Chapter 313: Vigil Night

I've found them, Mortarion thought, sullenly wiping his scythe on the linen cloth for the seventh time. Or maybe they found me.

He sat among a pile of hay that had become slightly damp due to light rain, waiting for it to get later. He would try to light the firewood brought to him by the villagers to make the stewed gray food softer, warmer and easier to eat. .

Mortarion was hesitant to light the fire now. The fire would remind him of the brilliant golden fire that filled his eyes when he met the two extraterrestrial visitors that day.

The small village, Heller's Pass, was still within the influence of the sorcerer overlord Nakre, but close enough to the edge to stay out of sight of the Plague Eagle.

The air here is relatively clean and there are houses, barns, mills and streams. There are about two hundred residents living in the village, carefully planting the wheat fields here, and cultivating their lives day after day.

He was received by the villagers outside the village's Chaimen. When asked about his identity, he honestly told himself that he was an experimental subject of Nakre.

This brought a lot of fear to the villagers - not to mention that some people actually recognized him. His tall and thin body and pale face proved that he was the lackey of the rumored witchcraft overlord.

Mortarion accepted the people's questions calmly and even nostalgically. When he entered the small village where he first lived, he received almost the same questioning.

However, the people there ultimately chose to give Barbarus what little tenderness he had left, until they died because of him.

When the villagers hesitated, a young man persuaded the villagers to accept him.

"He has been escaping for so long," the young man said. "The overlord may have given up looking for him. And he is so big that one person can cut the wheat for five people."

As a result, he and Karas Typhon were assigned the same residence—a stable located on the outside of the village.

The stables were abandoned, and all that remained inside were traces of the creatures that had once lived there. Perhaps the creatures that the villagers had raised here had all died, or people could no longer afford the expense of feeding too many living creatures.

Secretly, Mortarion hoped that the livestock here had just been moved to the edge of another farmland and lived in another place.

Mortarion lowered the wiped scythe. It was time for him to replace his scythe. This one was showing serious wear and tear. He wasn't sure where he would find a second scythe that fit his size.

The scythe's blade collided with the ground, making a dull and hollow sound, which briefly coincided with Mortarion's heartbeat.

Mortarion looked out from the open door of the stable. In the distance that mortals could not see, in the mist under the hillside, he knew that the Emperor of Mankind and the wizard were there, waiting silently.

What can he give them? he thinks.

"What's wrong?" The young man standing at the door asked him puzzledly. Karas Typhon was standing where his gaze passed, and Mortarion realized that he had just been staring at the young man for a long time.

The weak sun during the day finally withdrew its last ray of light harshly, and Karas returned to the stable.

He looked at the untouched dry wood on the ground, confused for a moment, and then said understandingly: "I will do it today. Tomorrow I will teach you how to make a fire, Mortarion."

This misunderstanding gave Mortarion a blushing embarrassment out of thin air, although nothing could be seen on his pale skin.

"I'll do it." He muttered, moved to the fire pit, and easily rubbed out sparks with a flint, and the kindling under the firewood began to emit green smoke. Soon, golden flames rose up, playing with the edges of the firewood.

Karas placed the pot of vegetable porridge on the iron stand and let the heat waves brought by the flames lick the bottom of the clay cauldron. Soon after, it became warmer inside the stable, and the porridge and soup in the pot gently bubbled out gray and white bubbles. Karas filled a bowl for himself, filled a bowl with porridge, and handed it to Mortarion across the fire pit.

A rhythmic, undulating tone floated faintly from the center of the Heller Pass, like thick fog that condensed into water droplets and dripped on the surface of the iron piece by piece, unconstrained by the rules of language.

Mortarion turned his head following the direction of the sound: "What is that?"

Karas almost choked on his porridge. "That's singing. Haven't you heard it?"

Mortarion finished his porridge in one gulp. He drank quickly and could eat more. But even if the Primarch eats less, the price he will bear will be much lighter than that of a mortal. Therefore, he did not serve the second bowl.

"No," he said.

"Incredible." Karas shrugged, "Even if the overlord doesn't sing, doesn't he still listen to songs?"

"There is only noise," Mortarion replied immediately, his voice cold.

Karas burst out laughing and almost coughed out the porridge in his mouth. A few tangled grasses growing there at the damp bottom of the stable wall suddenly withered.

Karas Typhon glanced at the corner and explained nonchalantly: "I have half the dirty blood of the Overlord in my veins. In the village where I was born, they drowned my mother for this. Then I ran here."

Normally, Mortarion would have scolded the other party and warned the pale young man not to be disturbed by evil sorcery. But at this time, he violated the regulations he set for himself.

"What happened?" asked the Primarch.

Karas spat and said roughly, "She's so pretty."

Mortarion thought about what he should say.

"It's not your fault," he said, "but the evil rulers. They imposed violence and power on the people of Barbarus, but you didn't have enough power to resist."

"Who doesn't understand this? But the villagers can only think she is a witch."

Karas picked up a thin iron stick and poked the firewood in the fire pit, letting the flames burst out more vigorously from the firewood.

The horn of dusk sounded, and torches around the village were lit one by one to prevent witchcraft ghosts in the mist.

The last batch of villagers dragged their feet back from the wheat field. They were numb and depressed, no one spoke, only footsteps sounded chaotically outside the stable, full of hasty worries.

Some of them would go to the small gathering in the center of the village, while others would go directly back to their families. They would slowly relax, and even, they might laugh.

The words of the Emperor echoed in Mortarion's ears. Do you want to kill more, the Lord of Mankind asked him.

"What if I kill him?" Mortarion suddenly said, "Kill those overlords?"

Karas's expression froze, and he waited for three seconds to confirm that Mortarion was not joking.

"For a long time," the young man stared at Mortarion and said, "For a long time, the world has been like this. Some people challenged it, but they all lost."

Mortarion did not answer.

Karas Typhon moved closer, testing his attitude with suspicion and hidden expectations.

"As long as you are willing, with your ability, you and I can easily live in Barbarus. But resist? No, Mortarion, those who resist will die."

Mortarion looked at the door of the stable. When Karas walked in, he closed the shaking wooden door to resist the night fog and cold.

And Mortarion knew that in the depths of the fog with too high a concentration of chemicals in the mountains, the Emperor and the wizard were there, and they seemed to want nothing except his change of heart.

A general. A leader. An executioner of witchcraft. An exterminator of an unshakable oppressive regime.

"Mortarion means son of death," he said.

Karas opened his mouth, but still said nothing. He looked around, then stood up and walked to Mortarion, close to the ear of the Primarch.

"I believe you." He whispered softly.

Mortarion put down the bowl and followed Karas Typhon's method, loosening the gaps between the firewood to make the flames burn more vigorously.

"When will we start farming tomorrow?" the Primarch asked.

Karas returned to his haystack covered with two layers of linen, half leaning and half leaning.

"I just came to Hell Pass not long ago. I only know that after the morning call sounded, everyone went to work in the fields one after another. Why, you want to go too?"

Mortarion nodded, pulled his sickle, put it next to the haystack, and then lay down in the thick haystack, ready to go to bed and rest early. During his journey through the Barbarus Plain, he never closed his eyes for a moment.

The hay under him could not sting his skin at all, but only depicted and reminded him of the scar on his back. This was the shame left by the sorcery overlord.

Mortarion turned sideways and gradually fell asleep.

Karas Typhon looked after the fire for a while. There was nothing to do at night. Fog and black clouds locked the sky, blocking the light of the stars from the atmosphere. After a while, he also fell asleep.

——

Mortarion was awakened by a sorcery telepathic communication that sounded directly in his brain. He turned over and grabbed the sickle and bounced up, his head almost hitting the top of the stable. After a reaction, he realized that he was stepping on the real land.

+ If you don't want to see the bodies killed by sorcery puppets all over the ground on the first morning after arriving in the village, you'd better not sleep, Mortarion. +

A sharp needle pierced his nerves. Mortarion pressed his forehead, enduring the heaviness of his limbs and the fatigue of his brain. The feeling of being forced out of sleep was terrible, especially since this was the first opportunity to rest in more than ten days.

Beside him, Karas Typhon was half asleep and half awake: "...What?"

"Nothing." Mortarion whispered, picking up the sickle, pushing open the door of the stable, holding one of the two torches at the door in his hand, and looking through the dark fog in the deep night.

A strange coldness swept across his cheek in silence. He steadied the sickle with his feet, freed his hands, and grabbed the black hair soaked with cold sweat on his forehead to both sides.

Morse was right. Something is happening in secret.

+ Go to the mill, Mortarion. + The wizard beside the Emperor continued to say to him, + What do you call a dead puppet controlled by psychic power? That's what it is. +

Mortarion looked to the other side of the village, across the wheat field, the shadows of the late night were blurred in the fog, and the outline of the mill windmill was difficult to discern. The night was like a deep pool of mud, cold and cruelly drowning the lower world of Barbarus.

The cold wind gradually strengthened, and the cries of ghosts were heard in the deep night. Beyond the small range that the asphalt torches could illuminate, dangerous fog rolled up. Some tiny chewing, scratching and strange laughter echoed outside the village, waiting for the fruits of hunting hungry.

Mortarion memorized the direction of the mill and ran in the thick fog at night. He walked like the wind, quietly passing through the sleeping village, and walked towards the windmill alone under the light of the torches that flickered.

As he approached, the windmill gradually took shape in the middle of the night, with three huge windmill blades extending outward like the arms of a giant. Opposite the mill, in the rough watchtower of the village, the bright yellow lights of the night watch were still on, unaware of the danger.

The fire in Mortarion's hand attracted the attention of the sleepy night watchman, "Outsider," the night watchman shouted, "What are you doing here? It's night, don't go out!"

Mortarion did not answer, quietly distinguishing the vague figures in the gathering fog. He smelled the chemical smell of the witchcraft puppets. At night, these unintelligent biological constructs learned to stop roaring.

They were stupid and clumsy, but they were extremely powerful and fast. The most important thing was that they were built without cost, and Barbarus had no shortage of corpses.

He crossed the sickle and skillfully adjusted it to a posture for fighting, just like when he was forced to fight for Nakre before and became the best killer of the Overlord.

But this time, he volunteered to fight for humans.

+Well, maybe it's good news. That's not Nakre's army. Who knows which sorcery overlord suddenly had the whim to have a night hunt... But it doesn't mean they are easy to deal with. +Morse reminded.

I know. Mortarion thought to himself, knowing that it was not him who brought disaster to the village.

In addition, he could sense the sorcery message chain that connected his mind with the black-robed wizard in the valley between the mountains.

He didn't need to learn, he already knew how to operate short-range psychic communication. But he was reluctant to send a word back.

Mortarion threw down the torch, and the flames went out in the mud. Then there was the battle.

He swung his sickle, supplemented by his hard fists, destroying one puppet after another, turning them back into completely rotten corpses. He killed the first batch of invaders like a whirlwind, and the sickle easily tore through pieces of flesh and blood, bringing up gusts of blood wind, just like he was expertly clearing weeds in a wheat field.

Crush. Chop. Chop. There is no mercy in death. Shadows shifted, bodies turned into trampled mud, yellowed bones sank in the foggy night. Sometimes a splash of sticky and decaying liquid splashed Mortarion's face, and more dirty blood sprayed on his arms, torso and feet.

And beasts, transformed by sorcery, hair swelled, light and strong. He smashed their spines with a punch. He looked haggard and felled with a single blow, but he could still split mountains and break rocks.

+ Commander behind the windmill, Mortarion. +

Mortarion finished the silent battle without saying a word, steadily approaching the mill and windmill, killing a deadly path.

It was late in the night, the fog was getting thicker, and the night was falling like dew. The green witchfire leaped and rolled in the acid, illuminating the swollen and overgrown ankles of the golems and the pus-spattered wasteland.

Amid the whispers of the dead, Mortarion harvested the rotten enemies. The sound of fighting attracted the attention of the village. More and more torches lit up dozens of meters behind him. The villagers were shocked by the battle in front of them. The common sense of survival made them wisely not approach, but only sent their silent blessings to the harvesters.

Under the windmill, Mortarion caught up with the commander of the team. He didn't know the half-human, half-alien creature, and he didn't want to listen to any word uttered by the other's dirty mouth. After fighting all night, he didn't want to make more bold and harsh words.

The knife flashed, and the blood of the invaders soaked the black soil.

Mortarion turned around, and the number of onlookers surprised him a little. At the moment close to dawn, their figures were like a field of wheat, swaying in the dim morning light.

"It's over." He said stiffly, "It was a looting team."

Karas Typhon squeezed through the crowd, and there was no doubt that his excitement was sincere at this moment.

"You saved us, Mortarion!" he shouted.

"Yes..." Mortarion was thinking about whether to tell the Emperor and Morse about their existence, when the wizard's psychic communication suddenly terminated without leaving any trace, as if they had done nothing.

He calmed down and accepted the gift in silence.

"But the danger is not over." The Primarch said, "The battle between the Barbarus and the sorcerer overlord has just begun."