The Emperor’s Angel of Death

Outside of the plague planet, people don't mention the death guard mansion too much.

Except for some very large and impressive vague rumors, even most people in the eyes of fear know very little.

In fact, outside the boundaries of this hell, almost no one really understands it.

For the people of the empire, the name Mortarian only represents a kind of vigilance to the past, other than that it has no meaning.

And this is exactly what the Lord of Death wants.

To understand this, one must first understand the character of the Primarch, even among his fallen brothers, he is also a complicated person.

You can't describe him straightforwardly with anger, unlike people who can straightforwardly describe Anglang, the king of slaughter, and at the same time, he doesn't have the desire to control the priest King Luo Jia.

Compared to most of his brothers, Mortarian had more of the past, and according to him, it all came too late, and it was too unacceptable.

He was the last Primarch to succumb to the Dark Gods, and the last Primarch to reach Tyra to participate in the siege of the city.

According to widely controversial rumors, he was also the last Primarch to evacuate Tyra.

For Mortarian, contradictions, conflicts and confrontations are more than everything, and his heart is full of hatred—to his father, what happened to him, to the empire, and to himself.

The world in which he was fostered has poisoned him so deeply that even if the emperor treats him in a different way, he cannot remove the scars in his heart.

The death knell Engarta knows these things, it is no secret in the legion, and it will not reduce the respect of Ngarta to his master in the slightest.

In his belief, "harm" is not something to worry about-it should be celebrated, cultivated, and expanded if possible.

They understand that attempts to prevent corruption will only bring the greatest disappointment, but the corpse emperor stray dogs can't understand it-there is no need to shut it out. Learn to embrace it, learn to use it, or you will fall into a long and exhausting failure.

Nevertheless, Engalta is still very anxious.

Time has passed for a long time. Although the passage of time in the eyes of fear is strange, it is at least several centuries if measured by the rotation of the plague planet.

The Legion has become accustomed to silence, accustomed to doing their own things.

Typhons, the intolerable puppet, became the famous leader of many of them in the empty years, although many of his success stories never offset the suspicion he aroused in the older generation.

"We know what you did to us."

Ngarta thought as he walked.

"We will never forget."

He and the ferryman Mawson went there on foot together, which took them a long time because the terrain was deliberately rough and difficult to walk.

They winded along the steep shoulder of the spire, sometimes forced to walk down, where the air was dense and mutants drove many mortal slaves.

They strode past the altar full of decay, squeezing past the creeping pile of flies, where they could see the always rotating mill wheels, and the wet ground under their feet full of bones.

After a long time, the terrain began to rise, the black soil was shining with moisture, and the dark leaves spread out around them.

The devil hissed at them from the warm shadows, a pool of stagnant water was boiling disturbingly, and the huge monument swayed by the side of the road, severely worn by the constant corrosive wind.

Finally, they saw a very heavily guarded castle.

The steep side walls of the fortress rose from the deep green valley, several hundred meters high, without handrails.

This place is like a mountain, its terrain is high and uplifted, far beyond all practical considerations, and reached the state of arrogance and madness.

The towering spiral towers are crowded with each other, lanterns hung on the spires, and stone steps coiled around the inclined flanks of the hall, sometimes leading to somewhere, sometimes ending in a mass grave or smoky place.

Here is the decaying church of the gods, empty in it, rising from the ground like an abandoned tomb, in the air, incense mixed with the sweet smell of the dead, the dying and the resurrected.

"You can never fully adapt... how huge it is."

The death knell messenger looked up at the fortress and sighed.

"It is said that it is still getting bigger."

The ferryman echoed, seemingly not very interested.

"Only God knows what's going on."

Here is the palace of the Lord of Death. There are supplicants, messengers, wizards and prophets everywhere. On the battlements that stretch for several kilometers, there are countless mutants and demons squatting.

Pilgrims lined up to the gate, so many that they filled the causeway that spanned half of the continent.

The priests of the Rotten God preached to them endlessly, and their screams were interrupted by broken bells from time to time.

The pilgrims stared outside from their shabby hoods, hungry eyes waiting for one of their brothers to fall, so that they could chew on a bit of cartilage that night.

Above them, there were spaceships and gunboats floating, leaving puffs of smoke in the blazing aurora night sky.

In addition, only the sound of the floating shroud was as weird as the sound of a whale, shining like a mysterious midnight ghost.

Ngarta does not need to emphasize his existence here. When he and the ferryman walked towards the gate, the crowd spontaneously stepped back and made a gesture symbolizing three on his chest, even those demons with infected whips. Also stopped and stared at the death knell messenger.

The blind haulers trembling to a halt, the truck filled with soft fruit swayed on the greasy axle, the mutant stared at them with big shiny eyes, panting, and spit out a string from his fangs mouth. String of saliva.

"Is the scale always this big?"

Ngarta looked at the crowd with interest and asked.

"Yes."

As the ferryman said, he walked slowly to the gate.

"I never knew why they came."

"The same reason as ours."

Engalta sent a signal to the guard in the distance, and then the iron shaft began to rotate.

"But only we can get in."

The gate, like everything here, is a clumsy imitation.

It is said that ~www.readwn.com~ they are seven centimeters taller than the Gate of Eternity on Terra, only seven centimeters.

Mortarian did many similar things-basically trivial things, as a mockery of fate, for example, the turret was slightly higher than the Imperial Senate, and the walls were seven degrees steeper.

Nevertheless, the effect is impressive.

The fake door was dragged by a group of mutants with iron chains, and it took ten minutes to open it.

Only then will the dark interior of this mansion appear.

A pile of crumbling, half ruined rotting stones, piled up in a mess, the piles higher and higher, interconnected and intertwined, forming a fragile, bloated city, like a nest of thorns stuck high in the clouds .

There was a thin mist around its foundation, boiling on the black surface, leaving stains on the rocks.

The great demon roared from the arcane prison buried deep in the magic tower, shaking the wet earth, all the way to the center of the world.