Death came as promised, without delay.

It descended on the bridge of the Fortitude with the sound of Typhons' laughter, as if a proclamation. Typhons, the bloodied traitor, was not in the of uneasiness.

Infected walking corpses poured out of his back, ranging from ordinary crew members to death guards. The plague turned into a visible thing, boiling in the eyes of the Death Shroud and the Primordial.

Motarian swung the Scythe of Silence, and the terrifying blade swirled like a harvested crop, decapitating several wobbling walking corpses in an instant. The helmet wrapped around the head slowly landed, splashing puddles of pus.

Pitch-black blood gushed out of the wound, and the flies eagerly climbed up and feasted on it. The leaderless body slowly fell, and Motarian strode forward.

The Lord of Death has been through so many wars that he rarely fights with such fury. The Death Shrouds followed him like a small boat struggling through a sea of plagues.

Typhonse looked at them with a smile on his face, his eyes cloudy as if he were sick. He coughed, shards of internal organs and pitch-black liquid pouring out of his throat, but he himself didn't care about smearing them on his armor, letting his power armor get even dirtier.

Motarian stared at him all the time, anger welling up in his heart, but it didn't make him really lose his mind.

He knew that Typhons must have something to rely on if he dared to stand here like this—so where was it?

Is it his evil witchcraft, or are these victims of his witchcraft?

As the Primordial kills, he begins to think about the battle the way Kalas Typhon thinks, and he comes up with several possible answers, all of which he dismisses one by one, and in the end, even that way of thinking is thrown aside by him.

Kalas Typhon was a Barbarusian who hated witchcraft as much as he did, and was his right-hand man and comrade-in-arms. Together, they crossed the desolate mountains of Barbaros to fight for the Empire and reclaim countless worlds

The tactics that the man will use will never include witchcraft and betrayal.

So, there was no Kalas Typhon, only Typhon.

Realizing this, Motarian's expression couldn't help but become a little more solemn. The thought process was long, but his movements were not slow. The sea of plagues was soon crossed by them, and Typhonse remained where he was.

The Lord of Death coldly raised the 'lantern' in his hand, and the muzzle of the energy pistol from the Emperor's private collection erupted into an extremely bright flame at this moment.

The white beam struck Typhons in the chest with precision, a blow that should have reduced his armor and flesh to nothingness. But Typhons only screamed, straightened up again, and stood still.

Motarian stared at him for half a second, and in the acrid stench of the pungent stench, he put away his lantern and began to stride forward.

The Death Shrouds immediately realized what the original had in mind and began to clean up the wailing patients for him, not intending to let them disturb the battle.

The Lord of Death himself walked straight towards Typhons, his steps steady, the blade of the scythe in his hand desperate for blood. In response, Typhonse raised his scythe as well. In the next second, the blades began to collide with each other.

Motarian didn't spare his hand, and his moves were fatal, and every blow was aimed at killing Typhons directly. The latter tried to resist, but how huge was the gap between Astarte and the original? In less than four rounds, the Scythe of Silence sliced open his chest.

The clay steel shattered, flesh and bones were sliced open, but the scene exposed inside was as vivid as a nightmare.

Typhons' gaping chest was filled with white eggs, and his two hearts were like nests, full of holes in which maggots moved in and out. The vertebrae and sternum became a melting thing, pitch black and dripping with a foul-smelling liquid.

His guts had melted, and pus mixed with shards spurted out of the wound created by the Scythe of Silence, hissing and steaming on the deck.

A creep creeped up Mortarian's spine—he looked at his former companion in disgust and bewilderment, and the questions came to his lips, only to be swallowed by himself.

He spun his wrist, and the scythe swung down again, aiming for Typhons' head. The latter's eyes narrowed at the stench of decay, and he still had the strength to make a disgusting smile even though death was imminent.

In the next second, Motarian's scythe stopped in mid-air, unable to go any further. Typhons' right hand reached out like lightning and grabbed it. His strength was strong enough to wrestle with an Primordial at this moment, and so was his tenacity.

With his chest wide open, the traitor took a slow step forward and laughed.

With his laughter, the death shrouds who were originally fighting stopped their movements in unison at this moment, and wails and screams followed.

A series of slight explosions began to be heard from inside the Terminator's power armor, and pitch-black liquid poured out of the power armor through the cracks, and they convulsed and fell to the ground, soon no longer moving.

Motarian watched the scene with a mixture of horror and suddenly realized something.

"Yes." Typhons restrained his smile and nodded at him with a serious expression.

"It's not the witchcraft you think it's doing, Motarian. Witchcraft is nowhere near as powerful, it is the power of the plague god, the power of corrupt Nurgle. So you can't win, and from the moment I show up here, you're doomed. ”

Motarian hissed and threw two curses, and the scythe jerked back. He looked at the guards who had fallen to the ground with pity, and the anger was pushed to the peak at this moment, and the rebuke was born naturally from his mouth, never stuck in his throat again.

"I curse you, you vile traitor like a snake and a rat! How can you commit murder so easily and naturally? ”

"Murder?" Typhonse chuckled. "Maybe you should take a closer look, they're not dead."

What?

Motarian frowned sharply, but out of the corner of his eye, he did catch something strange at this moment.

He wanted to take a closer look, but in the next second he heard a series of bones shattering. Then, at the screams of the Death Shrouds, their bodies began to deform and distort.

A deep green light erupted from the cracks in their armor, and countless flies suddenly appeared, biting open the supposedly indestructible Terminators with their mouthparts, and began to suck their molten flesh.

The air grew rancid, and they fused together in the screams, becoming a living seedbed.

"Got it?" Typhonse asked patiently. "The Father is not as cruel as you think, He rarely really asks us to kill, He only asks to sow His glory. He is generous and asks only to share. ”

Motarian watched in silence, the last string of reason in his mind finally breaking slightly.

He roared and rushed forward, the scythe slashing shattering Typhons in an instant. His head flew high and should have landed, but he was carried by a large swarm of flies and ran to the seedbed.

Mortarian drew his pistol again, and began to fire resolutely and brutally at the seedbed and Typhons' head, but none of them hit, and many flies swarmed to fend off Typhons' head.

In less than half a second, the traitor's head had reached the seedbed, and his bloodstained countenance, which had fallen little by little into a dim solution in front of Motarian, began to tremble violently

Maybe just a second, maybe a million years later—in the center of the seedbed, in the place where the diseased flesh and blood gathered, a rotting human figure began to slowly rise.

His skin was gray, his skin and muscles were rotten, and even his bones could be seen. The flies stole the armor of the Death Jacket for him, placing the power armor of different people on the traitor's body.

He began to rise, his bones bursting, and Typhonse bent over with convulsions, spitting out a large mass of gray-brown slime from his throat. His back bulged, and cracked horns and flutes bloomed from it, revealing the protection of the power armor, and a dark green mist poured out of it.

Typhonse straightened up and began to smile, a twisted horn spilling out from above his forehead, revealing himself in his trembling.

A chill hits.

"What the hell are you?" Motarian asked.

"You might as well find out for yourself." Typhonse replied patiently.

"This ship—" He waved his hand and gestured. "—Go, I'll be waiting for you here, Motarian. You can walk through the Endurance to find this answer, and you'll find it. ”

"I'd rather kill you first."

Typhonse smiled and walked out of the seedbed with open arms: "Come on, you can try, I'm also part of the answer." ”

Motarian strode forward, scythe swinging, creating a dozen deep wounds on Typhons' body in the blink of an eye. His armor and flesh grew together, rotten and sickly, but his defenses were stronger than when they were new.

Not only that, but the original even felt the same touch as a scythe cutting into his flesh and blood as if it were chopping a stone. But how is this possible? All this - what the hell?

The eyes under Typhons' horn looked at him patiently, and shook his head afterward.

"You can't kill me now." He said.

"My loving father is watching here, and I am protected by Him. I can't die, I don't have an end, I'm the source of the disease, the embodiment of cancer. I bear pain, sow pain, despise pain. I'm constantly wandering the line between life and death, I'm a morbid eternity, Motarian, I'm not going to die. ”

To this, the original body replied only in silence and continued to wave the weapon. At the same time, he sent a text from the conversation and video with a neural link to it to Perturabo.

"You're not going to die?" He asked hoarsely.

"Yes." Typhonse bowed slightly.

"Good." Motarian sneered. "Let me see if you're really that horrible."

——

The Iron Lord watched in silence at the video and text sent by Motarian, and in his cold thoughts, he realized that his brother was undergoing a torture.

It was an absolute torture.

Watch such supernatural horrors unfold on your own ship, see the Guards become seedbeds, and traitors make immortal declarations

No one could have kept their sanity in the face of such a thing, and he trusted in Motarion's tenacity, but he inevitably felt a trace of worry.

Perturabo solemnly moved the horrific scene to the other side, and followed Motarian's advice without calling him or informing the Death Guard fleet of what was happening on the Stoic.

He lowered his head and began to sort out the current situation.

Horus's fleet is engaged in a firefight with the forward fleet led by Vulcan, and the battle is already in a state of white heat. The warships were fighting each other, turning the stars into an absolute death zone.

Perturabo frowned, and once again pulled some of the Iron Warriors' ships to replenish the flanks, and told them to be ready to step forward at any time.

The Iron Blood still has about forty percent of its artillery positions capable of firing normally, and it can't move, but at least it can contribute a little to the battle.

This was a stroke of luck in disguise, as he gave the order to fire freely, locked the artillery positions onto the enemy ships in front of him, and turned his gaze back to the inside of the Iron Blood.

I don't know if it's a coincidence, but the attack of the Death Guard traitors coincided with the battle of the battleship, and it also entered the white heat.

The battlefield opened up by Frix was now being attacked by at least thousands of traitors, and this number made Perturabo's expression even more serious - how could that traitor named Typhonse be able to rebel against so many people?

Or is it Horus's handiwork?

He silently wrote down the incident and began to direct nearby detachments to come to the rescue. The engine room that Fricks is in charge of must not be lost, as long as there is no problem with the engine, even if the important nodes inside are damaged, the Iron Blood can continue to move.

Keeping thinking, Perturabo gave one order after another. His thoughts were cold, and he barely spoke, and all orders were given through the simplest and clearest written instructions.

As the commander, he endured death and loss in every part of the battlefield, and beared the most terrible and heavy responsibility in this death field, but he did not show the slightest weakness.

Nothing could make him melt again.

Even if it is

Perturabo closed his eyes and raised his right hand in the air, slamming it against a screen. Piercing sirens rang throughout the bridge at this moment, the crimson lights flickered endlessly, and the people froze and looked at their original bodies.

"Evacuate!" The Lord of Steel said succinctly to the buzz of flies. "Put on your gas masks, evacuate the main bridge, and head to the backup bridge!"

"Acute." A voice said appreciatively above the bridge. "But it's not sharp enough."

Perturabo looked up, catching a dim yellow eyeball among the large masses of flies that came from nowhere.

He coldly raised the hammer.

Also, yards.

(End of chapter)