Getting Stronger in Marvel with Warhammer Simulator Chapter 267 - 266: Mortarion, Lord of Death, Shroud Dance, N

-Simulation-

The third Death Guard's headless body topples backward, the massive weight of power armor creating a trendous crash as it hits the deck. The impact sends vibrations through the tal plating, resonating through the passage like a bell struck with excessive force.

You kneel beside the corpses, the Cataphractii-pattern Terminator armor's servos whining softly as they adjust to support your changing posture. Your gauntleted hands move with practiced efficiency, gathering weapons and ammunition scattered across the deck where they fell during the brief, brutal engagent.

Two bolters mag-lock to your waist, one on each side, positioned for quick draw. A third goes onto the power pack's mounting bracket, creating a backup option if the primaries are lost or damaged. The ammunition storage compartnts beneath the pack accept additional magazines, the weight barely registering given the Terminator armor's strength assistance systems.

Your gaze tracks across the three power scythes lying among the blood and body parts. The weapons are magnificent examples of Astartes craftsmanship, each one forged specifically for warriors of superhuman strength, balanced for killing efficiency rather than aesthetic appeal.

You gather them with one hand, the Terminator gauntlet gripping all three hafts simultaneously. You turn and walk back down the passage several ters, searching for concealnt that will keep the weapons accessible if needed but hidden from casual observation.

The servitor alcoves provide the answer. You position the scythes behind one of the half-body constructs, wedging them into the gap between the servitor's support frawork and the wall. From most angles, the weapons will be invisible. Anyone specifically searching might find them, but casual patrols will walk right past.

You do not expect the cache to remain undiscovered for long. This is not about creating a permanent armory. It is about giving yourself options, creating redundancy. Every additional weapon represents another chance at survival, another tool that might prove critical when circumstances shift.

Satisfied with the concealnt, you return to your original trajectory. The Cataphractii-pattern armor moves with you, servos responding to neural commands transmitted through the black carapace interface. You walk toward the passage's far end, where the navigator's description indicated the route would open into one of the ship's lower decks.

The corridor terminates in a larger space, a vast chamber filled with ancient equipnt that predates the Great Crusade by centuries or perhaps millennia. Massive machines line the walls, their purposes obscure but their importance suggested by the sheer scale of their construction. Each one emits sounds: clicking, buzzing, rhythmic thumping that creates a chanical symphony of uncertain purpose. The noise layers upon itself, filling the chamber with industrial cacophony.

Your auto-senses filter the sounds, reducing their volu to manageable levels while still allowing you to detect changes that might indicate threats. Your tactical overlay marks the most direct path through the equipnt maze toward the elevator that will carry you to the mid-deck levels.

You begin moving, intending to cross the chamber quickly and minimize exposure to whatever monitoring systems might observe this area.

Then sothing shifts in your peripheral vision.

A ship repair servitor erges from the shadows between two massive machines. The construct's gait is unsteady, jerking and staggering as if its gyroscopic stabilizers have sustained damage. Its body shows extensive modification beyond standard servitor conversion, additional chanical components grafted onto the baseline design in patterns that suggest ongoing experintation rather than planned upgrades.

But unlike the servitors in the passage, this one does not simply observe. It changes direction deliberately, walking directly toward your position with what appears to be purposeful intent.

Your hand tightens on the Manreaper, muscles tensing in preparation for combat. The lta pistol remains in your other hand, ready to discharge if the servitor proves hostile.

The construct stops approximately three ters away, well within conversation range but far enough to avoid appearing imdiately threatening. When it speaks, the voice that erges is nothing like the tortured rasping of the earlier servitors.

This is clear. Coherent. Cold and chanical, yes, but perfectly intelligible, each word precisely enunciated.

"Each Death Guard combat squad consists of seven Astartes brothers."

The statent erges as if continuing a conversation already in progress, assuming you would understand the context.

"However, you need not concern yourself with full squad response. Only one squad currently operates in the lower deck sections. The remaining four were deliberately led to other areas by repair servitors that I directed to create chanical failures requiring imdiate attention. If circumstances unfold as planned, they will be occupied with those false ergencies, or possibly vented into space through sudden hull breaches that appear accidental."

You stand perfectly still, analyzing every aspect of the servitor before you. The modified body. The unprecedented clarity of speech. The strategic information being offered without prompting. None of this aligns with normal servitor behavior patterns.

Your voice erges carefully controlled, revealing nothing of your internal calculations. "One last question. Who are you?"

The servitor's head tilts upward, chanical neck servos grinding softly. Even that small motion carries deliberation, suggesting conscious thought directing the movent rather than simple programming.

"When I was first activated, the Tech-Priests on Luna designated the Dusk Raider." The cold chanical voice carries no emotion, but sothing in the cadence suggests... pride? mory? "When I followed the Primarch into battle against countless xenos and heretic worlds, the Death Guard secretly called the Glory of Barbarus. Now, First Captain Typhus, who was first to betray our Primarch's trust, calls Terminus."

The servitor raises its head higher, exposing the extensively modified skull. Approximately two-thirds of the biological material has been replaced with chanical components, leaving only fragnts of organic tissue threaded between tal and circuitry.

Your mind processes this revelation rapidly. "You're the flagship's machine spirit. No..." You pause, reassessing. "Sothing more complex. Abominable intelligence, perhaps, though that term carries implications you might dispute."

"Whatever my essential nature, it does not alter my loyalty to the Primarch."

The Terminus machine spirit's voice remains flat, emotionless, but the words themselves carry weight. Loyalty. Devotion. Concepts that transcend simple programming.

"Naless Death Shroud, I cannot determine what circumstances led to your apparent change of allegiance. But First Captain Typhus's malice and profound disrespect toward our Primarch have beco unbearable. Even distributed across my vast tal form, the anger I experience approaches system-damaging intensity."

The servitor's chanical hands clench into fists, servos straining audibly. "I will assist you in accomplishing what you must do. In exchange, you will help accomplish what I must do. First Captain Typhus must be destroyed. This is non-negotiable."

You consider the offer for several seconds, running tactical scenarios through your enhanced cognition. The machine spirit clearly possesses extensive control over the ship's systems. That represents trendous strategic value. But it also ans accepting partnership with an entity whose true motivations remain unclear, whose capabilities are unknown, and whose stability is questionable.

On the other hand, you genuinely have no better options available.

"Agreed," you say finally. "My first objective: the ship's primary arsenal."

The Terminus machine spirit responds without hesitation, as if it had been waiting for exactly this request. Data floods into your awareness, not through any technological interface but simply appearing in your mind as if you always knew it. Route information. Deck layouts. Security protocols.

You begin moving, following the optimized path the machine spirit provided. As you walk, additional information filters through.

The arsenal maintains a permanent garrison: fourteen Astartes, organized into two standard combat squads. Substantial force for defending critical supplies, but manageable if approached correctly.

The Terminus machine spirit can temporarily sever communications from that section, preventing distress calls from reaching the bridge. Attack alarms will be suppressed for a limited duration. But once sustained combat begins, the sound will carry through the ship's structure. Other Death Guard squads throughout the mid-deck will respond to investigate.

And a nearly complete Death Guard company numbers seven hundred warriors. Even as a Primarch, you would be overwheld by that many Astartes firing in coordinated volleys. The mathematics are brutal and simple: eventually, the sheer volu of bolter fire would penetrate even Terminator armor.

The machine spirit's available support consists primarily of ship repair servitors. Nurous, but fragile. Useful as distractions or ablative shields, but incapable of aningful combat against armored Astartes.

Currently, those servitors are gathering in the mid-deck, assembling in formation, awaiting your arrival.

You process all of this without visible reaction, your expression hidden behind the Terminator helt. The information is what it is. You will work with the resources available rather than wishing for better circumstances.

The elevator connecting lower and mid-decks waits ahead, a massive cargo lift designed to move heavy equipnt and supplies between levels. You enter, the Terminus-possessed servitor following.

The doors seal with hydraulic finality. chanical valves turn throughout the elevator shaft, pressure equalizing, systems engaging. Then descent begins, smooth and swift despite the trendous weight being carried.

The mid-deck approaches rapidly.

When the elevator doors open, they reveal a wide corridor stretching in both directions. And filling that corridor, standing in neat ranks that suggest military precision despite their construction, were ship repair servitors.

Hundreds of them. Perhaps a thousand. Each one modified for industrial work, equipped with cutting torches, plasma welders, heavy manipulator claws. Tools ant for ship maintenance, but capable of inflicting terrible damage if deployed against flesh.

"Death Shroud, your mont has arrived." The Terminus machine spirit's voice erges from every servitor simultaneously, creating an eerie chorus effect. "These units will serve as your shields and expendable assault forces. I cannot guarantee success or survival. But I can guarantee their obedience until final destruction."

You turn your head fractionally, looking down at the servitor beside you through the helt's eyepiece. The machine spirit ets your gaze with chanical sensors that sohow convey anticipation.

You say nothing. Simply step forward, walking out of the elevator and into the waiting formation.

The servitors imdiately fall into step behind you, a massive column of chanical bodies following their designated commander toward the arsenal's location. The sound of a thousand sets of tal feet striking deck plating creates a rhythmic thunder that echoes through the corridors.

Ti passes. Minutes accumulate as the procession moves deeper into the mid-deck's labyrinthine passages. The servitors maintain formation with disturbing precision, responding to commands transmitted directly from the Terminus machine spirit.

Then the vanguard elents reach the arsenal's approach corridor.

The chamber housing the weapons stockpile is vast, designed to store sufficient ammunition and equipnt to sustain company-level operations for extended campaigns. Massive doors bar entry, reinforced adamantium plating capable of withstanding sustained assault.

But those doors stand open currently, the garrison maintaining ready access for rapid resupply operations.

The concentrated gathering of repair servitors, their unusual military-style formation, their purposeful movent toward a restricted area, imdiately triggers alarms in the minds of the Death Guard stationed there.

One warrior attempts communication with the bridge. His vox remains silent, no response coming through channels that should have been constantly monitored.

Another tries to activate the local alarm system. The interface accepts his commands but produces no audible warning, no flashing lights, no transmission to other sections.

The garrison commander makes his decision in seconds. chanical failure or deliberate sabotage, the result is the sa: unknown threat approaching critical facility without proper authorization or explanation.

The Death Guard respond as they have been trained since recruitnt.

Violence. Imdiate. Overwhelming. Final.

Fourteen Astartes surge forward, drawing weapons with practiced efficiency. Heavy combat knives looks like a Kukri. Power scythes humming with active disruption fields. Bolters raised and aid.

They crash into the servitor formation like a tidal wave eting a sandbar, scattering chanical bodies with contemptuous ease. Scythes carve through industrial fras, separating components that had been fused together. Kukri blades punch through chest cavities, destroying central processors. Bolter rounds detonate inside servitor bodies, creating internal explosions that send parts flying in all directions.

The servitors die in droves, offering no aningful resistance. They simply advance, walking into death with chanical persistence, their only purpose to delay and distract.

And while the Death Guard butcher the fodder, you move.

You crouch low, the Cataphractii-pattern Terminator armor compressing to minimize your profile. The servitors around you create a forest of moving bodies, chanical limbs and torsos blocking direct line of sight to your position. You advance through the press, using the servitors as living cover.

Your hand rises, the lta pistol tracking across the gaps between servitors. Through those brief openings, you catch glimpses of your true targets: the tall, armored figures of Astartes warriors engaged in their massacre.

Your finger finds the trigger.

The lta pistol discharges with that characteristic reality-tearing shriek, superheated plasma erupting from the barrel. The first shot catches a Death Guard mid-swing, the beam punching through his chestplate and reducing everything behind the ceramite to superheated vapor. The warrior collapses mid-strike, dead before his nervous system can register the wound.

Second shot. Third. Fourth. You work the trigger with chanical precision, each discharge finding a target, each beam creating catastrophic damage.

Then the pistol's charge depletes, the weapon going inert in your grip. You release it, letting it fall to the deck, already drawing the bolters mag-locked at your waist.

You straighten to your full height, rising above the servitor press like a colossus erging from the sea. Both hands grip bolters, the weapons aid and tracking with auto-sense assistance.

You pull both triggers simultaneously.

The sound is catastrophic. Mass-reactive rounds erupt from twin barrels, hundreds of projectiles per minute filling the air with screaming death. The rounds arc over the servitor horde, tracking toward Astartes targets with devastating accuracy.

Explosions bloom across Death Guard armor, each detonation sending ceramite fragnts spinning through the air. Warriors stagger under the impact, their advance faltering, so going down under the concentrated fire.

But they return fire even while dying. Bolters swing toward this new threat, targeting the obvious center of resistance.

Rounds slam into your Terminator armor, creating showers of sparks where they strike at oblique angles, punching small craters where they hit directly. So detonate against your chestplate, the explosions creating visible dents in the thick ceramite. tal fragnts scream past your helt, close enough that you can hear them cutting through the air.

You stand motionless despite the incoming fire, a tal mountain refusing to yield ground. The Cataphractii-pattern armor absorbs punishnt that would have shredded standard power armor, the advanced construction and blessed materials holding against sustained assault.

Both bolters run dry simultaneously, the ammunition counters dropping to zero. You do not attempt to reload. No ti. The Death Guard are recovering from the initial surprise, beginning to coordinate their response.

You release the bolters, letting them clatter to the deck at your feet. Your hands reach back, gripping the Manreaper mag-locked to your power pack. The weapon cos free with a soft click, the massive blade swinging around in a controlled arc.

You draw breath, the pungent chemical air filling your lungs through the helt's rebreather. Your muscles tense. The Terminator armor's servos spin up to maximum output, preparing for explosive acceleration.

Your magnetic boots slam against the deck plating, creating small craters with each impact. You launch forward, building montum with each stride, the Manreaper held in a two-handed grip.

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