At the foot of a mountain on Barbarus, Hades stood before the selection queue, deep in thought.
Floating in the air were mechanical servoskulls used for broadcasting and documentation, ready to record and livestream this pre-recruitment address to the people of Barbarus.
This was Mortarion's request. The Primarch hoped to use this recruitment event as an opportunity to communicate with his people.
In a special location on this mountain, a carefully placed Blackstone obelisk stood silently, surrounded by countless Untouchables and Death Guard warriors, ensuring security for the selection process.
After a Barbarus-standard week's worth of recruitment and screening, the children standing before the podium were those about to undergo the trials.
These children, wearing gas masks uniformly distributed by the Death Guard, would soon ascend the high mountains in groups.
Perhaps due to the presence of the Death Guard standing nearby, most of these pale-faced, calloused-handed children had chosen to remain silent.
Some even clenched their teeth quietly.
Heavily armed Death Guard warriors stood on either side of the queue, their meticulously cleaned chainfauc scythes planted firmly on the ground, their boltguns hanging silently at their waists like sleeping beasts.
The small dents and scratches on their power armor bore witness to the battles they had fought.
Unlike some other Legions that meticulously maintained and regularly polished their armor, decorating it as they saw fit, the Death Guard preferred to keep their battle scars.
As long as the damage did not affect the armor's functionality, they would leave it untouched.
These marks—sword slashes and bullet impacts—were their personal honors.
The silent presence of the Death Guard added an oppressive aura to the scene. Their very existence exuded an air of menace, their killing intent palpable.
Every Death Guard present today was a distinguished warrior of Barbarus, having performed exceptionally in the Battle of Galaspar.
Aside from Mortarion, the rest of the Death Guard also took this selection process seriously. When Hades groggily emerged from the Armoury, he noticed an indescribable atmosphere pervading the Legion.
The warriors had gathered silently in the training grounds, repeatedly polishing their weapons.
The dueling cages had been particularly active.
Were they nervous?
Realizing this, Hades couldn't help but chuckle to himself. It made sense—up until now, the Barbarus-born Death Guard under Mortarion's leadership had never experienced an event where they could publicly display their glory.
For these warriors of Barbarus, this was essentially a triumphant return home.
Of course, despite finding this amusing, Hades himself was standing on the podium with a solemn expression. The six-spiked skull of the Death Guard on his right pauldron gleamed brilliantly, while the cogwheel-adorned skull of the Mechanicum on his left shoulder appeared menacing.
He had deliberately equipped himself with his most extravagant Techmarine backpack. The intricate and massive Mechanicum apparatus hung obediently at his sides, and the servo-skull beside him hissed out cables, staring coldly at the queue before him.
Occasionally, some curious children would take advantage of the crowd, sneaking glances at Hades' gear. Their eyes flickered with curiosity and envy as they lingered on his equipment, which was clearly different from the standard Death Guard wargear.
Noticing this, Hades couldn't help but wonder to himself—was he inadvertently recruiting future Techmarines for the Death Guard's Armoury?
A glint of light flashed off the Obituary surface as the sun slowly and resolutely reached its predetermined position.
The time had come.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the air, the intricate mechanisms of power armor clicking and whirring with each movement, the sound burrowing into the ears of all present. Metal censers clinked against the armor with crisp, ringing notes.
Ding—
A gray-white cloak billowed despite the still air.
The Primarch's overwhelming presence blanketed the entire field. Some of the more timid children instinctively held their breath.
Hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, his eyes gleamed.
Mortarion stepped onto the podium, coming to a halt at its center.
The Primarch had taken his place.
In that moment, every Death Guard present exuded an unprecedented killing aura, their sheer presence radiating suffocating pressure. Some children faltered, their knees buckling as they trembled and dropped to the ground.
Seeing the first few kneel, others hesitated, unsure whether they should follow suit.
After all, that was the "Great Lord" their families often spoke of.
On the orbital stations above, kneeling and bowing before Imperial bureaucrats and Mechanicum officials was already a common occurrence.
Among the gathered recruits, a boy named Antaeus looked down at the kneeling child before him and clenched his teeth.
Not because of fear.
But because he refused to kneel.
"No one kneels."
Mortarion pulled back his hood, his raspy voice hissing through his respirator, his brow furrowing slightly.
Standing beside him, even Hades frowned—this was not the sight they had hoped to see.
They hadn't even begun the selection process, and they could already start eliminating candidates.
The Death Guard standing along the flanks of the formation had already begun noting down the names of those who knelt.
To give the kneeling children a moment to stand, Mortarion reached behind his head and slowly, deliberately, removed his respirator.
His lips, cracked from years of exposure to toxic fumes, were laid bare. His pale skin, deathly in the sunlight, looked almost corpse-like.
Now, Mortarion had removed all his usual defenses.
Hades blinked. It seemed Mortarion was taking this seriously.
The kneeling children, upon hearing his command, trembled as they hesitantly rose back to their feet.
Antaeus reached forward and quietly pulled the boy in front of him up. Together, they stood tall once more, their gazes fixed on Mortarion.
The Primarch took a deep breath.
"My people," he began,
"I am pleased to see you here, enlisting in the Death Guard."
"I know that the people of Barbarus do not truly understand what it means to be part of the Imperium's Legions."
"Yet still, you stand here today."
Mortarion's piercing gaze swept across the crowd, as if staring directly into each of their souls.
"Because you did not come here for the Imperium's Death Guard."
Since Barbarus had been brought into the Imperium, the Legions had rarely made their presence known to its people.
The Remembrancers who were supposed to spread tales of the Imperium's glory had been too captivated by the battles on the front lines, neglecting this bleak and impoverished world.
As a result, the people of Barbarus had no clear image of the Imperium, the Legions, or the Great Crusade.
They were not here simply for the idea of becoming an Astartes.
"Some of you came here because of Barbarus' Death Guard."
The generation that had suffered under the rule of xenos overlords had not yet passed.
The darkest memories of Barbarus still lived on in the stories told by its people.
The legendary resistance that once stood atop the mist-covered mountains remained a defining chapter in the sparse culture of Barbarus.
Perhaps, in the faded dreams of this generation, there had once been a crimson-stained banner of rebellion.
The children standing here now—perhaps their grandparents had been part of that rebellion, or perhaps they had been the farmers liberated by it.
But no matter what, every Barbarusian had lived through that war of liberation.
They were drawn to the Resistance.
They were drawn to the Primarch.
They sought to break free from the endless cycle of bleak existence.
They longed to take part in the continuation of that great rebellion from long ago.
"To those of you who hope to dedicate yourselves to the cause of the Resistance, I sincerely wish you success in the selection."
The blade of Mortarion's scythe gleamed coldly under the light as he looked upon these aspiring warriors with unwavering sincerity.
"You, and the families who sent you here, represent the unyielding spirit of Barbarus."
Hearing the Primarch's words, some children straightened their backs with renewed determination. But others lowered their heads.
Antaeus, too, lowered his head in shame.
He had not come because of admiration for the Resistance. His indifferent parents had never spoken to him about it.
The families of children who enlisted would receive enough food to feed five people for a week—that was why he was here.
And if he was selected to become a Death Guard, his family's food supply would be entirely provided by the Legion.
Antaeus stared blankly at his dust-covered feet. The pride he had felt for not kneeling just moments ago vanished, replaced by a burning embarrassment.
Perhaps he would be eliminated for this. The thought filled him with unease.
"But I know… not all of you are here for that reason."
"Having lived on Barbarus myself, I understand—dreams and passion are rare luxuries in this world."
"The barren lands of Barbarus do not produce many fervent souls. Most people bury their heads in the dirt, toiling endlessly."
"But I know that those who labor in the dirt are not short-sighted or shallow. You simply cannot lift your heads beneath the weight of reality."
"And,"
Mortarion paused, as if recalling something, before a rare smile crossed his lips.
"One of our finest warriors, Morag, was once one of those who toiled in the dirt."
"I once traded a sack of grain for his service in the Resistance."
From the communications channel, Hades caught the faint crackle of static—Morag, it seemed, had been startled by Mortarion's impromptu speech.
Hades blinked. For once, Morag wasn't grumbling about it—that was progress.
"But as time has proven, he was no lesser than anyone else. In fact, he has surpassed many."
"All he needed was an opportunity."
"So, I am giving you an opportunity."
The Primarch raised a hand, palm open to the assembled children.
"Every child who enlists will receive a week's worth of food."
"And those who pass the selection and become warriors of the Death Guard—your families will never have to worry about food again. The Death Guard will provide for them."
Hades, standing at Mortarion's side, had to admit—the Primarch, as both a son of Barbarus and a commander, had thoroughly considered every aspect of this world's realities.
A boy on the verge of adulthood was a crucial labor force for any family.
Given Barbarus' small-scale agricultural economy, losing such a laborer was a devastating blow for many families.
This was why some parents might hesitate to let their children enlist. And why some children themselves might feel unable to abandon their families' burdens.
But now, Mortarion has removed that concern entirely.
"I know that some of you are here for food."
"There is no shame in that."
Mortarion delivered his judgment.
"In truth, for those of you who bear the weight of survival and still press forward—"
"The Death Guard welcomes you as well."
"You, and the families who sent you, represent the harsh reality of Barbarus."
"Before we can face the tyrant above, we must first learn to struggle in the poisonous pog."
"For every Barbarusian, survival on this planet demands the courage to confront harsh reality."
"And so, I sincerely hope you all make it through the trials ahead."
"Now then—"
Mortarion turned slightly, raising a hand in a welcoming gesture toward the towering mountain behind him.
It was not the tallest peak on Barbarus, but it was high enough that even a Space Marine, with his helmet removed, would feel the suffocating pain of its peak.
The gas masks provided by the Death Guard would not last long enough for them to reach the qualifying height.
"Then climb."
"If you wish to sever the heads of your enemies, you must first possess the resilience to endure."
"Long ago, the finest warriors of the Death Guard's Resistance climbed this very peak and struck down the xenos overlord."
"Now, it is your turn."
"The higher you climb, the greater your chances of advancing to the next round."
"Among you, only the most resilient will survive."
"If you lack the endurance, you will suffocate in the toxic air. Death will be your reward."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. They had been warned from the start that death was a possibility, but none had expected the very first trial to be so merciless.
Death was an abstract concept. But every Barbarusian knew what it felt like to suffocate in poison.
Mortarion narrowed his eyes, his dissatisfaction evident. The calm and composed figure he had presented before was now gone—replaced by something far more menacing.
The Grim Reaper stood before them.
Silence fell instantly.
Hades, watching the display, remained utterly unfazed.
He knew Mortarion was simply trying to scare the children.
In reality, Barbarus had a sparse population—too few to sustain a high-casualty recruitment process.
More importantly, almost an entire generation of Barbarusian boys of age were standing here today. If the selection process truly followed a survival-of-the-fittest approach, the population of Barbarus would be wiped out in a single generation.
Though Mortarion was eager to enforce his belief in Social Darwinism, using the selection as a means to purge the "weak genes" from Barbarus—
Reality. And Hades. Would not allow it.
↓
[We can use this selection to eliminate a few weaklings.]
Mortarion's gaze met Hades'.
[Barbarus' future reconstruction will require a large population.]
Hades sat across from him, unwavering.
↑
The decision had already been made—Apothecaries were secretly stationed along the climb. If a candidate could no longer continue, they would intervene in secret, ensuring survival without breaking the illusion of the test.
"You may withdraw now. The food you have received will not be taken back."
"In exchange, however, you will lose your chance to change your life."
Mortarion spoke slowly, deliberately.
He raised his hand and pulled his hood back over his head.
"But if you believe you have the strength—"
Securing his breathing mask once more, his voice rasped from behind it, cold and unyielding.
"Then begin the climb."
<+>
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