My Life as A Death Guard (Warhammer 30K Male MC)

This was a jungle of steel and iron.

Black, gray, and silver stretched out beneath their footsteps, glimmers of light sliding across the metal surfaces—cold, rigid, unyielding.

The only disruption to this oppressive uniformity was the banners hanging from the corridor walls—steel warriors' insignias, their harsh black-and-yellow stripes interwoven in a warning to all who entered.

The faint clinking of censers against armor whispered through the halls, yet the sound was drowned beneath the heavy footfalls of those who walked here.

Servitors moved to open the massive doors.

Mortarion did not hesitate.

He strode forward, his Deathshroud following him in silent formation, their presence like shadows behind their Primarch.

The chamber was vast, and everywhere the eye could see—only steel.

No ornate carvings, no needless embellishments.

Everything was formed of harsh, cold lines, straight and precise.

The walls were embedded with countless dark screens, filled with dense streams of cascading data, updating at relentless speed.

At the very heart of the room, beneath a colossal banner, stood the Lord of Iron.

Perturabo.

Mortarion silently uttered the name, his gaze studying the figure before him.

The Lord of Iron was encased in thick silver-gray armor, the metal seeming like an extension of his own being, its surface gleaming faintly under the sterile white light of the room.

Numerous cables extended from his skull, plugging into his armor, fanning out chaotically.

At first glance, this brother reminded Mortarion of Ferrus Manus—

Both possessed that same metallic quality, both seemed logical and cold.

But given his previous unpleasant encounters with Ferrus, Mortarion lowered his expectations accordingly.

He had heard of Perturabo before.

Malcador had once mentioned him—but that cunning psyker had offered little elaboration.

"He cares deeply about how the world perceives him. He cares deeply about himself."

That was all Malcador had said.

Mortarion felt that the statement was meaningless.

Malcador always spoke in vague riddles, allowing people to interpret his words however they pleased, only for them to later convince themselves that the Sigillite had always been right.

As for Perturabo and his Legion, Mortarion had learned a few things from Hades.

Hades, who had spent time on Mars, had once interacted with these warriors who likened themselves to steel.

Mortarion recalled Hades' hesitant expression—

"From what I know, the Iron Warriors... they revere their father. But whenever they speak of him, their reverence is always laced with exhaustion and weariness."

Mortarion blinked.

A Legion's sons should revere their Primarch.

But weariness?

Mortarion had never made his sons weary.

They feared him.

Or, at the very least, they respected him with dread.

But they were never weary.

The Death Guard was not a place that drained its warriors.

And neither was he.

At least, so he believed.

Which could only mean that this brother of his did not care enough for his sons.

A flicker of disapproval stirred in Mortarion's mind—

But the emotion was swiftly discarded.

He did not concern himself with the affairs of other Legions.

So long as they did not interfere with the Death Guard, Mortarion had no reason to lift his gaze from his own world.

"Greetings."

Mortarion's hoarse voice cut through the air. He raised his hand first, a rare gesture of goodwill.

All he wanted was to vent his frustration on some xenos, to escape the endless piles of bureaucratic reports. Which Legion he fought alongside mattered little.

As long as it wasn't Ferrus Manus or Vulkan, Mortarion could tolerate minor and unintentional hostility.

Perturabo watched as Mortarion entered.

He had specifically chosen one of his preferred war rooms to host his brother—a chamber designed for maximum efficiency, capable of displaying an entire sector's worth of battlefield data at once.

Every stream of information was meticulously arranged by his own algorithms, ensuring the most optimal presentation.

Few of his other brothers shared his obsession with precision.

Perturabo hoped Mortarion would appreciate it.

But as he studied his brother, he quickly realized—he couldn't see him clearly at all.

Mortarion concealed everything about himself.

The assumptions Perturabo had mentally formed dissolved upon seeing him up close.

Unlike the other Primarchs, Mortarion was... different.

He was tall, towering in a way only Vulkan or Magnus could match.

But it wasn't his height that caught Perturabo's attention.

It was the way he obscured himself.

A respirator mask hid his lower face.

A deep hood cast heavy shadows over the rest.

Countless censers dangled from his armor, emitting acrid, choking fumes.

The swirling white smoke only further blurred his already hidden features.

Perturabo realized—he couldn't even see Mortarion's expression.

For a brief moment, Perturabo felt mild confusion.

Then, a flicker of irritation surfaced—the stench of the toxins was unbearable.

But before he could dwell on it, Mortarion's greeting interrupted his thoughts.

Naturally, Perturabo extended his hand in response.

Their hands met.

A firm, short handshake—both seemed equally disinterested in formalities.

"Lord of the IV Legion, Master of Olympia—Perturabo."

"Lord of the XIV Legion, Master of Barbarus—Mortarion."

They let go immediately, the exchange brief and purely obligatory.

"The XIV Legion received a distress signal from Graia Forge World and came to respond."

Mortarion spoke as his gaze drifted toward the strategic map.

"But it seems... you have already begun."

His voice was soft, like a breeze drifting across farmland—completely devoid of emotion.

Perturabo, however, was pleased with Mortarion's choice of words.

Yes. "Forge World."

Not "Iron Warriors."

Perturabo acknowledged it with a hint of approval.

"Yes. The Iron Warriors have already begun this campaign."

He made an effort to sound indifferent—though, in truth, he was indifferent.

Had it not been for Mortarion's request for a meeting, Perturabo wouldn't have bothered to remain here at all.

He stepped aside, motioning for Mortarion to approach the strategy table.

There, the battle for Graia-106 was meticulously reconstructed with tactical markers, a real-time miniature of the battlefield.

The Iron Warriors' heavy artillery battalions had already advanced to Mining Sectors 02, providing overwhelming fire support for the frontline warriors engaged in Sectors 03.

Thunderhawks swooped in at low altitude, dodging enemy anti-air defenses, unleashing precision bombardments upon their heaviest war machines.

On the main front, locked in combat against the Necron infantry, Predator tanks advanced in perfect sync with the Iron Warriors' infantry, weaving a relentless formation of destruction.

With artillery fire roaring from the rear, the frontline advance moved with the fluidity of a round sliding into a chamber—seamless, unstoppable, inevitable.

Perturabo regretted that the enemy had yet to deploy any high-value aerial units.

Their airborne forces consisted only of scarab swarms, leaving the airspace on the three-dimensional battlefield map disappointingly empty.

It also meant he had fewer opportunities to showcase his mastery over battlefield control.

Perturabo stared at the strategy table, though his mind was elsewhere.

The pungent, acrid fumes beside him irritated him, but he remained patient, standing there in silence.

Look at this brilliant battle—a battlefield of fluid, multi-dimensional maneuvering, something a mere ground war specialist from an agricultural world could never replicate.

Yet, Mortarion stood there like a withered tree, utterly unmoved.

Unlike Perturabo, Mortarion's gaze remained fixed on the map.

He regrettably realized that this war did not seem to require the Death Guard's involvement at all.

As Mortarion stayed silent, Perturabo crossed his arms.

Mortarion was still searching for an area where the Death Guard could contribute.

Perturabo took a few steps along the strategy table.

Mortarion remained deep in thought.

Perturabo stopped.

Mortarion still did not move.

In the room, Hades, clad in his Deathshroud robes, felt his hair stand on end.

This is bad.

Very bad.

Perturabo was not like Ferrus Manus or Vulkan—he would not tolerate a "lower-ranking" person meddling in his "higher-level" conversation.

Hades had subtly insulted Perturabo multiple times beforehand, trying to lower Mortarion's expectations of him so that he would be mentally prepared.

If you expect little, reality won't be too disappointing.

But clearly, Mortarion had not been paying attention—he was too focused on finally escaping bureaucratic work.

Meanwhile, the Trident officers—Perturabo's military advisors—were also uncomfortable.

They had been at their Primarch's side long enough to sense the growing tension.

For a moment, the only sounds in the room were Perturabo's footsteps and the hissing breaths from Mortarion's respirator mask.

Everyone—except Mortarion—felt a crushing sense of pressure.

Mortarion blinked.

Perhaps the Death Guard could land behind Mining Sectors 03, forming a pincer attack with the Iron Warriors, tearing apart the enemy's front lines from both sides.

The only condition was that the Iron Warriors needed to secure temporary air superiority, suppressing the enemy's rear-line firepower. Otherwise, Death Guard landings would become difficult.

Mortarion quickly analyzed the Iron Warriors' forces and was pleased to find that they were more than capable of providing the necessary air cover.

Of course, having another Legion secure air superiority for him was not something Mortarion enjoyed.

But he knew that if the Death Guard had arrived first, they would have easily achieved air superiority themselves—and in less time.

His brother had wasted time fortifying trenches—a completely unnecessary effort.

"Can the Iron Warriors secure air superiority in this area?"

Mortarion pointed at a location on the strategy table.

Perturabo paused, then immediately raised his voice—his tone sharpening.

Mortarion was questioning his ability.

A Primarch who had only led a single campaign was questioning him?

"Can you not see the Iron Warriors' achievements here?"

"Air superiority is already in the bag! Or do you simply not understand what air superiority means?"

As Perturabo's voice escalated into a roar, Mortarion frowned.

He did not understand why his brother was suddenly angry.

He had even deliberately avoided directly suggesting that the Death Guard deploy, knowing that "offering help" was not widely accepted between Legions.

But as Perturabo finished his sentence, Mortarion's confusion instantly turned to rage.

"What do you mean by that?"

Mortarion's words hissed like a serpent's tongue as he tightened his grip on his scythe, Silence.

"Perhaps a three-dimensional battlefield is still a little too complex for you to grasp," Perturabo said coldly, staring at Mortarion with disdain.

He shouldn't have expected someone from an agricultural world to understand his brilliance.

Hearing Perturabo's mockery, Mortarion let out a dry chuckle—but to others, it sounded more like the cough of a leper.

Mortarion didn't understand why Perturabo was suddenly attacking him, but he accepted it quickly.

In fact, Mortarion had always assumed that everyone was capable of attacking him.

"It seems my wise brother is eager to flaunt his intricate knowledge, but forgive me—I do not comprehend your sophisticated vocabulary," Mortarion said.

He deliberately thickened his Barbarus accent, making his words coarser, faster, and cruder.

"But if your understanding of war is so profound, then why are you here?"

"Why are you standing beside a brother who 'does not understand three-dimensional warfare' instead of at his side?"

They both knew exactly who that he referred to.

Mortarion hoped his attack struck deep.

During his time with Malcador, he had frequently heard the Sigillite criticizing how the Primarchs placed too much importance on the Emperor's opinion.

Mortarion didn't care what that fraud had to say.

But he also knew his brothers were not the same.

Perturabo roared in fury.

"What do you, a newly inducted son of the Imperium, even understand?!"

"The Emperor doesn't 'randomly choose' the Legions for his campaigns! The Iron Warriors are entrusted with far more difficult—far more glorious—tasks than you could ever comprehend!"

Mortarion realized his attack had landed.

Ha. Another child too obsessed with his father's approval.

So he decided to press further, digging into the scraps of knowledge he had about the other Primarchs and their Legions.

"Oh? Is that so?"

"Then tell me, does it just so happen that Horus Lupercal's Legion is always near the Emperor's forces? Every time?"

Before Mortarion could even finish speaking, Perturabo's expression hardened—he became as cold and unyielding as iron.

"Get out."

His voice was flat and absolute.

"Peasant."

Mortarion froze for a moment.

He glanced at his scythe.

Watching this unfold, Hades was on the verge of losing his mind.

He desperately wished for something—anything—to put an end to this absurd confrontation.

Could he say something?

The alarm sounded.

On the holographic map, from the far side of Graia-106, a fleet of ships flashed into existence, glowing with eerie green light.

Scythe-shaped, black vessels were heading straight for the Iron Warriors' fleet, which was docked near Asteroid Belt 106!

On the planet's surface, the tomb networks had detected the combined presence of the Iron Warriors and the Death Guard.

In response, they began awakening even more Necron forces.

Perturabo cast a glance at the enemy fleet.

The number of ships was far smaller than the Iron Warriors' forces.

They were insignificant.

[Mortarion?]

Seizing the brief moment of silence, Hades quickly opened a private communication channel.

[Pull back. Have the Death Guard's ships retreat behind the Iron Warriors' fleet!]

Let the Iron Warriors take the brunt of the firepower first—it seemed Perturabo had yet to realize the true danger of the Necron fleet!

The sudden alarm, combined with Hades' urgent tone, cut through Mortarion's anger.

He fell silent for a moment.

The Death Guard's fleet had only recently been replenished—they had already suffered losses at Galaspar.

Mortarion wasn't eager to lose more ships.

Especially not here.

Not in front of Perturabo.

[Withdraw.]

Mortarion cast one last look at Perturabo, then turned and walked away.

There was nothing more to discuss.

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