Chapter 316 Harvest Day (Part 1)

Mortarion distinguished the surrounding scene, looking around in the desolate fog of charred broken walls, fallen boulders and even weeds wiped out, trying to identify the shadows of the past from the abandoned fortresses burned by artillery around him.

Whether judging from the specific digitized longitude and latitude, or tracing the footprints of memory back to the time when the fortress once stood in the dark mountains, Mortarion was extremely sure that this was the range of his activities, that is, the prison given to him by Knakre.

He grew up here with difficulty, painfully absorbing nutrients under Knakre's cold threat, like a weed desperately pushing away the rusted beams. The gloomy tones of the stained glass scattered on the ground, the broken pages of books, the ashes and the remains of shackles, Mortarion has every memory of them.

And Knakre took a step ahead of him and destroyed this place into an ironic ruin with ghostly green witch fire.

Mortarion could imagine why Nakre acted this way. This was an insult to him, a punishment for his adopted son's choice to defect. The sorcerer overlord tried to anger him with this, let this area be punished for him, tell Mortarion that he was being hated and rebuked by Nakre, and warn him that Nakre still had the power to destroy what he owned to this day.

Perhaps a younger Mortarion would feel deeply humiliated when encountering this scene, thinking that he was still inferior to the overlord. But now Mortarion just thought it was absurd and ridiculous.

Could it be that Nakre still thought that the human harvester was still the child who could be easily angered and manipulated, let emotions dominate reason, and then affect concepts and choices?

Okay. Mortarion thought, raising his hand to signal his elite troops to stop, alert to the ambush that was very likely to break out in this scene.

Since he could understand Nakre's hidden intentions and the humiliation that did not need words, then of course he would feel full of resentment.

But as long as he thought of his biological father at the end of the team, stroking his disguised chin, and secretly commenting on him with the wizard, all the emotions caused by Nakre naturally disappeared - even if he was not willing to admit that the Emperor was his father.

In the past year, the Emperor has never treated him as his own son.

If Mors had not revealed their blood relationship at the beginning, Mortarion knew that he would probably still think that the Emperor of Mankind was just another sorcery overlord who was secretly using him.

Since the Emperor did not want to call him son, he should not call him father.

As expected by Mortarion, a sharp and piercing cry and a buzzing annoying vibration suddenly sounded in the thick and almost liquid poisonous fog high in the dark mountains.

Mortarion quickly made a gesture. The training team seemed to be in tune with him and immediately looked for shelters suitable for resisting long-range attacks in the remaining parts of the ruins.

In less than ten seconds, the burning witchcraft fireballs pierced the air, emerged from the thick fog, and attacked the ruins in a blade-like arc. At the same time, a large number of mechanized catapults smashed a large number of objects like rolling stones.

If Mortarion had been immersed in his emotions for a moment longer and had been a little slower in giving orders, this round of attacks would have brought death to several lives worth cherishing.

The falling fireballs and rolling stones collided with each other, and an abnormal reaction with witchcraft as a catalyst quickly occurred. In the blink of an eye, it turned into a burning black oil on the ground. Combined with the sudden outbreak of high-concentration poisonous gas, it was like a purgatory in the sea of ​​fire.

The warriors' armor began to corrode quickly, and the outer layer of the hose used to transport air was softened and turned into a thin, greasy and sticky substance.

Fortunately, the inner hose was additionally sprayed with a chemical spray developed by Mortarion to resist erosion, otherwise this batch of teams would quickly lose their combat effectiveness, and those with weaker resistance to toxicity might even lose their lives within a few minutes.

Mortarion made a second battle order with a gesture, signaling the warriors to pay attention. The second round of fireballs began to fall, larger and darker than the first round.

After landing, the fireballs quickly transformed into monsters with fiery green smoke all over their bodies. The rotating fireballs continued to pour out from the monster's arms, like an alternative witchcraft gun. This round of attacks caused casualties among the warriors. Some warriors hit by the fireballs melted into a pool of charred marks on the ground in the blink of an eye.

Those Death Guards who usually made some noise to adjust the atmosphere in battle from time to time did not beg for mercy at the end of their lives, and even endured the last cry of pain that represented the existence of life.

They faced death in silence.

Mortarion held a sickle in his hand, calculating the data needed for the battle. The swung sickle spun out a brilliant white silver light, like a bright lamp in a cage in the thick fog and the dark flames, guiding the direction of the road ahead.

Every part of his brain was used to deal with the current emergency scenario, and numbers were the most reliable and convenient tool in this process.

The only brother he knew now, the defense master Perturabo, once gave him a set of formulas for evaluating and calculating various data in the war system through Morse's message, and told him that he could adjust the constants and exponential magnitudes according to actual needs.

Mortarion immediately found that this was exactly the help he needed for someone who opposed witchcraft and loved the laws of physics.

Unlike the mysterious witchcraft, when the quantifiable, clear and easy-to-understand formulas flowed at high speed in his mind, he felt that his movements seemed to become more capable and powerful, and the arc of the sharp blade became brighter and more destructive like extinction.

The followers of the witchcraft overlord had been completely eliminated, and Nakre was on the verge of a cliff. This made his attack more and more crazy, and the next attack was also something that Mortarion had never encountered in his battles.

Puppets, beasts, chariots, and mechas, Nakre seemed to have emptied his treasure house for this carefully designed ambush.

And Mortarion chose to face it all. Because this is the only way to the fortress on the top of the mountain.

He killed the newly born flame monsters one by one, and his team followed the leader's steps and wielded their weapons firmly. Compared with more practical and physical enemies, the poisonous fog is a truly deadly threat. In an environment almost close to the fog concentration at the top of the mountain, the coating that resists the thick fog began to peel off inevitably.

Sometimes a warrior would spit out pieces of meat and blood while suffocating, and then he would spit out his last few breaths, and fall down exhausted after the last shot or knife swing.

The human reaper listened and sensed in the battle, analyzing the status of his companions and assessing whether they had the strength to continue fighting. Then, he glanced at the direction where the hermit and the wizard were - the dark yellow fog blocked his sight, but the hermit must be in the quietest corner.

Mortarion's heart rarely hesitated in the battle. He recognized everything the mortals had done for him, but he didn't want them to die in vain.

They had gone far enough.

The next battle was no longer a level that mortals could get involved in. This would be his decisive battle with Nakre, the last battle between the overlords of inhuman weapons and sorcery.

He needed stronger warriors to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, not mental toughness, but physical objective strength. And this was what the current Death Guard did not have.

This was a difficult decision, but he had to do it.

The Emperor and the wizards... have the ability to lead the warriors away from this battlefield that does not belong to them.

In the agricultural season of Barbarus, it is the time to harvest wheat recently. And today, outside the influence of the Dark Mountains, the fog is light and the sky is clear. It is a great harvest day.

The people who are harvesting food in the wheat fields are looking forward to the return of their relatives and friends.

"My warriors--" he shouted loudly, and found that his voice was drowned in the explosion of fireballs and the chaotic noise of battle, and could not be transmitted to the outside at all. The chaos of the battle and the obstruction of the thick fog greatly reduced the visibility on the battlefield and made the battle gestures useless.

During his brief distraction, another round of fireballs fell like a rainstorm, giving birth to new witchcraft ghosts. A fireball flew towards him, he turned to avoid it, and used his sickle to meet the first attack made by the monster in the fireball.

Mortarion's judgment of the direction was correct, but the monster's attack method was to detonate its ugly body. The huge shock wave pushed him back with a deafening roar. His ears were bleeding. The world in his hearing suddenly became extremely distant, as if separated by a distant membrane, binding him in a silent and dim vacuum.

Mortarion's heart beat violently, hitting his skinny chest. In the process of weakening other senses, another extra intuition seemed to become more acute. It seemed that there was a different kind of power in his body that turned into a boiler of life and powered his shell.

This power seemed to be calculable. For Mortarion, it was neither distant nor vague. It contained a kind of measurable beauty that could be easily manipulated by him.

He failed to grasp this fleeting strange and transparent state, and Mortarion immediately let his thoughts return to reality.

He roared: "Emperor!"

With his hearing temporarily impaired, Mortarion didn't know if his throat really made a sound. But the Emperor responded to him.

+I am here. +

"Protect my warriors!" Mortarion shouted, a broken blood surged in his throat. This was the first time he took the initiative to seek help from the aliens.

A faint golden light quietly emerged in the battlefield, like a pure stream of water, with a mist of pure cold mist, flowing across the ground stained with blood and scorch marks.

In the last breath before the warriors could no longer maintain the battle and fell to the ground to welcome death, the golden psychic energy stagnated their state, like the end of time, maintaining their respectable lives.

The Warrior King will reward those who died bravely.

+What about you? +This is Mors' voice, +Do you need enlightenment? +

Mortarion did not answer. He fulfilled his responsibilities to his comrades, and the next battle belonged to the Son of Death alone.

Without the need to continue to take care of his fighting companions, Mortarion got rid of the worries during the battle and completely let go of his own fighting rhythm and speed.

He used his sickle to open up a bloody path for himself, no longer obsessed with killing every puppet and destroying every weapon, but more focused on breaking through the siege. After being blocked in the ruins for a long time, Mortarion began to move forward again.

Something changed in the fog behind. The power that maintained the life of the dying warrior seemed to have undergone a round of replacement and turned into another unique witchcraft different from psychic power. This belongs to Morse.

And the Emperor was following Mortarion from a distance, at the edge of his perception range reduced by the thick fog, just as the Emperor had chosen when he walked alone in the swampy plains of Barbarus a year ago.

The Emperor silently guarded his back, waiting for him to ask for something, rather than forcing favors on him.

Mortarion had never so clearly realized the silent companionship the Emperor provided for him in the Barbarus Overlord War. The Emperor supported him.

Even though he still didn't think the Emperor had any feelings for him, this was what he was told truthfully at the beginning.

Similarly, as at the beginning, Mortarion acquiesced to the Emperor's following.

Nakre destroyed the fortress, Mortarion thought, the sorcerer overlord no longer needed him as a son.

And Nakre probably didn't think that he no longer needed that father.

Passing through the ruins, the road to the top became more inclined, and the chemical agent eroded the cliff rock to be as smooth as glass, making it difficult to climb.

And this road was extremely long. Mortarion had never been to the top of the Black Mountains, but his mathematical knowledge told him that this long dark path was definitely extended by the defensive sorcery.

His respirator was still working. At the insistence of the clans that joined the Haven, the Primarch's heavy armor and respirator were even more sophisticated than his elite team. Therefore, his reserve oxygen was used up first.

Soon, the real-time purification module could no longer keep up with the Primarch's breathing needs. After the filter at the mouth and nose was filled with toxic oily substances and microparticles, Mortarion tore off his mask, untied the oxygen tank from his back, and threw it down the cliff.

The acid-corroded gas tank collided with the hard black stone and soon rolled into the cliff.

He breathed directly into the thick fog that tortured his lungs, and blood bubbles appeared in the corroded lung lobes. Mortarion tried his best to adjust his breathing and focus on the battle needed to move forward. The puppets and falling rocks rushing towards him could not trap his steps, and he moved forward firmly.

The lonely fortress on the top of the mountain has cast a dark shadow under his feet. The poisonous fog is threatening, sticky and covering his face, wearing a deadly veil on him in anger and despair.

This is the last remaining fortress of the sorcerer overlords. Nakre is there, waiting for his rebellious adopted son to swing the scythe of death at him.

This huge scythe removed from agricultural machinery and modified to match Mortarion's physique needs, harvests the lives of the tyrants of Barbarus like harvesting wheat.

Today is a great harvest day.