Outside the plague planet, people don’t mention too much about the death guard’s mansion.
Apart from some large and impressive vague rumors, even most people in the Eye of Fear know very little.
In fact, outside the boundaries of hell, few people really understand it.
For the people of the empire, the name Motarian only represents a kind of alertness to the past and is meaningless.
And this is exactly what the Lord of Death hopes.
To understand this, we must first understand the character of the Primarch, and even among his fallen brothers, he is a complex person.
He cannot be described directly as anger, unlike people who can directly describe the murderous king Angron, and he does not have the control of the priest King Luo Jia.
Compared to most of his brothers, Motarian carries more of the past, and according to him, it all came too late and too difficult to accept.
He was the last Primarch to surrender and convert to the Dark Gods, and the last Primarch to arrive at Terra to participate in the siege.
And according to widely controversial rumors, he was also the last Primrose to evacuate Terra.
For Motarian, more than anything else is contradiction, conflict and opposition, and his heart is full of hatred - to his father, to his experience, to the empire, to himself.
The world he was fostered in was so poisoned to him that even if the emperor treated him in a different way, he could not remove the scars in his heart.
The death knell envoy Ngarta knew these things, and it was no secret in the legion, and it would not reduce Ngarta's respect for his master at all.
In his faith, “harm” is nothing to worry about – it should be celebrated, cultivated, if possible, expanded.
They understand that attempts to stop corruption will only bring the greatest disappointment, but those corpse kings cannot understand that - there is no need to keep it out. Learn to embrace it, learn to use it, or you will fall into a long and exhausted failure.
Ngarta was anxious despite this.
Time has passed for a long time, and although the passage of time in the eyes of fear is strange, it has been at least several centuries if measured by the rotation of the plague planet.
The Legion has become accustomed to silence and to do their own things.
Teffons, the intolerable puppet, became the nominal leader of many of them in the empty years, although many of his successes never offset the suspicion he aroused in the older generation.
“We know very well what you have done to us.”
Ngarta thought while walking.
“We won’t forget.”
He walked there with the ferryman Mosen, which took them a long time because the terrain was deliberately designed to be rugged and difficult to walk.
They wind down the steep shoulders of the spire, and sometimes, were forced to walk down, where the air was rich and the mutants drove many mortal slaves.
They strode past the altar full of decay and squeezed through the squirming flies, where they could see the mill wheels that were always rotating, and the wet ground beneath their feet were full of bones.
After a long time, the terrain began to rise, the black soil shone with moisture, and dark leaves spread around them.
The demons hissed at them from the warm shadows, a pool of stagnant water boiled uneasily, and the huge monument swayed on the roadside, severely worn by the constant corrosive wind.
Finally, they saw a castle with extremely tight defense.
The steep side walls of the fortress rose from the green valley, hundreds of meters high and no handrails.
This place is like a mountain, with its high ridge, far beyond all practical considerations and reaching the madness of arrogance.
The towering spiral towers are crowded with each other, with lanterns hanging on the spires, and stone steps coil on the sloping flanks in the hall, sometimes leading to somewhere, sometimes ending in a mass grave or a smoky place.
Here is the decayed church of God, and there is no one in it, rising up like an abandoned tomb, and in the air, the incense and the dead, the sweet smell of the dying and the resurrected.
"You can never fully adapt...how huge it is."
The Death Knell Messenger looked up at the fortress and sighed.
“It is said to be getting bigger.”
The ferryman followed suit and seemed not very interested.
"Only God knows what's going on."
This is the palace of the Lord of Death, with prayers, messengers, wizards and prophets everywhere, and countless mutants and demons crouched on battlements that stretched for several kilometers.
The pilgrims lined up toward the gates, so many that they filled the causeway across half the continent.
The priests of the Decayed Gods sermoned to them endlessly, their screams interrupted from time to time by the broken bells.
The pilgrims stared out from their worn hoods, hungry eyes awaiting one of their brothers to fall so that they could chew a little cartilage that night.
Above their heads, spaceships and gunboats floated, leaving a wisp of smoke in the blazing aurora night sky.
Besides that, only the sound of the floating shroud was as weird as the sound of a whale, glittering like a mysterious midnight ghost.
Ngarta didn't need to emphasize his existence here. When he and the ferryman walked towards the gate, the crowd spontaneously retreated and made gestures symbolizing three in front of his chest. Even the demons with infected whips stopped and stared at the Death Knit Messenger.
The blind haulers stopped tremblingly, and the truck filled with soft fruits shaking on the greasy axles, the mutant stared at them with big shiny eyes, panting, and spitting out a bunch of saliva from his fanged mouth.
“Is the scale always that big?”
Ngarta asked at the crowd with interest.
"Yes."
The ferryman said, and walked slowly to the gate.
"I never knew why they came."
“Same reason as we do.”
Ngarta sent a signal to the guards in the distance, and then the iron shaft began to rotate.
“But only we can get in.”
The gate is like everything here, a clumsy imitation.
They are said to be seven centimeters taller than the Eternal Gate on Terra and only seven centimeters tall.
Motarian did many similar things—basically trivial matters, as a mockery of fate, such as the turret slightly higher than the Imperial Senate and the walls were seven degrees steeper.
Despite this, the effect is impressive.
The imitation door was dragged by a group of mutants with iron chains, and it took ten minutes to open.
Only at this moment will the dark interior of the mansion appear.
A pile of shaky, half-ruins of rotten stones piled up in a mess, piled up higher and higher, connecting and entangled together, forming a fragile and bloated city like a nest of thorns stuck high in the clouds.
There is a layer of mist around its foundation, boiling on the black surface and stains left on the rocks.
Chapter completed!