Chapter 253: Man Cannot Be Idle
"Well done."
Hades nodded to the Rust Tech-Priest at his side, then watched as the Magos directed the servitors to haul away the ship he had selected.
The rest he left to Rust's Forge World. According to the Archmagos, Rust's planetary forges would soon resume operation.
The massive furnace, its veins pulsing with molten crimson magma, would soon display its full power—even though most people had no idea what it truly was, while those who did know were muffled by the Black Domain, howling in frustration.
The contracts for Rust's seventh mining moon were also nearly complete. Though unconventional, the Rust Magos chose maximum compromise when facing the Death Guard.
On one hand, Rust lay in ruins, and the resources of an entire Legion would greatly hasten the Mechanicum's rebuilding.
On the other, Hades's personal actions during the defense of Rust had drawn him many followers. Combined with the Death Guard's current assistance to the Mechanicum, the population of one mining moon no longer seemed so difficult to part with.
Recruitment from the seventh mining moon was simple: the Death Guard needed only to select the boys who had shone in the recent war.
Because the population was small, the Legion did not plan to raise Hadeshound units here. At Hades's suggestion, Rust began slowly industrializing the mining world, easing the crushing survival pressures on its people.
As for the orders the Death Guard had placed with Rust, the system would not be able to fulfill them for some time. With little else to do, the Death Guard fleet entered the Warp, the main fleet setting course back to Barbarus for resupply.
At the same time, they scouted the Warp lanes between Rust and Barbarus, laying the foundation for future routes.
The voyage through the Warp was long, so the Death Guard began training their recruits aboard ship.
With most affairs already settled, the administration found itself in an unprecedented lull.
Hades sat at the council table in boredom, staring at the new recruit list from the seventh mining moon. He attended on behalf of the Armoury, reviewing the names for any with potential.
Coming from a mining world, some recruits might possess a natural sensitivity to metal.
Then it struck him—the Fourteenth Legion's recruitment now drew from three sources: Barbarus, the Galaspar system, and Rust's seventh mining moon.
Respectively: wild survivor farmers, mad hive workers, and underground miners.
Hades brainstormed for all of one millisecond. Next time, maybe I should recruit from a world of artisans.
Once he realized this, he found he could no longer look at the new Death Guard recruits the same way. Strange visions began to creep into his mind.
Specifically, it made him look upon them with a certain… kindly, paternal gaze.
Truth be told, these raw recruits—yet to be turned into hulking giants—were only in their early teens. Having already been battered by the hardships of their homeworlds, now they were chosen for the Death Guard, destined to endure the brutalities of war.
Were Hades not of the Death Guard—were he instead an Ultramarine or an Emperor's Children—he might have simply called it what it was: a tragic fate.
And indeed, the Death Guard's atmosphere was among the most severe and oppressive of all the Legions. To outsiders, joining them was almost like being sentenced to prison.
Although the Astartes' implants dulled aspects of their emotions, in truth, Space Marines in their daily lives were not so different from ordinary men: joy, anger, sorrow, laughter—none were absent.
Overall, each Legion made efforts to foster hobbies, entertainments, and means of relaxation for their warriors, to ease the mental strain. For the harsh demands of constant war and the Legion's crushing discipline were no small challenge to the mind.
The Ultramarines studied the humanities and social sciences; the Blood Angels were steeped in art and culture; the Iron Hands cultivated mechanical pursuits; the White Scars practiced calligraphy and poetry; the Imperial Fists and the Iron Warriors immersed themselves in architecture and fortifications.
And the Death Guard?
The Death Guard had nothing!
By the old maxim—that a Legion's culture was shaped by its homeworld—the Death Guard should have been farmers, or perhaps mountaineers.
But such hobbies hardly suited a Legion.
Hades pondered deeply.
Why is this?
He glanced across the table at Mortarion, who was still busy approving the new recruit lists.
Why is this, really?
"Mortarion," Hades asked out loud, "why do you think this is?"
Without looking up, Mortarion raised a hand and gave Hades the Imperially-approved rude gesture.
Hades glared at him—the very man most responsible for their Legion's utter lack of culture.
Normally, leadership trickled downward; commanders influenced the men beneath them—especially in a Legion, where individuality was so thoroughly ground away.
Mortarion, when idle, went either to the laboratories, or the training halls, or simply stared grimly at campaign reports.
All this had achieved was a corps of Apothecaries of unusual professionalism. For the rest of the Death Guard, it meant nothing.
Garro and Vork, at least, spent their time training and reviewing files.
As for him… He had no leisure time.
This life—this ascetic routine like some monk's penance—meant that, for the Death Guard, actual war was perhaps the only source of amusement.
Suddenly, Hades was struck by revelation.
He had neglected the cultural development of the Legion—overlooked the psychological health of its warriors!
He slammed a hand on the table. Unacceptable!
Mortarion finally looked up, gave Hades a disdainful glance, and gestured for silence.
Had the Primarch known the old sayings of Terra, he would surely have said: Don't have a fit in here.
But Hades ignored him. Of all the Death Guard, he alone had truly experienced a healthy, normal human society.
So it would be up to him!
He rushed off to find Garro, the Leader of the Grave Wardens.
The man was bare-chested in the dueling cages, already three days into a streak of 68 victories.
Vork, meanwhile, sat battered and bruised at the edge of the cage.
Hades bounded up, seized Garro before he could launch into his 69th brawl, and dragged him away. Garro, eyes bloodshot with battle-fury, struggled against him, but Hades's superior stats prevailed.
His action is not without cost—Garro very nearly gave him a beating—but Hades, whose enormous frame concealed surprisingly maxed-out agility, dodged and countered. With sheer size and leverage he pinned Garro, then hauled him off, half-shoving, half-dragging him away.
From the stands came a chorus of voices:
"The Commander's dragging the Captain back to work!"
"No respect for martial virtue!"
"The captain tried to skip duty and got caught!"
"Commander's terrifying!"
Hades, of course, heard none of it.
Garro, on the other hand, very much wanted to plant a fist in his face.
"Calm down, calm down."
Hades handed him a water flask, smiling as though nothing were wrong, deliberately ignoring the murderous glare aimed back at him.
"What happened this time?" Garro asked once he'd caught his breath.
"Did your bed collapse again?"
Among the Death Guard's officers, a silent consensus had long since formed: whenever Hades did something absurd, mockery was the proper countermeasure. The Commander's Bed had become their favorite weapon.
Sure enough, Hades's expression froze at the jab. He opened his mouth, half-ready to explain—That doesn't count as collapsing, there were two people involved, that wasn't me— but wisely swallowed the words.
"Ahem. No, not that. This one's serious matter."
He composed his face into solemnity.
"I want to ask… have any of the new recruits come to the Grave Wardens about, well—psychological concerns? Other than the usual."
Garro stared at him flatly, as if to say: You bothered me for this? His fist itched again.
"Speak plainly."
"I mean—do they adapt well to the Death Guard's atmosphere? Do they have doubts about it? After high-intensity operations, do they show signs of mental strain?"
Garro took a long drink from his flask.
"Yes."
Hades blinked, eyes widening.
"And what do the Grave Wardens tell them?"
Garro's gaze was level, heavy with quiet contempt for the triviality of the question.
"We tell them… to endure it."
Endure?
Hades nearly choked.
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