Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor Chapter 378 379: The Savior: Hurry... Baal... is doomed!

As the daemon's head twitched, black fungal tendrils spread outward from the wounded corpses, creeping across a radius of three ters and writhing incessantly.

That was none other than Mortarion, the corrupted Primarch of the Death Guard, the Lord of Death of the XIV Legion.

This Primarch, raised by an alien foster father in the harsh, toxic lands of Barbarus, who once despised the Chaos Gods and the warp, had—driven by paranoia and jealousy—delved deeper into forbidden technologies.

Later, after being betrayed by his foster brother-turned-father figure, Typhus, Mortarion chose to submit, completely surrendering himself to the embrace of Grandfather Nurgle. He even murdered one of his fellow Primarchs.

Mortarion beca one of Nurgle's most beloved champions—perhaps out of a twisted need for paternal love—and, in a grotesque parody, even vied with Typhus for Grandfather Nurgle's affection, a spectacle that could only be described as a dark cody.

As a reward for his service, Mortarion was granted his own Plague Planet by Nurgle.

There, he reshaped the Plague Planet into a reflection of Barbarus, constructing his fortress atop high mountains shrouded in toxic fogs, ruling over billions of slaves below, just like his hated alien foster father once did.

He had beco the very thing he despised most. The shadows of his past had never truly left him.

For countless years, Mortarion remained confined to his Plague Planet, rarely leaving. And now, through sorcerous curses and rituals, he had gone to great lengths to commune with his forr Primarch brothers—an exceptionally rare act.

Controlling the mutated corpse, Mortarion regarded Roboute Guilliman without a hint of concern for the Lord Regent's fury. His voice was raspy, low, laced with mockery.

"My noble-born brother, how did you end up like this?"

Mortarion scrutinized Guilliman's withered hair and exhausted face, his satisfaction evident.

How he had envied those brothers born into privilege, showered with love. And now, they were all lesser than before—pathetic shadows of their forr glory.

Even this so-called Jewel of Ultramar had beco a hollowed-out body, barely clinging to life through alien technology.

"You too... I never imagined you'd turn out so hideous, groveling at the feet of the Chaos Gods..."

The anger in Guilliman's eyes dimd slightly, replaced by a trace of sorrow.

"Mortarion... have you forgotten you were once a rebel, a fighter who stood against the odds? Where is your courage, your resolve?"

"Before now stands nothing but a rotting corpse... a pitiful coward."

Ten thousand years had passed, and the once-proud sons of the Emperor had lost their ideals, becoming grotesque mockeries of themselves. Was this not a tragedy in itself?

Mortarion seed stung by Guilliman's words, his tone turning dark and twisted beneath the grotesque breathing apparatus, like the tolling of a funeral bell.

"Yes... you all looked down on . You never saw as a brother, just an alien-raised outcast. You, born into privilege, never knew hardship, never understood the pain of destiny."

"You never saw as family. Not even that cursed, hypocritical one..."

Suddenly, his voice was interrupted by a pained, desperate cry.

"Mortarion... my son... it hurts, it hurts so much..."

Mortarion erupted in rare fury, snarling, "Shut up, you alien filth!"

With another action, he silenced the voice, cutting off its agonized screams.

It was the spirit of the alien overlord of Barbarus—his foster father, whom Mortarion had spent a thousand years hunting after his fall.

He had trapped his foster father's soul within a sorcerous device, tornting it endlessly with unimaginable diseases and poisons.

Guilliman took a deep breath, his voice firm.

"The Emperor... he never..."

Mortarion, having silenced the wailing voice, turned his attention back to Guilliman, still manipulating the daemon's head.

"The Emperor? You an that power-mad tyrant, lost in his own delusions of grandeur?"

The Death Lord let out a bitter laugh.

"That tyrant, who sched to slay a foster father and force his sons to kneel, only to cast them aside like refuse. How absurd!"

He fixed his gaze on Guilliman, continuing coldly.

"What did he ever do for us?"

"Stripped his sons of power, sat high upon his throne, indifferent to our suffering, letting us tear each other apart while he watched in silence."

"And now... now he is little more than a twisted, polluted abomination, a parody of all he once despised."

"This outco is nothing but justice."

Mortarion's hatred for the Emperor ran deep.

After Typhus' betrayal, he and the Death Guard had fallen into corruption, enduring relentless agony. In his most tortured monts, he found himself in visions, climbing the toxic peaks of Barbarus, struggling to breathe, only to be struck down at the doorstep of his foster father's fortress, on the brink of death.

He relived every mont of that tornt—and this ti, the Emperor never ca to save him.

Perhaps he had never been saved at all.

It had all been a lie spun by a hypocrite, a tragic performance ant to break him.

Mortarion, a lifelong rebel who worshipped strength, who rejected Chaos and the Warp, who sought to beco the most unyielding force in the galaxy... had ultimately proven weak, unable to save anyone—not even himself.

And so, Mortarion broke.

To ease the suffering of his Death Guard, he chose submission, surrendering his soul to Nurgle and letting himself be swept along, becoming the very thing he once despised.

Now, he had embraced it fully, serving Grandfather Nurgle with the sa fervor he once served the Emperor.

Mortarion advanced a few steps, the black tendrils spreading further.

His voice was heavy as he spoke.

"Perhaps that hypocrite's words were lies all along. He deceived us. He relished it all—the power from the Warp, the blind adoration. Roboute... do you worship that 'god'?"

"You should shut up..."

The warped, twisted rhetoric stirred a mix of fury and complex emotions within Guilliman.

He ignited the Emperor's Sword, its holy flas roaring to life.

The black tendrils scread under the searing fire, shriveling into ash.

Mortarion hesitated, wary of the Emperor's Sword, retreating a step. He couldn't afford to lose this body, not yet.

His voice softened, though it remained a rasping, chilling sound.

"Roboute... that hypocrite you revere proclaims himself a god, casting all responsibility onto you, standing above it all. And yet, your desperate efforts have co to nothing. You dance like a clown, flailing, accomplishing nothing."

"The Imperium... will fall."

"If you ca just to spout such drivel, then this ends now."

Guilliman swung his sword, the flas consuming most of the black fungus and charring the mutated corpse.

Mortarion flinched, pain flickering across his features, before more tendrils grew to patch the damage.

"You should calm down. Perhaps you ought to thank ."

"For I bring you... a most important ssage."

A ssage from the frontlines.

His cold, oppressive voice delivered the words Guilliman dreaded.

"Your fleet has been ambushed in the Obscurus Sector. They face annihilation. You have five months to save them."

"Or... you can continue your mission to aid Baal."

"But if you choose that, the battle for the Obscurus Sector will collapse. The fleet trapped there, and all the surrounding territories, will be lost."

Guilliman froze, a sharp crease forming on his brow.

This... was news he had not known.

If true, it would force him into a harrowing, agonizing decision.

Mortarion studied his brother's reaction, savoring the tornt.

Ten thousand years had passed—he had to understand Guilliman thoroughly to lay the groundwork for the next phase of the plan and fulfill Grandfather Nurgle's designs.

Humanity was dood.

Chaos would drag the entire galaxy into the depths of the Warp, where the Dark Gods would feast on every soul.

But first, they had to claim more territory—before it was all consud by rival powers.

Grandfather Nurgle was deeply invested in this next phase of corruption, and Mortarion, his blessed and favored son, had to play his part well.

This visit was to present Guilliman with a choice... to see where he would lean amidst all these pressures.

Especially in his attitude toward the so-called Savior, the Devourer.

That was of paramount importance.

It would determine whether the next plan would involve the Savior.

The Chaos coalition besieging the Expedition Fleet did not include Nurgle's forces.

Those factions sought to carve out their own share of the spoils, a betrayal Grandfather Nurgle could not tolerate.

Fortunately, Nurgle had a more perfect plan in motion.

If successful, it would yield spoils so vast that even the other Chaos Gods would seethe with envy.

"You may not believe it... but it is true. Soon enough, you will hear of it."

Mortarion raised his hand, conjuring a projection.

The image revealed a battlegroup from the Unyielding Crusade's Second Fleet, its ships screaming in agony as the Chaos coalition tore them apart. One ship after another fell, while entire worlds blazed in flas, their human populations twisted into unspeakable horrors by daemonic ravages.

Mortarion watched Guilliman's pained expression with satisfaction.

"Roboute... we all know it's a difficult choice."

Mortarion spoke calmly, revealing the harsh truth:

"Both the Baal and Obscurus Sector war zones are on the brink of collapse. With the ti you have, you can only choose one to save."

"Perhaps abandoning Baal, abandoning the so-called Savior, is the better option."

"After all, the overall situation in the Obscurus Sector is far more critical. It concerns many more worlds and human lives…"

As he spoke, the Death Lord prepared to project another visual feed—this ti of the brutal battles in the Baal system—to further burden the Lord Regent's mind, forcing him into an even more agonizing and difficult decision.

Not long ago, Mortarion had paid a steep sorcerous price to send a special Plague Fly to Baal, hoping to use it to observe the situation there.

"Baal's situation may be worse than expected. We all know the horror of the Tyranids—perhaps the world is already at the brink of destruction."

Eagerly, he received the image and prepared to project it, hoping to savor the Lord Regent's pained reaction:

"See for yourself. Humanity wails beneath the jaws of the Tyranid swarm…"

But the projection flickered for less than a millisecond before it was abruptly extinguished.

"Impossible…"

Mortarion's control over the projection faltered. The grotesque daemon head he manipulated trembled, its eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets.

Was that still Baal?

Had the intelligence been wrong? Was there no war? And what was with the victory celebrations?

The Death Lord stared at the jubilant scenes transmitted by the Plague Fly—people celebrating, massive victory statues erected everywhere—and fell into a daze.

Suspecting a mistake, he refocused the Plague Fly to double-check.

Finally, he accepted the truth.

The situation on Baal had changed dramatically. People were preparing victory celebrations, with many unfamiliar devices and rituals in place.

Then, the Plague Fly abruptly collided with so kind of energy barrier—

—and was instantly reduced to ash.

Mortarion's mutated corpse stood frozen, engulfed in deep silence.

Perhaps he had stayed too long on his Plague Planet, or maybe the galaxy had simply changed too quickly for him to keep up.

Now, the Death Lord felt a rare sense of embarrassnt.

His carefully designed dilemma had beco a transparent joke, utterly ineffective.

The war for Baal was already over. The Lord Regent didn't need to go there.

Amid the awkward atmosphere and Guilliman's puzzled gaze, Mortarion muttered dryly:

"You don't need to go to Baal."

The black tendrils on the mutated corpse rapidly retracted, the daemon head withered in an instant, and the entire body collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

The Death Lord had logged off.

There was no point in lingering here.

The deadline Grandfather Nurgle had set was approaching. Mortarion needed to gather more intelligence and reassess the entire plan.

Especially the impact of the so-called Savior on the strategy.

The entire plan might have to undergo drastic changes.

"You don't need to go to Baal?"

Guilliman was puzzled by his fallen brother's sudden departure.

He pondered Mortarion's behavior, considering: Could it be that the war for Baal is already over, or perhaps reaching a victorious conclusion?

But that seed impossible.

And given everything Mortarion had just done, it was also likely an act, a deception ant to mislead him and delay the Baal campaign.

The Lord Regent had been deceived, trapped, and betrayed by his fallen brothers and the Chaos Daemons too many tis. His instincts were honed to be cautious.

Without concrete information, he would not jump to conclusions.

Guilliman summoned Felix, instructing him to monitor the situation of the Unyielding Crusade's Second Fleet. Then he turned and walked toward the Sanctum.

He needed more ti to think.

…

Nine hours later, Lord Regent's Sanctum, Office.

Felix glanced at the Lord Regent with concern but dared not make a sound, lest he interrupt the thoughts of the towering figure before him.

Just monts ago, the Lord Regent had received a distress call from the Second Fleet of the Unyielding Crusade.

They had sacrificed nurous Astropaths to transmit this precious signal.

The grim reality aligned with the corrupted Primarch's claims: the Second Fleet had been surrounded and was under attack by the Chaos coalition, their lines shrinking under relentless assault.

If they did not receive reinforcents within five months, the entire front would collapse, leading to an even greater defeat.

Guilliman sat at his desk, his brows furrowed in deep anxiety and fatigue.

He faced an agonizing choice.

Should he continue toward Baal, or divert to support the Obscurus Sector?

Either choice ant abandoning countless lives to their fate.

Letting them die.

It was not a pleasant feeling.

And ti was running out.

By the fleet's calculations, in one standard Terran hour, they would reach a warp junction—the only point where they could alter course toward the Obscurus Sector.

Once past that, it would be nearly impossible to adjust the fleet's trajectory within the warp.

He had to make the final decision during this window.

At last, Guilliman made the rational choice: the fleet would proceed to Baal.

Based on the data, Baal and the so-called Savior were of greater importance to the Imperium. The rampaging Tyranids had to be contained, or they would threaten Holy Terra itself.

Beyond reason, there was another, deeper truth.

The Lord Regent could not deny that he also wanted to save his embattled brother.

After issuing the order to proceed to Baal, Guilliman closed his eyes, exhausted.

War was always accompanied by difficult choices.

He had, in the na of glory, sent countless to their deaths—he had forsaken many, ti and ti again.

All he could do now was strive to make each sacrifice aningful.

Suddenly, the comms device nearby crackled to life with static.

Guilliman rushed to the console at top speed when he saw the source.

It was a transmission from his brother, Eden!

His heart pounded—this was critical. Baal's situation demanded his full attention.

Bzzzt…

The Savior's half-image projected into the air, though the signal was fuzzy and distorted. Behind him, a roaring battle raged—smoke obscured much of his body, clearly in the middle of a battlefield.

Ti was of the essence.

Guilliman wasted no ti on pleasantries, asking directly, "Eden, what's the situation on Baal? Do you need support?"

In the projection, Eden seed to be enduring so pain, frowning as he spoke to the comms.

"Hey, hey… I can't hear you, the signal's bad..."

His voice was choppy, breaking up intermittently.

"Gui… big bro… your side… war… quick… Baal… hss… it's over!"

Amid the garbled transmission, there were crashes and tremors, mingled with the screams of Space Marines.

Guilliman could discern voices he recognized—mbers of the Custodians. Even they had joined the battle—and it was brutal.

The situation on Baal was likely worse than he had imagined.

His heart clenched with anxiety.

"Eden, hold fast! I'll reach Baal in three days!"

At that mont, Eden seed to catch sothing and gave a faint smile.

But before he could continue speaking, the signal fizzled out, and the office fell silent once more.

Just then, the ship trembled again, as if encountering an obstruction. Alarms blared, warning of a Chaos attack.

"Chaos scum!"

Guilliman gritted his teeth, his body radiating wrath like a thunderstorm. He drew the Emperor's Sword and strode out.

Any who dared to obstruct his path to Baal—

Would be annihilated!

The Lord Regent led his warriors into the fray, purging the Chaos daemons as the fleet, battered and strained, pressed on toward Baal.

This ti, he would not be too late!

…

anwhile, on Baal…

Pop!

With a loud pop and a burst of champagne foam, corks flew into the air.

This was the Savior's health spa and hydrotherapy retreat—where the Savior and his esteed guests were recuperating.

The attendants were popping bottles of champagne, pouring the precious liquid into crystal glasses, and serving it to the distinguished guests.

A servant quietly approached, bowing his head, and gently placed a glass of champagne on the table beside the Savior.

He did not dare disturb the great figure, who was engaged in an important transmission.

Eden reclined on an alloy chair, steam shrouding his body, with a comms device floating before him.

Just monts ago, the communications departnt had finally established contact with Lord Regent Guilliman, and the signal had been patched through imdiately.

Guilliman's image hovered in the air, looking as weary as ever, mouth open as if speaking, though no sound erged.

Another rumbling shook the area.

A forceful tremor beneath his feet caused Eden to wince in pain. He frowned.

"Ugh... hey, hey, I can't hear you. The signal's bad…"

The comms module seed to be suffering interference.

"Damn these comms!"

The Savior was exasperated, but this contact was precious.

He seized the mont to report the situation on Baal, though the signal remained patchy.

"Guilliman, big bro, what's your situation? Baal's war is over. We're rebuilding. If you don't have anything urgent, hurry up and co to the victory celebration."

"It won't waste your ti—on the contrary, it'll help the overall campaign. We've recently discovered a new long-range Webway route, allowing for faster travel across the sectors."

"I'll set up a fast lane for you... hss, so painful… anyway, hurry over, or we'll run out of champagne!"

(End of Chapter)

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