[For Mortarion, joining the Imperium was not submission, but a strategic endurance.]
[He took command of his Legion—the Fourteenth Legion.]
This Legion was originally known as the "Dusk Raiders," named for their prowess in launching attacks at dusk.
But Mortarion disliked the name.
He renamed them—the Death Guard.
In the scene, warriors clad in unpainted grey armor saluted their gene-father in perfect unison.
They were silent and tenacious, like a group of walking stones.
Mortarion looked at them, his gaze not one of fatherly love for his sons, but the harsh scrutiny of a tool.
Yet, he was not entirely devoid of emotion.
The camera focused on two individuals beside Mortarion.
The first was the man named Calas Typhon.
He had been Mortarion's second-in-command on Barbarus and was now the First Company Captain of the Death Guard.
Everyone knew something was amiss with Typhon. His eyes flickered, and an unsettling aura occasionally emanated from him.
In a Legion that considered psychic powers taboo, Typhon's psychic fluctuations were as obvious as a lamp lit in the dark.
Did Mortarion know?
Of course, he knew. As a Primarch, his sense for psychic energy was more acute than a hound's.
But he chose to ignore it.
["Why?"]
The narration seemed to ask on behalf of the audience.
[Because Typhon was the first.]
The scene flashed back to the toxic mountains of Barbarus, where the reclusive, alien-raised freak Mortarion first encountered a human who wasn't afraid of him and was willing to follow him.
That was Typhon.
For Mortarion, who severely lacked love and security, this "initial camaraderie" was the only soft spot in his heart.
He hated sorcery, but he feared loneliness even more.
So he indulged Typhon, giving him the best equipment, the greatest authority, and even tacitly allowing him to engage in those little schemes in private.
He deluded himself into believing that as long as Typhon didn't cross the line, it could be tolerated.
This double standard, this weakness of abandoning principles for personal affection, was the prelude to tragedy.
The other person, however, was completely different.
Nathaniel Garro.
Captain of the Seventh Company of the Death Guard, a Terran-born warrior.
Garro in the image stood tall, his eyes clear and resolute. He carried none of that gloomy deathly aura, only the honor and integrity befitting an Astartes.
Mortarion's gaze at Garro was complex.
"Garro..."
Mortarion said to Typhon privately, "He is one of those... truly noble people."
"If even someone as pure-hearted and principled as Garro is willing to follow me and support my cause, doesn't that prove I am right?"
What he didn't know was that Garro was loyal not to him, but to a grander ideal.
When he betrayed that ideal, his most admired "moral compass" would become the first sharp sword thrust at him.
[Time flowed. The Horus Heresy erupted.]
Mortarion joined the rebellion. The reason was simple: the Emperor was a liar, the Emperor was secretly researching psychic powers, and the Emperor was the greatest sorcerer tyrant.
After countless battles, the Death Guard received orders to advance on Terra.
Mortarion initially planned to gather the fleet and proceed steadily through conventional Warp routes.
But at this moment, his most trusted brother—Typhon—stepped forward.
"My Lord, we are too slow."
Typhon pointed at the star map, a perplexing smile on his face.
"If we take the Warp route, we can strike directly into the heart of Terra. I have a way; I can handle those Navigators."
Mortarion hesitated.
He had an instinctive aversion to the Warp.
"Trust me, brother."
Typhon patted his chest, "Just like on Barbarus. When have I ever harmed you?"
This phrase, "Just like on Barbarus," completely shattered Mortarion's defenses.
He nodded.
Thus, the entire Death Guard fleet plunged headlong into the Warp.
[That was not a route. That was a stomach.]
As soon as the fleet entered the Warp, the veil of reality was completely torn apart.
The Gellar Field, which should have guided them, suddenly failed—or rather, was deliberately sabotaged.
Typhon revealed his true colors. He killed all the Navigators, declaring them spies of the Emperor.
"It's alright, Father." Typhon stood on the bridge, his body beginning to twist grotesquely, "I will guide us. I will take everyone to... paradise."
Then, the Destroyer Plague descended.
It was not a virus.
It was a concept.
It was a desperate concoction personally brewed by Nurgle, specifically targeting the superhuman physiology of the Astartes.
The scene transformed into a nauseating inferno.
The indestructible Terminator armor began to rust and ooze pus.
The Death Guard warriors, once renowned for their tenacity, who could even eat poison gas, now lay on the ground, emitting piercing wails.
Their bellies swelled, and their intestines spilled out, turning into living snakes.
Their lungs turned to putrid mud, each breath like swallowing broken glass.
The most terrifying thing was—they couldn't die.
As Astartes, their powerful vitality now became the most wicked curse.
They wanted to die, but Nurgle wouldn't let them.
They could only consciously feel their bodies turning into a festering breeding ground, feeling maggots burrowing in and out of their eyeballs.
"Ahhh! Father! Save me! Kill me!"
"It hurts so much... it itches so much... just let me die!"
Countless voices converged into a torrent of despair, assaulting Mortarion's eardrums.
Mortarion stood on the bridge.
He was sick too.
His skin was festering, his bones melting.
But he still stood.
He was a Primarch, his endurance was infinite.
He could endure this pain. Even for ten thousand years, he could endure it.
But he could not endure that sound.
It was the wailing of his sons.
He looked at the veterans who had once trusted him and followed him from Barbarus, at the young, vibrant faces that were now utterly disfigured.
His proud "tenacity" became a joke at this moment.
He tried to kill them with his scythe, to relieve their suffering.
But when he struck, the wounds instantly healed, transforming into even more repulsive tentacles. In Nurgle's Garden, Death was forbidden.
"Typhon!!!"
Mortarion let out an enraged roar, charging at his former brother, who had now transformed into the bloated monster "Typhus."
But Typhus merely laughed.
"This is fate, Father. Don't resist. Accept Grandfather's love. As long as you accept, the pain will become... joy."
Mortarion looked at the horrific scene around him.
His entire life, he had fought against tyrants, pursued freedom, and battled against enslavement.
But now, to save his sons, to free them from this eternal torment.
He had only one choice.
To make a deal.
To kneel before the greatest, most disgusting sorcerer tyrant he had once most despised.
Mortarion dropped his scythe.
"Silence," the weapon that had slain countless tyrants, hit the slimy floor with a dull thud.
His proud knees bent.
"I..."
Mortarion's voice was hoarse, filled with endless humiliation and brokenness, "I... accept."
"Spare them. Take me instead."
From the void came a satisfied laugh, like the popping of swamp bubbles.
["That's right, my dear child."]
["Welcome home."]
In an instant, the pain vanished.
Or rather, pain was no longer perceived as pain.
The warriors' wails ceased, replaced by a morbid, idiotic grin. They looked at their spilled intestines and began to find them adorable.
And Mortarion.
His body began to undergo a drastic change.
Moth wings tore from his back, and his gas mask fused with his face.
He ascended to daemonhood.
He became an eternal Daemon Prince.
But he did not smile.
Beneath that face forever obscured by the mask, in those murky eyes, still burned the deepest hatred for himself, for Typhon, and for this Universe.
He saved his Legion.
He also personally destroyed his Legion.
From then on, there were no more tenacious Death Guard in the World.
Only—Plague Marines.
DC Universe
"This..."
Superman Clark Kent leaned heavily against the back of his chair; even his steel body felt a deep sense of powerlessness at this moment.
"This is a no-win situation."
Superman whispered.
"Nurgle exploited Mortarion's only virtue—his love and sense of responsibility for his sons."
"If he were a selfish person, he could have endured the pain himself, or abandoned the Legion and fled."
"It's precisely because he didn't want to give up any of his sons that he had no choice but to sell himself."
"This is too despicable."
Wonder Woman Diana clenched her Lasso of Truth, her eyes filled with fury. "To use such torture to force a father to yield. This is not a 'god'; this is the vilest kidnapper."
Batman Bruce Wayne, however, pointed out the crucial point more coldly.
"The root of the problem lies in that indiscriminate trust."
Batman stared at the smug Typhon on the screen. "Mortarion, due to his inherent inferiority complex and loneliness, developed a pathological dependence on his 'first friend.' He knew there was something wrong with Typhon but chose to turn a blind eye."
"This is typical 'indulgence.' He paid for his emotional needs with the lives of the entire Legion."
"However,"
Batman's tone shifted.
"That Typhus... he is a true villain. A pure villain who sells everything for power."
"Compared to Mortarion's tragic predicament, scum like Typhus, who actively led the way, deserves to die even more."
Constantine exhaled a smoke ring in the corner, his eyes complex.
"Honestly, I feel a bit of sympathy for the big guy."
"He hated magic, hated sorcery, hated gods. In the end, he had to kneel before the very thing he hated most, begging it to accept his surrender."
"This is the... ultimate black humor."
Constantine flicked his cigarette ash. "In this Universe, the more you try to avoid something, the more it will ride on your head and shit."
Marvel Universe
"This isn't scientific, but it's very... human."
Tony Stark, watching Mortarion kneel on the screen, uncharacteristically offered no sarcastic remarks.
He thought of the moment he flew a nuclear missile into the wormhole above New York.
If someone had told him then that he could save everyone by simply kneeling... what would he have done?
"He's a tough one."
Captain America said in a low voice, "Even in that moment, he sacrificed his dignity to protect others."
"Although he took the wrong path, and chose the wrong ally. In that moment... he was a responsible Commander."
Thor Odinson angrily wielded his hammer.
"That guy named Typhon! What a disgrace!"
Thor roared, "Loki might stab me in the back, but at least he wouldn't turn me and the people of Asgard into those... those oozing monsters!"
"Betraying a brother is one thing; turning a brother into a living corpse is another! If such a person doesn't die, where is the justice?!"
Warhammer World
The hall was dead silent.
All eyes were fixed on Mortarion and the man standing behind him, named Typhon.
Mortarion's body trembled.
Not from fear, but from a profound, naked shame and fury, as if he had been completely stripped bare.
He looked at his kneeling self on the screen, at the self who willingly became a dog to beg for mercy.
Then, he slowly turned around.
The eyes behind the ever-present gas mask stared intently at Typhon.
Typhon's face was pale. His disguise, his carefully hidden psychic powers, his so-called "for the good of the Legion," melted away like snow in the sun before the naked truth on the screen.
"You were... the first."
Mortarion's voice was low, like rusty gears grinding. "The first human I met on the mountain. I gave you my trust. I gave you the Legion."
"For you, I feigned ignorance before my brothers. For you, I endured my disgust for psychic powers."
"And this... is how you repay me?"
Mortarion raised his scythe, "Silence."
"Father! That's not real! It's an illusion! It's sorcery!" Typhon recoiled in horror, trying to explain.
"Shut up."
Mortarion didn't roar. His voice was as cold as the frozen tundra on Barbarus's peak.
"Though I am blind, I am not foolish. The you on the screen... that look, that greed. I've seen it before. I saw it in my foster father."
"You didn't want to save us. You wanted to sell us for a good price."
"You're right, Typhon. We don't need to go to Terra anymore."
Mortarion's scythe glowed with a cold force field.
"We first need to... clean house."
Without warning, the scythe swung down.
Although Typhon unleashed an astonishing psychic shield at the last moment to try and resist, before an enraged Primarch, before a God of Death who could slay gods even with dissolved lungs, those shields were as fragile as paper.
This time, there was no Nurgle's blessing. No Warp storm's obstruction.
Calas Typhon, the future Typhus, the present traitor.
Was cut in half.
Blood splattered on Mortarion's grey armor.
He did not look at the corpse on the ground.
He looked up at the screen, at his future self kneeling on the ground.
"I will never... never kneel."
Mortarion swore to the void, and to the fate that had not yet arrived.
"If that day ever comes... if I ever have to face such a desperate situation..."
He looked at the Death Guard warriors around him, who were equally shocked and fearful, yet still watching him.
"I will kill you all with my own hands. And then myself."
"We will die like men. We will never be the rotting playthings of that damn 'Father Nurgle.'"