The gray, desolate mountain path was shrouded in thick, poisonous fog. The damp, toxic droplets clung to their hair, their clothes, their breathing tubes.
Antaeus raised his hand numbly, once again wiping at his respirator. The once-sturdy tube, now weakened by the corrosive air, had turned brittle and soft.
His experience on Barbarus told him that his gas mask wouldn't last much longer.
His chance to turn back was slipping away.
One more step forward, and retreat would no longer be an option.
From the very beginning, the crowd climbing the mountain had been shrinking.
They hadn't been struck down by the poison—not yet. At lower altitudes, the masks could still hold out for some time.
But with every passing moment, their breathing apparatuses grew weaker, their filters straining under the weight of each inhalation, their fragile structure groaning with every breath.
Some had the foresight to recognize that these masks wouldn't last. They turned back early.
Most, however, did not—whether out of denial, hope, or a true desire to become a Death Guard warrior, they pressed forward, pushing toward the summit.
But now, nearly everyone realized they had reached a threshold.
Death was watching them. Silent. Merciless.
If they turned back now, they might just make it to the base of the mountain before their masks failed.
But if they continued forward, their respirators would undoubtedly give out before they reached the peak—leaving them to face the suffocating poison of the high-altitude mists.
Antaeus tried to steady his breathing. His mask let out a pitiful wheeze in response.
Then, the boy ahead of him stopped abruptly. Antaeus nearly crashed into him.
The boy turned to look at him, his gray, hollow eyes filled with something unreadable. Then, trembling, he began his descent.
They brushed past each other, nearly colliding.
It was as if his retreat had set off a chain reaction. More and more children began turning back.
Even those who had been the first to charge ahead—stronger, faster boys who had once surged forward without hesitation—were now reversing course.
Antaeus stood frozen, watching as their small figures disappeared into the shifting fog.
The once-massive group had been reduced by two-thirds in an instant. The remaining children, now few in number, staggered forward, their steps unsteady.
The sense of security Antaeus had drawn from the crowd was gone.
He hesitated, uncertain whether to keep climbing or to follow the others back down.
The food he had received earlier was already enough to feed his family for a week.
If he continued forward, he might actually die—
A thin, wiry boy passed him from behind, breaking his train of thought.
Antaeus blinked in surprise, catching a glimpse of tear streaks on the boy's face.
But the boy never slowed.
He cast Antaeus a glance—and smiled.
Antaeus hesitated.
I have to keep going, he thought.
You must climb, he told himself. Climb, become a Death Guard, and then your younger siblings won't have to toil like your parents did. They can do something else. As long as you become a Death Guard.
You have to climb for them.
But was that truly why he wanted to keep going?
Was he using his family as an excuse to mask his own desires? His own impulses?
Was he ashamed to admit—to himself—that deep down, in some hidden corner of his heart, he truly wanted to become a Death Guard?
Even if he knew nothing about them, the towering figures of those giants had burned themselves into his mind.
They had awakened another spark within Antaeus.
It was a path entirely different from the life he had always known, and he realized how much he despised that old life.
Continuing upward was unwise—he might die, leaving the burden of survival to his younger siblings.
But he was tired of it. Tired of the gray, suffocating existence.
He wasn't as selfless as he had told himself. On the contrary, he was selfish.
He wanted to climb for himself, for his own life.
Even death seemed more appealing than a future devoid of light.
He no longer wanted to simply exist.
Antaeus wanted to make a choice for himself, to prove himself, to leave this place behind.
May I be strong enough.
He thought.
And so, he climbed again.
<+>
A scoff echoed in Hades' ears, followed by a rasping voice distorted by static over the comms channel.
"I knew this would happen. You didn't need to station the Apothecaries at all."
Hades sighed as he watched the feed from his helmet display. Below, a tide of retreating figures descended the mountain.
He knew Mortarion was mocking him.
Hades exhaled softly, making sure the sound wouldn't transmit over the channel.
"But doesn't this weaken the purpose of the selection process?"
Silence on the other end.
Hades blinked, refocusing on the thinning crowd still struggling uphill.
Mortarion had only told the recruits that the summit was the final goal.
But in truth, they only needed to reach a certain altitude to be deemed worthy.
Hades doubted anyone could reach the actual peak. He had spoken to the Legion's Apothecaries—it was physiologically impossible.
The poison at the summit was concentrated enough to suffocate even an Astartes.
Mortarion, of course, disagreed. The moment the trial began, the Primarch had eagerly climbed to the top, waiting for his warriors to reach him.
Hades had not followed. Instead, he had stationed himself near the Blackstone Obelisk, watching for any unforeseen complications.
As he observed the struggling climbers, the crowd was now sparse compared to the beginning.
Then, Mortarion's voice returned to the channel.
"Which one do you have your eye on?"
Don't change the subject, Mortarion.
But he was clearly unoccupied and in a good mood.
The Primarch had deliberately worked through the night to clear today's bureaucratic tasks, just so he could dedicate his full attention to this selection.
Hades could picture him now—standing idly at the peak, growing bored.
He hoped someone would make it to the top. Otherwise, he knew exactly the expression Mortarion would wear for the next few days—one of grim frustration, as if he had swallowed a mouthful of Necare worms.
Ignoring Mortarion's diversion, Hades switched the feed in his helmet display.
"This one looks promising."
A thin figure appeared on the screen.
At first, the child had moved at a measured pace. But once the toxic mists thickened, he had abruptly accelerated, pushing forward without a moment's hesitation.
"His goal is clear," Hades remarked.
Reserving his energy early, then sprinting through the densest poison to minimize exposure—smart.
Mortarion sought endurance, but resilience alone wasn't enough.
Cunning and strategy were just as vital.
He might not be the most resilient, but he was clearly capable of reaching the highest point he could.
"Fleming, from the northern village,"
Mortarion's voice came through. The Primarch had memorized every recruit's information during the registration process.
"You always favor this type, Hades."
Mortarion half-jokingly replied.
Hades chuckled softly—he wasn't wrong.
Cleverness had its merits.
"You should focus on whether he can meet the qualification standard. The boy's stats are average at best."
"I can see that."
Hades nodded.
"Who do you have your eye on?"
He tossed the question back.
Mortarion listed a few names. Hades scanned through them briefly—indeed, all promising candidates with the potential to reach the summit.
With the children still far from the peak, the two continued their idle conversation.
<+>
Upward. Upward. Upward.
Despair, regret, and fear clung to Antaeus like chains.
His vision blurred. The toxic fumes burned his skin, which had softened from prolonged exposure—just a light rub, and it peeled away.
Desperately, he clutched his gas mask, though the tattered equipment could no longer provide any real protection.
His hands, scraped raw from gripping it so tightly, were now bleeding. The blood, tainted by the poison, quickly darkened and hardened.
His lungs convulsed violently, each breath bringing unbearable pain.
He was at his limit.
Death's scythe carved into his throat, stroke by stroke.
His exhausted, poison-numbed mind could no longer process much.
Only obsession remained.
Climb higher—change his fate.
Leave this place—never farm again.
Thud!
The person ahead of him collapsed.
Antaeus ignored them, trudging forward numbly.
The number of "corpses" was fewer than he had expected—most had pressed on.
So he continued to climb.
Almost there. Almost there.
He was alone now. The thick poison obscured the ground ahead—he could no longer distinguish what lay beyond.
Not yet. Keep going. Keep going.
The excruciating pain in his lungs faded. The suffering dulled.
He was just… so, so tired.
Thud!
His knees buckled.
His body collapsed onto the cold ground.
Darkness swallowed his vision—
No! I can't die!
Antaeus bit down hard on his tongue.
The sharp pain snapped him back to consciousness.
The straps of his gas mask had long since corroded, and the fall had torn it away completely, exposing his mouth and nose to the poisonous air.
A sudden warmth spread across his face—was that blood?
Instinctively, he pressed his face into the earth, pressing as close as possible. It helped, if only slightly.
So, he reached forward.
Dragging his broken body onward.
He crawled.
Upward. Upward.
His fingernails split, some snapping in half as dirt wedged into the wounds.
But he kept climbing.
A trail of red streaked behind him. His ears began to bleed.
Upward.
A large hand gently lifted him.
Cold fabric covered his nose and mouth.
With blood-blurred vision, Antaeus struggled to make out the figure before him.
A pair of eyes, shining like the stars, gazed down at him.
"My child, you are resilient enough."
And with that, Antaeus finally lost consciousness.
<+>
Mortarion looked at the first recruit to reach the summit, his mood visibly lifted as he began administering emergency treatment.
He had done this thousands of times before—back when he first built his rebellion.
And now, he could patiently wait for the second warrior to arrive.
<+>
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