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

Inside the Iron Blood, a deathly silence filled the air. 

The rhythmic ticking of instruments continued, but the usual murmurs and conversations had faded into nothing but quiet breathing.

The data was ugly. 

Perturabo sat in absolute stillness, like a dormant volcano—his expression an unmoving mask, as if covered by layers of cooled, dark gray rock.

But everyone knew that beneath that thick crust, magma was churning, ready to erupt at any moment.

Under Perturabo's command, the Iron Warriors had significantly reduced their fleet losses. 

Apart from the initial departure of the cruiser fleet, the ships lost afterward were mostly older, lower-class vessels.

Yet, that still did not change the fact that he had failed.

With his Primarch's keen insight, Perturabo understood that in all his countless calculations, if the enemy fleet had not hesitated for just that brief moment at the end, then the Iron Blood's ammunition would not be able to rain down upon them in the final instant.

The Primarch was confident that the ship's firepower could have torn those ships apart. 

But what if…

Realizing that his thoughts were drifting dangerously close to the edge of that whirlpool, Perturabo felt his breathing grow heavier.

He forced himself to control it. 

He couldn't afford to lose his composure. 

Because if he did, others would be more than happy to witness his failure.

So, he could not let it show.

A sudden communication request shattered the silence, pounding at his temples. A transmission from the Death Guard, appearing without warning.

Of course.

Perturabo let out a silent, bitter laugh in his heart. 

His brothers were always like this—climbing over each other's failures, stepping on the fallen to rise higher. 

They pretended to be amicable on the surface, yet ridiculed each other in the shadows.

And this particular brother, hailing from an agricultural world, lacked even the most basic courtesy. 

Perturabo could already imagine Mortarion's thick, rural accent dripping with mockery.

The mere thought of what was to come filled Perturabo with a storm of anger and humiliation, crashing through his soul like violent waves.

He cursed under his breath. 

He wanted to smash something, tear something apart—to rip that detestable face from the other side of the screen, crush it, erase it from existence.

Just as he had shattered that statue before.

A pathetic attempt at craftsmanship.

At the very last moment before the Death Guard's communication request expired, Perturabo finally accepted the call.

The static of the transmission crackled through the room, followed by the flickering instability of a holo-projection.

Perturabo loathed these electrical noises. 

They represented instability—uncertainty, change, fragility.

Fragility.

However, Mortarion's loathsome figure was not at the center of the projection. His foul, toxic fumes hovered lazily at the edges of the image instead.

Standing in the middle of the transmission was a Deathshroud Terminator. 

Unlike the others, one of his shoulder plates bore the insignia of the Adeptus Mechanicus, a silent declaration of his status as a Techmarine.

Perturabo frowned. 

He recognized this warrior—one of the Death Guard Mortarion had brought aboard the Iron Blood earlier.

Outside of the Iron Hands and Iron Warriors, Astartes who followed the Cult Mechanicus rarely held significant positions within their Legions.

In the Iron Hands, Ferrus Manus allowed his warriors to worship the Machine God, fostering strong ties between his Legion and the Tech-Priests of Mars.

Perturabo despised the Tech-Priests of the Mechanicum—those hunchbacked, self-modified "sages" who hid behind their augmentations. 

Under his guidance, the Iron Warriors had always strived to develop their own technological capabilities, ensuring that the Legion would never be shackled by those petty manipulators.

Of course, outwardly, he still maintained alliances with many within the Mechanicum. But rather than the orthodox Tech-Priests, it was the "outliers" among them who more often earned Perturabo's interest.

After giving a brief Aquila salute, the Techmarine in the holo-projection spoke.

"Greetings, Primarch of the Iron Warriors. I am Hades, First of the Deathshroud."

The moment Hades spoke, Perturabo recognized his voice—it was the same one that had been in private communication with Dantioch earlier.

Perturabo's eyes narrowed. 

Those familiar with the Primarch knew this was a dangerous signal.

On the other end of the transmission, Hades stood stiffly, as if walking on a razor's edge.

He forced his voice to remain as calm and mechanical as possible—like a machine… or, perhaps, like a Necron.

After the recent Necron fleet attack, when the enemy did not immediately launch a second assault, Hades seized the brief window of opportunity to contact the Iron Warriors to discuss their next steps.

Mortarion had offered no resistance to this. In fact, he was more than happy to let Hades handle it—because he had no interest in seeing Perturabo, nor in speaking to him.

After witnessing the precise formations of Perturabo's fleet, Hades got the impression that Mortarion seemed… deflated?

He wasn't entirely sure. After all, trying to read the expressions of a Primarch who hid his face like a recluse was almost impossible.

Instead, Hades had to judge by Mortarion's actions. 

Since Mortarion hadn't immediately mocked or "praised" Perturabo, Hades assumed that the Death Guard Primarch was in a neutral mood.

Still, it was best to avoid any further direct conversation between the two Primarchs. Hades was quite certain that during their last meeting, Mortarion had seriously considered whether or not to take a swing at Perturabo with his scythe.

The Necrons' movements remained unclear. The Death Guard forces stationed on the satellite of Graia-106 lacked the capability to scout the main planet's situation, leaving the overall command of the war firmly in the hands of the Iron Warriors.

What Hades didn't know was that after the brief "pause," no new Necron soldiers had emerged from Graia-106. The ones that had been standing on the battlefield were quickly eliminated by the Iron Warriors, who had recovered from the initial shock.

For a moment, the entire battlefield fell into eerie silence.

Aside from the occasional execution shot from the Iron Warriors, and the metallic scrape of boots against Necron corpses, there was no other sound.

Following the naval battle, Perturabo did not order an immediate advance. Instead, he focused on fortifications—deploying mid-to-high-altitude defenses and, of course, more trenches.

Scout teams were dispatched to gather intelligence in the short window of calm.

This occupied a portion of Perturabo's mental calculations. The rest of his focus, however, remained on the ongoing communication with the Death Guard.

He stared at Hades on the other side of the projection, refusing to speak.

Was this an insult?

Mortarion had sent his subordinate to negotiate with him. It was an obvious slight.

Of course, in certain cases, Primarchs did entrust negotiations to their most trusted sons.

Yet Perturabo still suspected Mortarion's slow, festering malice—a sluggish, creeping resentment, like the stinking bubbles rising from a toxic swamp.

And that disgusted him.

Perturabo refused to speak first. 

He would not give the other side the satisfaction of insulting him. 

He loathed that they weren't present in person—otherwise, he could have marched up to this bold Death Guard warrior, loomed over him menacingly, and listened as he spewed his self-important rhetoric.

"I have been entrusted by Lord Mortarion to handle communications with your Legion," Hades stated evenly. There was no detectable fluctuation in his voice.

"The situation is urgent, so I will dispense with pleasantries."

Of course, some flattery was still necessary. Hades understood that.

"The Iron Warriors' recent naval battle was truly admirable—such intricate yet grand-scale command is nothing short of breathtaking."

"It is difficult to imagine such meticulous execution in an engagement of this scale."

"I believe most mortals would fail to grasp the brilliance of this maneuver."

Perturabo folded his arms, staring at him.

This was just another compliment from an ordinary Astartes. As a Primarch, he had heard far too many of these. It was nothing more than what he deserved. It was unnecessary.

"And as the supreme commander of this campaign," Hades continued, "you must have a far greater understanding of the enemy than the Death Guard. Thus, we hope to exchange information with the Iron Warriors and discuss our strategy moving forward."

Hades could tell that Mortarion was less than pleased at that statement. But, in all fairness—setting aside the fact that Hades knew certain things in advance—the Death Guard truly lacked sufficient knowledge about these alien constructs.

It was the truth. A neutral, factual statement. There was no mockery or malice in it, so Mortarion did not argue.

Perturabo remained silent, arms still crossed. He shifted his thoughts away from the conversation, instead focusing on the trench network being built on Graia-106.

Through his command interface, he "watched" his warriors marching across the dust-choked mining fields, their armor dulled by the swirling yellow sands.

Then, his gaze returned to the Death Guard's holo-projection. White and green armor—like fragile, easily-crushed plants.

"For the next operation," Perturabo stated coldly, "the Death Guard will follow my orders."

With that, he abruptly cut the transmission.

On the other end, Perturabo's holo-image flickered and vanished with a sharp crackle of static.

Hades was fairly certain that Mortarion had just cursed in Barbarusian.

And he was also fairly certain that Mortarion was now seriously reconsidering whether or not he should have swung his scythe at Perturabo the last time they met.

For that matter, Hades himself wanted to swear.

In reality, considering the Death Guard's limited participation in past campaigns (due to their late arrival in the Great Crusade) and the fact that their main fleet was still in transit, they were always likely to take on a supporting role in this battle.

But hearing Perturabo say it outright was infuriating.

Yet, barely a second later, the Death Guard received a data stream from the Iron Warriors.

A vast trove of detailed and neatly organized information. A complete breakdown of Necron intelligence.

Lines of High Gothic and numerical calculations flooded the Death Guard's screens, forming a coherent picture of this alien race.

And not just that—maps of Graia-106, trench schematics, and structural blueprints were included as well.

Hades blinked in surprise.

This all but confirmed that the Death Guard would be engaging in ground combat.

Their fleet was in no shape to fight the Necrons in space, but on land? There, the Death Guard held formidable strength.

And the data stream from the Iron Warriors had not yet stopped.

One specific red marker appeared on the far rear of the Graia-106 mining complex—a point manually flagged by Perturabo himself.

Hades checked the identifier.

Oh, for fuck's sake—it's Morarg and the others.

A small detachment of Death Guard recruits had been stationed far behind the front lines, placed alongside the Graia Forge World's tech-priests.

Hades had completely forgotten about them.

And judging by the awkward throat-clearing sound Mortarion just made…

Hades was willing to bet he had forgotten, too.

In a way, that realization took some of the sting out of their anger.

<+>

If you want to see more chapter of this story and don't mind paying $5 each month to read the latest posted chapter, please go to my Patreon 1

Latest Posted Chapter in Patreon: Chapter 177: The Three1

Link to the latest posted chapter: https://www.patreon.com/posts/129654326?collection=6025201

https://www.patreon.com/collection/602520?view=condensed1