At the mountain pass, the Overlord's steam convoy struggled up the rugged road.
Suddenly-
Boom!
Explosives, meticulously planted by the rebels, erupted beneath the lead vehicle. Its tracks twisted and snapped like severed limbs. The entire steel behemoth froze on the mountain path, unable to advance or retreat.
Steel hatches snapped open like venomous snakes flicking their tongues. Swarms of stitched-together puppets spilled out, their twisted limbs writhing. Waiting for them were the musketeers, already in position.
"Take aim!"
"Fire!"
Bang!
Dozens of muskets fired at once. In the blaze of gunfire, the first wave of puppets hadn't even stepped out before the storm of metal shredded them into flying chunks of rotten flesh and blood mist.
But more monsters kept pouring out. Mortarion's scythe carved arcs of death, slicing through puppet bodies as neatly as a farmer cutting wheat.
Typhon moved like a ghost across the battlefield, psychic energy flowing through his palms. Whenever a comrade was in danger, invisible hands tore apart puppet joints or twisted their claws against themselves, opening fatal gaps for the warriors.
A blood-soaked soldier, pale-faced, gasped, "Thanks, Calas."
"I've heard that so often my ears are calloused. Next time, pay more attention!"
The Death Guards's coordination grew sharper with each battle, while the Overlord's puppets remained unchanged.
The Overlord's sorcery gave these stitched abominations brute strength but stripped them of intelligence. They followed only primal killing instincts, charging blindly like marionettes. They knew nothing of tactics, which made them easy prey for rebel ambushes.
This was the rebels' eighteenth interception of an Overlord convoy. They had perfected their strategy: first eliminate the raiding minions, then ambush the steam convoys, cutting away the Overlord's wings piece by piece.
Eventually, when the Overlord's forces were weakened enough, they would storm the mountain peak and end the xeno tyrant's reign. This place was destined to become the grave of the seventeenth Overlord
As the smoke cleared, the battle entered its final stage.
Quell and her musketeers counted their remaining ammunition. Skorval led the Death Guards through the corpses, hacking off puppet heads. Rarely did they feign death, but never was the chance zero.
Non-combatants swiftly took control of the Overlord's steel beasts, climbing into cockpits and turning the captured war machines around.
Once Mortarion severed the Overlord's head, this convoy laden with spoils would return to Haven.
And this time was different.
"This time, we'll fight beside you!"
Quell snapped her gas mask into place, and the others followed suit.
The greatest danger atop the mountain wasn't the Overlord; it was the deadly poison fog encircling the peaks.
Even at the foot of the mountain, the fog suffocated mortals. Halfway up, its concentration was lethal.
In the first six campaigns, only Mortarion and Caelan could cross the death miasma. Typhon had once been brought along by Caelan, but the rest could only wait at the base while Mortarion fought the Overlord and its minions above.
Though Mortarion always returned victorious, the Death Guards clenched their fists in frustration, forced to wait uselessly below.
Caelan refused to bring others up. Typhon was the only one besides him who could. He could mimic Caelan's psychic purification, creating safe zones. But he always exhausted his powers helping comrades in the lower battles, leaving him too drained to climb safely.
Waiting for him to recover wasted precious opportunities. A cunning Overlord could slip deeper into the fog. The seventh Overlord had escaped this way, the only one to survive Mortarion.
From then on, Mortarion never waited. He would not let any Overlord live. Their existence was the greatest torment of Barbarus.
During the thirteenth campaign, Caelan discovered ancient parchments deep within the Overlord's palace. They revealed a secret: a plant called Isatis grew on Barbarus's mountains. Properly treated, it could be used to craft simple gas masks.
Though all life on Barbarus had absorbed poison over the ages, Isatis carried little toxicity and had evolved a unique ability to purify the fog.
But the secret was buried by a cruel paradox: mortals needed masks to climb the mountain, yet masks required Isatis, which only grew where mortals could not reach.
The parchments were the legacy of an ancient scholar who had braved the mountains with primitive masks to record the plant's properties. They had fallen into the Overlord's hands and vanished.
Even after recovering them, the rebels spent years deciphering the knowledge and learning how to craft masks.
At last, the tide turned.
Mortarion's gaze swept across determined faces, eyes burning with loyalty and hope. Then he looked to Caelan.
When lost, his father always gave him answers.
Caelan mouthed silently: "You are not alone. Do not betray their trust."
Mortarion inhaled deeply, finding balance between duty and protection.
"Quell, Skorval, Lask, Losul, and Typhon. You'll come with me."
He raised a hand to stop others eager to join. "The cliffs cannot hold armies. Your battlefield is here. Guard these steel beasts, guard our way home!"
Seven figures climbed the jagged ridge, blades cutting through thick poison fog.
Behind them, the Death Guards fortified defenses at the pass, shielding the convoy from puppet ambushes.
"Calas… what does the Overlord look like?" Lask's muffled voice came through his mask. He quickly added, flustered, "Wait! I didn't mean to insult you!"
He cursed himself, his explanation was worse than silence.
"No offense taken." Typhon chuckled beneath his mask. He understood. He was half-human, half-Overlord, the only hybrid.
Only Mortarion and Caelan had seen the Overlord's true form. Typhon had too, and Lask dared not bother the others with trivial questions.
Typhon wasn't offended. He knew his comrade's blunt honesty. That clumsy apology was more sincere than any polished words.
He had long since learned to prove his resolve through action, not words.
"Every Overlord looks different," Typhon said. "Some are bigger than Mortarion, some barely taller than mortals. But all are ugly, uglier than their stitched puppets."
Skorval began to ask something but stopped, realizing some wounds should never be touched.
Typhon revealed it himself. "I never saw my so-called 'father.' He raped my mother, then discarded her like trash at the village gate. At first, the villagers knelt, thinking the Overlord favored them. Soon they realized it was just a cruel game. They drowned her in punishment, pouring their fear of the Overlord onto her."
"I was too young. I barely remember her face, it's faded into a shadow."
Skorval placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, Calas. You have us. From the first time you fought beside us, you were our brother. Always."
Typhon brushed his hand away. "You're mistaken. I joined the Death Guard before any of you. The teacher himself named me a company commander. You're the newcomer."
"All the same." Skorval laughed. "We're all Mortarion's Death Guard now."
Typhon said nothing, though his eyes burned with silent protest.
Yes, they were Death Guards, but who said they must serve Mortarion? The teacher had founded them. Without him, Mortarion would still be the Overlord's executioner. How could he claim leadership?
Typhon's gaze lingered on Mortarion's back, a faint snort escaping. Then his eyes locked on Caelan, filled with fervent devotion.
'Mortarion a savior? He was just a Primarch.'
"They're coming," Caelan warned.
Quell and Lask raised muskets. The others drew scythes and axes, forming a defensive circle.
Their vision was swallowed by gray fog. Crawling sounds seeped from all directions.
Bang!
Quell and Lask fired. A monster screamed in pain.
As it staggered into view, the Death Guardss saw it clearly: an abomination stitched from animal and human corpses, far deadlier than ordinary puppets.
It was the size of a steam tank, drooling thick mucus, roaring like a whistle through repurposed organs. Seven muscular legs, some human, some beast, supported its twisted bulk. A trembling mass of flesh sprouted clusters of eyes.
Like a child's mad sketch of a spider, it was pure deformity.
Mortarion's scythe flashed silver in the fog, cleaving the beast open.
The Death Guardss froze. This wasn't a puppet, it was something far worse.
But before they could charge, Mortarion lowered his blade. The beast was already gutted, its innards spilling, its death-cry echoing like a child's wail across the mountains.
Typhon's knuckles whitened.
If he were the Overlord, he would have struck at the seemingly unguarded Primarch first. The rest were nothing but lambs awaiting slaughter.
So where was the true Overlord?
Then came a faint sound, like something being sliced.
The Death Guardss eyes turned instinctively toward Mortarion. He stood in the roiling fog, beside the bisected carcass still twitching. Its broken spine writhed like a dying centipede, organs spilling out to soak the ground in foul sludge.
Skorval stiffly turned his head. "That… was the Overlord?"
s"Seems so," Typhon muttered, staring at his mud-caked boots. What were they even here for?
Quell and Lask had at least fired shots, though useless. The others had done nothing. It felt like a pointless excursion.
Mortarion alone could finish the hunt. Caelan had deliberately given him space to act. The rest were dead weight.
Mortarion had considered giving them a chance to prove themselves, but the Overlord's rash attack had doomed it. Its stitched face froze in the same expression as all the others, confusion and shock.
Even at death, it could not comprehend: were these truly the mortals it had oppressed for millennia?
"Without Mortarion, what could we do?" Skorval lowered his head, emotions swirling.
Every rebel knew: Mortarion alone had turned the tide against the Overlords. Without him, they would never have dared resist, never have toppled tyrants.
They were grateful, but it was crushing too.
Caelan broke the silence: "Come. There are more enemies above."
The words reignited them. More enemies? Even if only puppets, it meant battle.
If they couldn't fight Overlords, they could at least fight puppets. That wasn't cowardice, it was division of labor.
The Overlord's palace was like the others: gray fortress walls, cave networks linking flesh workshops and slave pens.
Dozens of puppets remained inside. The Overlord could have used them to wear down the Death Guards, but it had chosen to fight personally, only to be slain by Mortarion.
Mortarion barely intervened in the castle battle. Typhon and the others worked together, luring puppets one by one into traps.
When they entered the flesh workshop, the stench of blood clung to their throats.
Hundreds of human skins hung from the walls like dried meat. Fresh ones still dripped thick beads of blood.
These were the Overlord's treasures. Skins deemed unworthy had been stretched over puppets.
On the central workbench lay a half-finished puppet, stitched from meat and severed limbs, tendons still raw. The Overlord hadn't yet animated it.
Nearby, another body still twitched. Her skin had been completely flayed, muscles exposed, chest rising faintly with breath. From her bones, they could tell she had been a young girl.
"Forgive us. We came too late. The Overlord is dead. May your soul rest."
Mortarion tried to close her eyes but feared hurting her. After a long silence, he ended her suffering with his scythe.
Even hardened Death Guards gagged at the sight. Some fled outside, vomiting bile.
These "half-finished" creations were far more terrifying than puppets.
Mortarion pushed open a heavy iron door. Rusted hinges screamed.
In the warehouse corner, dozens of ragged mortals huddled like frightened animals. Their clouded eyes reflected the Death Guards.
"The Overlord is dead. You are free."
Mortarion's voice was unexpectedly gentle, like a cold wind frozen into fragile purity.
But the prisoners, broken by years of captivity, refused to believe. They curled tighter in the shadows, trembling, unmoved by Quell's coaxing.
Mortarion turned silently away. Moments later, he dragged back half a corpse, the Overlord's body, and threw it before them.
"He is dead. See for yourselves. Your suffering is over. You are free."
The crowd stirred. A few brave souls lifted the familiar black cloak, revealing the Overlord's face frozen in shock.
Even as a corpse, its twisted visage made them shudder. The tyrant's shadow still clung to their nerves, as if death hadn't severed the fear rooted in their bones.
"That is why I must liberate them all."
Mortarion's voice was nearly a whisper, both a vow to his comrades and a declaration of his path.
All oppressors must die.