lord of Death succumbed to his undying bitterness and capricious rage. Occasionally, he would display an extraordinary passion for something, such as striking Magnus on Nicaea, but more often, he would simply mock everyone while living like a child amidst his own poisonous fog.

Originally, there was nothing wrong with this kind of life.

Until on Ulanoro, when the Emperor placed the crown of Warmaster on his most beloved eldest son, the Lord of Man decided to bestow upon his other sons a different gift.

Thus, when he returned to the warship, Mortarion had become the absolute ruler of a large region of space in the southern part of the galaxy.

He was suddenly given the treatment that only Guilliman was entitled to in the past, and power and status were presented to him with unprecedented clarity.

If the Lord of Death did not understand what his title symbolized before this, then when billions of honors of life and death were unexpectedly served on his table, this demigod who was thinking of farming on Babalu just a moment ago seemed to have immediately found his new goal.

In the morning he was Tian Shelang, and in the evening he ascended to the Hall of the Son of Heaven.

Although not a perfect analogy, such a dramatic life change would have a significant impact even on the Primarch.

Especially for Mortarian, who is someone who is never good at saying no to others.

So he took up that power.

He began his reign.

And once he put on that crown, he wore it for a full fifty years.

For ordinary people, this is almost a lifetime.

For the Primarchs, this was a long time long enough to change them forever: even the Warmaster who considered his relationship with the Emperor the foundation of his soul only had thirty years to spare.

And it was this warlord who roused Mortarion from his dream of pastoral life and royal power: the Wolf God ignited the flames of war at the very center of the galaxy, raised his claws, and called upon his most loyal brothers and allies to join him in the final conquest required for the Great Crusade.

Out of friendship, covenant, and some inexplicable feelings within himself, the Lord of Death answered the call.

But when he removed his crown and led his legions to the battlefield, beneath that hood, where Horus could not see, his Barbarosian brothers already possessed a pair of completely different eyes.

Fifty years is enough time to change a Primarch.

The power of fifty, the rule, the arbitrary arbitration and the capricious commands, the authority above all others and the unbridled management—all of this is enough to destroy a heart that was originally closed off in the fields.

In other words, a peasant rebel suddenly ascended the throne, and there was no longer any force around him to restrain him. He could do whatever he wanted and rule however he wanted. All that remained in the world was absolute loyalty and trembling awe. Even the human ruler who could theoretically govern him had not paid attention to the galaxy for decades.

Fifty years have passed in this way.

What will happen is self-evident.

The limitations of the small peasant class: This is not just a point that appears in history textbooks.

As for Mortarion, he hadn't yet fallen to the level of those tyrants.

But one thing is beyond doubt.

After half a century of ruling as the absolute king of Barbarossa, doing whatever he pleased on his throne.

The Lord of Death could no longer tolerate any being that could once again rise above him.

Emperor?

Warmaster?

Or are those viscous voices in his mind, claiming to be his new father?

Do not!
In the past, he probably would have tolerated it.

But now: no one can boss the rulers of Barbarossa around anymore.

He had tasted the power, and also tasted its greatest temptation: the absolute freedom that comes with absolute authority.

This freedom is intoxicating.

To defend this freedom, Mortarian is not prepared to yield to anyone again.

He is the true emperor of Barbarossa.

He is the true ruler of the southern part of the galaxy.

He is the most outstanding person in the world.

No name should, can, or should ever exist under his name again.

Let all these damned slave owners die!

He will not submit to Horus.

Even after the war ends, he will only treat the Wolf God as an equal ally: if that Imperial Warmaster's ambition has swelled to the point of wanting to become the second Emperor simply because of his victory over Terra, then the Death Guard's current rampant expansion and stagnation will be useful.

He was not afraid to wage war against the Wolf God: even if Horus were to ascend the throne of Holy Terra, he would not dare to casually purge his Primarch brothers.

As for emperors?

That old relic may indeed be powerful, but he has long since lost the spirit of a monarch.

He can't even resolve the conflict between his own son and his own servants: such a galactic lord is not worthy to stand above Mortarion.

He would not obey either of them: even though he had once admired them to some extent.

Even emperors and war generals are like this.

Not to mention the uninvited third party.

……

The being who calls himself the benevolent father has been lurking in the shadows of Mortalian for a long time.

Back in Barbarossa, when he was struggling to survive under that alien scum, that voice appeared from time to time, like the wind on a distant horizon. And when he fled to the fields, he would occasionally hear a sticky, indistinct phrase.

When the Great Expedition arrived, those intermittent words became a clear echo in his heart, becoming the guy who liked to come uninvited and offer advice whenever he was thinking in silence.

Up until then, the situation was tolerable.

But after Ulanor, when the Emperor left the Great Expedition and his children, and when Mortarion returned alone to his homeland, this loving father began to visit frequently, as if he had suddenly moved next door to him.

Every day, he would appear in Mortalian's mind like a clock on time, starting from only seven times a day at the beginning, and then gradually becoming more arrogant, eventually appearing a full forty-nine times a day: each time he would utter seven sentences in unison.

These words are viscous and ambiguous; not every sentence is understandable.

Those things that could be understood were nothing more than repetitive persuasive tricks.

And those incomprehensible words sounded like chilling incantations no matter how you listened to them.

He was like a clump of sticky phlegm that couldn't be shaken off, following closely wherever the Lord of Death went, slowly and deliberately making all sorts of promises and expressing all sorts of love with his foul and passionate words, inviting him to his garden to share a cup of afternoon tea that couldn't be seen in the real universe.

Such harassment was extremely annoying to the Death Guard.

Mortarian tried many methods, but he could never get rid of the voice in his head.

He once thought the sounds were just his hallucinations, because no one else in the entire 14th Army had experienced this.

Until he discovered that no matter where it was, no matter how many times it had been cleaned, there was always an unbearable filth in his field of vision.

The mortal servants responsible for cleaning nervously assured the Primarch of their diligence, and the Primarch knew that this was not their responsibility: Mortarion had personally witnessed how a nauseating pool of sewage would magically spring up from the cleaned floor.

Right next to him, this abnormal phenomenon was becoming increasingly pronounced.

From being annoying to being terrifying.

But there was still no solution.

With Mortarian's knowledge, he couldn't think of a way to extricate himself.

As for asking others for help?

How can I ask for help?

Let the whole galaxy know: Mortarion, the most vehement opponent of psionic powers on Nicaea and the number one hero in defeating Magnus, is now also troubled by a psionic phenomenon and living in constant fear?

This kind of humiliation is far more terrifying than death.

He preferred to endure rather than seek help from others.

And so he endured until Horus placed the letter summoning his allies on his desk.

After the war began, this loving father's visits reached a point of utter audacity.

Or rather: it simply stopped moving.

Whatever Mortalian was doing, whether he was outwitting Sigismund or enjoying his current success in the southern part of the solar system, this sticky yet gentle father always lingered in his ear, leisurely strolling through his mind with his plump body.

He stopped being content with saying nice things or whispering incantations in his ear, and instead began to interfere with everything around the Lord of Death.

He commented on the casualties of the Mortarion's descendants, lamented the loss of the unfortunate warriors, and whispered a promise that they could rise again: in perfect health.

He sometimes criticized the Primarch's indecisiveness, and at other times lamented his excessive killing in the war. He lamented that this place was never Mortarion's home: the place where he could truly feel at peace should be far away.

In the direction indicated by the [benevolent father].

"whispering sound……"

From beginning to end, Mortarian's response to this voice never changed.

Mockery, disdain, and absolute silence.

As a monarch, he had no need to respond to such a clown with real words.

He saw this as a test, a test of his patience and magnanimity.

This self-proclaimed fatherly voice never used any forceful means to confront the host; all it could offer was its own restlessness and omnipresence. When Mortarion was accomplishing great feats in the real universe, he had no need to regard this voice as an opponent.

And all that the loving father promised and proclaimed?
A home? A family bond? And a new world where love and hope can be freely expressed?
disdain.

This is all the Primarch's answers.

He already possesses a crown; there is absolutely no reason for him to pursue a meaningless "home."

And this foolish voice, this old fat man who had relentlessly haunted him for hundreds of years, finally realized, as the war between Horus and Terra intensified, the Lord of Death's attitude towards all of this.

Mortarian felt almost smugly that the voice in his mind was slowly fading away.

This self-proclaimed benevolent father, whose ever-smiling face was finally beginning to simmer with anger.

Its durability has been completely depleted.

The Primarch's wrath.

Anger over a rebellious child.

Without a doubt, even the most loving father will put away his smile and reveal his strict side when faced with a child who repeatedly defies him.

Mortarian certainly knew all this.

He even held a sliver of hope.

When that self-proclaimed loving father's voice recedes from his mind like a tide, carrying with it anger, it will one day return with a vengeance.

The Lord of Death was finding the current war increasingly tedious.

While he was transferring his army to Taran.

On the contrary, they were secretly looking forward to it.

This old guy has been bothering him for over a hundred years.

What kind of trouble will they add to his incredibly boring royal life when they meet again?
Those weak and feeble psionic tricks.

What kind of foolish tricks will they play in the face of the long-tested and battle-hardened will of Barbaros?
This is really...something to look forward to.

……

But, in any case.

They all need to know.

Mortarion is now a king, a ruler.

He is no longer the same person he was before.

From this moment forward: He will be a ruler, not a subject.

------

I'll write out the first half first, and I'll probably post the rest of the Primarchs' work tomorrow during the day.

I don't know why, but I feel like my eyesight is getting blurry lately, and my hands are a bit clumsy. When I'm typing, my brain is processing what I'm doing, but my body isn't keeping up. What are your thoughts on this?

(End of this chapter)