Chapter 315: The Battle of Barbaros

At first, the appearance of the Hermit Fas caused quite a stir in Mortarion's safe haven camp.

The dark-skinned, weathered old man, supported by the young man in black robe beside him, got off the iron frame connected to the rear of Mortarion's vehicle and landed slowly but steadily on the ground in the camp.

The leader Mortarion personally introduced with a stern face that this was the mysterious hermit who had lent a hand behind the Hegemony War for several months. Now, after consultations and negotiations between the two sides, the Hermit Fas finally agreed to come out of the mountains and join Mortarion's battle team as a person who provides wisdom.

In the common sense of the Barbarus people, it is not only an abnormal phenomenon that an old man and a young man can live alone in the foggy deep mountain valley for many years. In fact, this is a completely absurd story that even the most bizarre local legends dare not compile.

No one could understand how two mortals like them survived the poisonous fog, the ghosts in the cold night, the scarce living resources and the plunder of the Overlord like a gust of wind, lived alone in the deepest part of the wasteland, and even provided foreshadowing and help to their respectable harvester Mortarion.

Some warriors chose to trust Mortarion's judgment, paid tribute to the two great assistants, and were happy to find food that was easier to chew and digest for the old man, or gathered around the old man after returning victoriously, listening to this vicissitudes of life The wise man told about the starry sky and the ocean that Barbarus had never heard of.

Other warriors couldn't help but wonder if this was a conspiracy of a certain witchcraft overlord, using some small favors to deceive the trust of their tough leader, so that Mortarion would be willing to work for the rule of the overlord in the future.

In any case, after the old Fass and the young Mors sent Mortarion one piece of advice after another, and brought victory after victory to many camps and settlements, the masses pragmatically put aside their doubts and drew nourishment from the wisdom of the hermits.

After discovering that the old man Fass could accompany them to drink the poisoned wine of Barbarus, the deep fighting friendship between the two sides reached its peak.

It was a good day when Mortarion returned from the military stronghold in the northwest to the safe haven and invited the warriors to have a big drink.

On that day, as long as the returning fighters could open their mouths, they were carried to the central square, looking forward to what kind of soul-stirring fine wine would flow out of the new brewing machines built for them by a skilled craftsman who joined them.

According to Mortarion's orders, the water used for brewing was naturally the poisonous rain from Barbarus, and the fermentation raw materials were the grain harvested from the wheat fields.

At first, everyone just took a sip, relying on their own tenacious physique to survive a wave of intense pain that burned through their lungs, and patted each other on the back in cold sweat to celebrate their victory.

Soon, some people who were particularly interested in this spicy and refreshing pain, or the soldiers who were in pain after losing a series of bets with their comrades next to them, began to taste the second cup of poisoned wine.

Mortarion accompanied them to drink one cup after another, while monitoring the situation in the field. If someone fell to the ground with a stiff face like a mask, clutching his clothes on his chest, he would call for medical personnel after more than fourteen seconds.

For Mortarion, the previous poisonous rain did not add much flavor to the clean water after the water purifier, at most it was the difference from clean water to light herbal tea. Until now, after carefully refined and brewed, the special poisonous wine of Babarus finally gave him some stimulation to his taste buds.

Mortarion squinted his eyes, letting the burning pain spread warmly in his body, intoxicated by the slight intoxication brought by the poisonous wine, and suddenly saw an energetic old man approaching the row of machines brewing poisonous wine with windy steps, and his eyes widened immediately.

In the square, some warriors who could still stand noticed the actions of the hermit Fass and rushed forward in a hurry to avoid seeing the tragic scene of the old man foaming at the mouth and dying on the spot seven seconds later.

However, after the old man drank the first cup, his wrinkled face gradually became ruddy, and his eyes flashed with a sharpness that did not match his age. Just a glance after turning back, the mortal warriors in the name of the Death Guard trembled and dared not say anything.

"A toast to you, Mortarion." Fass raised his glass to Mortarion.

Mortarion walked to the center from the steps at the side of the square, bent down to receive a glass of wine, and gently clinked it with Fass.

From midnight to early morning, the two men competed in a silent drinking contest. When the weak sunlight penetrated the thick fog and fell on the roof of the top corner of the Haven Gate Outpost, there was no drop of poisoned wine left in the brewing machines.

The two figures still stood on the ground, letting the morning light pass over two resolute but slightly pale faces.

The crowd, who had stayed up all night to watch how the two would decide the winner, knew that this was the match point of the battle. They sat up crookedly and stared at the next move of Fass and Mortarion intently.

After thirteen seconds of staring at each other, Mortarion's legs swayed slightly, and he stretched out his hand to support the large iron tank of the brewing machine and began to gasp.

Cheers immediately echoed in the Haven at dawn.

It was also in this way that the Emperor finally won a great victory in drinking for the first time in the various meeting ceremonies with his descendants.

Morse put the matter through some minor artistic processing and sent it to the Perturabo case through letters. Presumably the next time Perturabo and Leman Russ get a chance to communicate, Russ will learn about this and laugh out loud, drawing out a chain of inequalities in which he is better than the Emperor and better than his new brother. .

Outside of the short leisure time used to celebrate victory and soothe their spirits, the Barbarus almost always implement the silence and resistance they were born with and trained in the poisonous fog, following the direction pointed by Mortarion's scythe.

They try to get enough rest and sleep at night, living in groups in settlements sheltered by firelight, resisting the unusual calls coming from the thick fog and the noise of demonic nails scratching on smooth surfaces.

When the dying sunlight illuminated the path of battle, they trained day after day to wear heavy armor, use heavy weapons or large swords and clubs to fight, and learned how to judge before receiving Mortarion's call. Comparing the concentration of the fog with the anti-toxic ability of the body's anti-toxic armor, and learning how to put into use the captured munitions of the Witchcraft Overlord.

The constant attempts to adjust armor and enhance the armor's protection resulted in a lot of lives being wasted in Barbarus' poisonous gas pools or death restricted areas that were rarely visited by humans. It also caused the Death Guards' armor to continue to thicken until it was completely It developed into a distinctive heavy armor.

They didn't move very fast, but they were heavy enough. And irresistible, showing a destructive quality. When a dark mountain range is surrounded by the Death Guard troops that are gradually becoming famous in Barbarus, it is basically equivalent to the arrival of a completely ruthless battle of annihilation.

Mortarion is often at the forefront of battle sequences, relying on his far stronger physique and ruthless endurance to create a winning start for his team.

Deep in the mist, his scythe swung like a crescent moon on the battlefield. The blade shuttled, pierced, cut, and pulled through the entrails and flesh of sorcerer golems and ferocious beasts, pulling out the rotten entrails from the enemy's chests. Then he threw it at his feet together with the corpse, indicating the enemy's death.

From the mouths of two extraterrestrial visitors, Mortarion confirmed that sorcery puppets still have the ability to feel emotions, that they understand the meaning of pain, and that they can be seized by the fear of death. Perhaps this is the power of destruction and the horror of death - as long as there is still the instinct of thinking, and the closer the ability of thinking is to the innate nature of living things, the more the enemy fears death.

Death creates the foundation of power. Mortarion gradually touched upon this point of view. This was the way of rule that Naklay and he had emphasized many times, and was the root of the tyranny imposed on Barbarus by the sorcerer overlords.

He had scoffed at it, and the more Nacre emphasized it to him, the more he couldn't stand it. But in his own battle journey, Mortarion himself rediscovered this law.

Or maybe the thought never left him. After all, his name is the Son of Death, and his legion is called the Death Guard.

But, Mortarion thought, death brings fear, fear brings obedience, and obedience brings the basis of power.

But what truly crowns power should be a word that is contrary to death.

His squad followed his path through the blood, firing blazing cannons or wielding huge machetes.

These weapons were snatched from the hands of various overlords, which made the process of unifying the legions' armaments too unattainable.

Cold weapons are not a big problem, but there may not be a second box of ammunition for each gun. Therefore, the equipment department, which is becoming increasingly manic, asks them to use up these messy firecrackers without ammunition replenishment. If there are no weapons temporarily available on the battlefield, they can also be used as sticks and daggers.

The heavily armored warriors are also more inclined to use large-caliber firearms at close range, causing the blood and dark poison to burst and explode in the smoking muzzles, splashing everywhere.

In any case, this has never affected the morale of the Death Guard army. They march quietly on the battlefield - some guys like to shout and touch the side of their forehead with the barrel of a gun that emits a wisp of smoke, proudly Tell Mortarion that they are invincible; or rush towards Mortarion at the end of the reconnaissance mission, excitedly reporting that there are no enemy troops in this direction, because they conveniently took over the Overlord's stronghold during the reconnaissance process. All guards are cleared.

Mortarion warned them reprimanding them not to be so relaxed in the battle, not to let their blood flow unnecessarily between the mountain strongholds and fortresses because of distraction or excessive mental excitement.

During the months of war, Mortarion once suffered from the casualties of his warriors, and resented the fragility and fragility of mortal flesh. These biological weaknesses and dregs accumulated over tens of thousands of years make mortal bodies unable to bear the hardness and weight of their souls.

He needs a legion with enough physical strength and fighting will to keep up with his pace, otherwise, objectively speaking, they are dragging each other down. Even if Mortarion wanted to fight to his heart's content and bring mortals with him to fight, the unchangeable differences in physiological conditions would cause him repeated setbacks.

Mortarion was also confused and frustrated by his own strength.

His unparalleled strength seems like a natural curse, or a gift. The richer the methods and techniques he gained from intuitive calculations in battle, and the colder and sharper the bloody thoughts that emerged, the more he felt that he was a weapon born for war.

There was no time to feel resentful about the purpose of his birth. When Mortarion saw the mortal Fas and the wizard Morse leaning against the gate at the entrance of the safe haven waiting for him to return, one of them seemed to have endless patience, and the other was obviously idling away because he couldn't wait, he felt that his behavior of being depressed and entangled in the meaning of his birth and doubting whether the two were essentially the same as the Overlord was simply hopeless.

With the help of Morse, Mortarion planned the location and outcome of each famous battle, and used limited material and time resources to optimize the path, sequence and method of solving the battle.

One transfer station after another was destroyed, and one transportation link after another was destroyed and overturned. Mortarion's chemical bombs made outstanding contributions.

The monitoring radar station was suddenly exploded, the mountains collapsed, and the signal was interrupted, making the Overlord's army feel the same confusion as mortals in the fog.

Warehouses and workshops were uprooted and burned to ashes. Military factories and civilian factories that provided the wealthy life of the Overlords were taken into the pockets of the Death Guard, and the enemy lost the source of the supply chain.

At the same time, the scout team led by another psyker, Karas Typhon, worked diligently day and night, exploring through mountains and fortresses, reporting every piece of information needed for the war to Mortarion.

In such a persistent and constant offensive, the Barbarus resistance front swept the entire planet in the dusk, like a bright light suddenly lit up in the mist, and the light penetrated into the depths of darkness.

More and more Overlords fell under Mortarion's scythe. Before they died, they were often immersed in extreme shock, not understanding why their extremely solid rule was suddenly overturned by the lower and inferior races. Those who handed Mortarion a self-righteous letter of alliance and invited him to become a member of the Overlords often died faster.

Mortarion had no extra emotions in his heart. He cut off the head of the Overlord step by step and threw it at the door of the Hermit Fas. He began to understand that the real gift given to him by the Emperor when they first met was a template for behavior. No explanation, no report, the Emperor only wanted the victory of the Legion and the surrender of the enemy.

Finally, there was only one enemy left in front of him.

The heavy but steady breathing sounded through Mortarion's mask and echoed under the dark mountains. He raised his head, his eyes passed through the rolling poisonous fog and the accumulated clouds, and stared indifferently at the dark realm that was exposed in the gaps between the lightning and cumulus clouds.

On the day he escaped from Nakre's fortress, he jumped off this towering cliff and fell into the unprecedented freedom in his life.

In this year's war, Nakre's army retreated step by step, and all the subordinate secondary forces had surrendered. Mortarion would not accept any surrender, and destruction and death were the only blessings he could bring to his enemies.

The same was true for Nakre.

Mortarion's fingers slid across the scythe, and the blade tilted slightly forward, and the silver light flashed across the blade, lingering in the silence of readiness.

Behind him, the Death Guard waited for orders.

Hermit Fass and Wizard Mors ignored the good advice of the people of the safe haven and insisted on following at the end of the team, waiting for the final battle that was bound to come.