Though victory had been secured, the battlefield remained a grim and solemn place. After a brief cheer, the surviving soldiers set to work, retrieving the bodies of their fallen comrades and tending to the wounded.
Casualties had been inevitable. The corpses of Imperial troops lay strewn across the war-torn landscape, their flesh marred by the corruption of Nurgle's plague. Their souls had long since departed, lost to the horrors of the Warp.
The shattered husks of tanks crackled with dying electrical surges, their armor pitted and scorched beyond salvage.
Medicae personnel rushed to treat those stricken by the demonic sickness, their whispered prayers mingling with the pained murmurs of the afflicted.
Elsewhere, mortal guards combed through the battlefield, gathering tattered Aquila banners draped over the dead. These sacred symbols of faith and duty would be entrusted to the Ecclesiarchy's Sisters, who would painstakingly restore them.
Each banner was irreplaceable, carrying the legacy of its regiment. They embodied the unyielding will of the Imperium, serving as beacons of valor and tradition. To restore them was to ensure the ideals of the fallen would endure.
Across the field, Sister Shivara led a contingent of Sororitas and Ministorum priests, moving among the dying.
"May your souls find their way to the Emperor's light," she murmured, offering sacred benedictions to those at death's threshold.
After countless such rites, Shivara sat in a crater, exhaustion weighing upon her. She gazed skyward, where the flames of war still raged, their glow mirrored in her dark eyes.
"This is the salvation He has granted us," she whispered. Then, despite her fatigue, she rose and pressed on.
From a vantage point atop a scorched hill, Primarch Dukel surveyed the battlefield. He stood tall and resolute, a living symbol of Imperial might, as he beheld the land where the Emperor's standard had been planted.
Below, the brutal remnants of battle were being cleared. Yet, despite the carnage, Dukel's expression remained impassive.
He felt no guilt. The losses had been acceptable; they had seized victory in the very heart of the enemy's domain with minimal sacrifice.
The Doom Soldiers flanking him watched in reverence. As his gene-sons, they had been shaped by his lineage, their endurance unyielding. Even after a grueling campaign spanning nearly a month without respite, they stood vigilant, their spirits unbroken, eager for the next war.
Yet Dukel had other concerns. His gaze remained fixed beyond the battlefield, into the void.
I wonder how Guilliman fares...
His musings were interrupted by a voice behind him.
"Father, your request has been fulfilled."
Dukel turned to see one of the Sons of the People standing at attention. The soldier saluted sharply before presenting a package. At the sight, the Primarch's lips curled into a rare smile.
"You don't need to be so formal, my son," Dukel said, taking the package. "It's only food, not some unholy relic."
The soldier hesitated before responding in a grave tone, his voice distorted by his helmet's vox-grill. "Not just food, my Lord. There are demons on this battlefield. But we have also been fighting another kind of demon—the hunger within."
Dukel's brow furrowed. "Explain."
"I have seen Astra Militarum troopers come to blows over a single ration pack," the warrior said, his voice edged with disdain. "Even mortal serfs, who are granted the Emperor's own grace in our care, have fought to the death for the scraps of the wounded. This is no ordinary war."
A dark realization settled upon Dukel. This was not merely a campaign against the Great Enemy—it was a battle against desperation itself. The human condition, when tested, often revealed the weakness lurking within.
The Son of the People clenched his fists, two crimson lenses flaring like embers beneath his helmet.
"We are waging war against hunger itself," he declared solemnly. "And we cannot afford to lose."
Elsewhere, on a field of festering rot and broken corpses, two figures stood on the precipice of battle.
Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, emerged from a shattered gate, striding forward like an avenging demigod. Firelight danced across his gleaming armor, the sigils of the Imperium stark against the filth-strewn landscape.
"Mortarion!" he bellowed, his voice carrying across the battlefield like a battle horn. "Brother, do you not wish to fight me? I am here!"
From across the field, Mortarion answered with a rasping chuckle. The Death Lord's sickly green armor was encrusted with filth and corrosion, his pale face twisted into a rictus of cruel amusement.
"You should be dead already, Guilliman," Mortarion sneered, raising his plague-ridden scythe. "Fulgrim had the pleasure once. Now, it's my turn. I must say—I relish this."
Guilliman's grip on his blade tightened. Without another word, he surged forward, the ground trembling beneath his steps as he charged toward his brother, intent on settling their ancient score in blood.
The battle between primarchs had begun.
The moment their eyes met, the two warriors who had once fought side by side now held only the pure desire to kill one another.
Mortarion swung the Scythe of Silence, using its superior reach to strike first, while Guilliman raised the Emperor's Sword to parry the devastating blow. Their weapons clashed with a deafening roar, sending flames and toxic fumes billowing into the air as the Warp-tainted corruption was seared away.
"You rely too much on the foul sorcery of the Warp, Mortarion. You were never a true warrior."
"Your arrogance is exhausting," the Death Lord sneered. "You have always been an insufferable little model of perfection."
Mortarion spread his pestilence-ridden wings, diving forward with terrifying speed. The Scythe of Silence tore across Guilliman's chest, leaving behind a jagged, festering wound. The Primarch of the Ultramarines staggered as the force of the strike sent him crashing backward.
"Fool," Mortarion growled. "See the power that far surpasses yours. You are a mere shadow of what you could have been. I am—"
Before he could finish, a blazing shot from Guilliman's Hand of Dominion struck him square in the head, setting half his body aflame. Mortarion recoiled, raising his gauntleted hands to shield his sightless white eyes from the burning agony.
Seizing the moment, Guilliman pressed forward with a relentless assault. Mortarion snarled, shaking off his pain as he moved to counter.
"I thought you would wield that blade with honor, as a symbol of the ideals you so dearly cling to."
"There is no honor in a duel between us, Mortarion."
"Ah, for once, we agree."
Feigning retreat, the Daemon Primarch suddenly lashed out, his booted foot slamming into Guilliman's midsection. The Lord of Ultramar was thrown several meters back, crashing to the ground with a metallic groan as sparks flared from ruptured power conduits in his armor.
"This battle is tedious, brother. You were never worthy of challenging me."
Guilliman tried to rise, only for a blast of Warp energy to strike him down once more. Mortarion loomed over him, his voice thick with cruel amusement.
"It is almost disappointing how easily you fall. No matter how perfect your plans, you will never have the strength to face and overcome me. Never."
From beneath his ragged cloak, Mortarion produced a small, filth-encrusted vial.
"This is a gift I have prepared just for you, a token of Nurgle's boundless generosity. Accept it with joy, brother, and witness His eternal glory."
"You will never corrupt me!" Guilliman roared, struggling to break free.
"Then it will kill you."
Mortarion drew a green-tinged syringe, filled with the unholy essence of Nurgle's blessings. With a swift motion, he plunged it into the wound Fulgrim had once inflicted, releasing the virulent plague into Guilliman's bloodstream.
A strangled cry of agony escaped Guilliman as the taint spread through his body. His breath came in ragged gasps, and foul, corrosive gas poured from his lips, rotting everything it touched. Flesh liquefied, corpses crumbled into putrid slop, and steel rusted into dust.
"Ku'gath assured me this plague was lethal even to us," Mortarion mused. "I see now that he spoke the truth. Look at you."
Guilliman's flesh blackened, his body decomposing even as he remained alive. His luminous blue eyes dulled, his features contorting in unbearable torment.
"Stop struggling. It is only the beginning," Mortarion said, his voice thick with mockery. "If you die here, your soul will be dragged to Nurgle's Garden, and in that moment, Ultramar itself will be swallowed by the Warp."
At that very moment, aboard the Macragge's Honour, alarms blared across the bridge. Panicked voices shouted over the vox network.
"The Primarch has fallen!"
The cry echoed through the bridge of Macragge's Honour, spreading across the command deck like wildfire.
Mortarion exhaled a guttural chuckle, his voice thick with malice.
"Feel it, brother." His words dripped with contempt. "Feel the Warp?"
Guilliman howled in agony. His skin burned as if set alight by plasma, his bones felt encased in ice, and his organs twisted as if pierced by a thousand blades. He was falling—falling into a pit of endless darkness, where torment reached into every fiber of his being.
The pain was absolute. It consumed him, seeping into every cell of his body.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" Mortarion rasped.
Guilliman fought to center himself, to find some untainted fragment of his being, some last bastion untouched by corruption.
And then, he saw it.
The golden Aquila upon his shoulder guard, wreathed in fire. The flames did not consume—it guided. A voice, distant yet familiar, called to him.
"Come, brother… come this way. Do not stray."
The light beckoned.
"Dorn?" Guilliman gasped, his vision swimming. "Where… where is this place? The pain—it's unbearable."
"I know, brother. Endure a little longer." The voice was steady, unyielding. "And then, I shall return it upon them a thousandfold."
A new fire ignited in Guilliman's soul. He gritted his teeth. "I am the son of vengeance!"
The light led him forward, through the torment, toward a massive gate.
The throne room.
Mortarion watched, his diseased wings twitching. He could see it now—the golden radiance, the undeniable force pulling Guilliman from his grasp.
"Interesting," the Daemon Primarch mused. "Dorn… you lead him to our father now? Do you think He will shield him? How touching."
Guilliman, still wracked with pain, reached out. The gate loomed before him. A voice urged him onward, compelled him to open it.
And he did.
The moment the doors parted, light poured forth—blinding, pure, absolute.
Mortarion recoiled, his breath hitching. The radiance burned through the filth of the Warp, cutting through the diseased air like a divine blade. For the first time in centuries, the Lord of Death felt something beyond decay.
Discomfort.