At the very core of Nurgle's Garden, in the heart of its festering beauty—where the High Heavens and the Plaguefather's domain collide in eternal stagnation and decay—came an unthinkable intrusion.
A radiant golden light, the purest manifestation of the Emperor's will, speared through the diseased skies, sundering the thick, pestilential mists like a divine blade. The tranquility of the garden was shattered, and reality itself seemed to recoil as two godlike entities clashed in a battle beyond mortal comprehension.
Above this defiled paradise, a war of equally apocalyptic intensity raged in the heavens.
Without the need for orders, the Imperial fleet, led by Lord Commander Dukel, opened fire with unrelenting fury. Incandescent melta lasers, searing beams capable of carving through ceramite and void shields alike, descended in a torrential downpour, scorching away the tainted mists with each strike.
The barrage was relentless.
Millions of las-fire beams and the deafening roar of macro-cannons filled the air, their payloads detonating against the garden's corrupted landscape. Entire sections of Nurgle's domain collapsed like crumbling mountains, grotesque flora and oozing flesh-walls alike obliterated under the sheer, merciless firepower. The impact of planetary bombardment reshaped the terrain, turning the festering soil into little more than smoldering ash.
In mere moments, war's symphony had reached its crescendo.
"The Emperor Protects!"
Dukel roared, his voice a clarion call over the madness of battle. He pointed skyward—toward Guilliman, toward the Emperor's golden radiance beyond.
"Destroy everything! Purge this filth!"
With those words, he led the ground assault. Chainsword revving, bolter barking, he charged into the battlefield, his movements a blur even to the augmented senses of the Adeptus Astartes. Where he passed, plague-ridden monstrosities were carved apart, flesh and ichor spraying in all directions. His very presence seemed to ignite the air, and with every strike, the red flames of his righteous fury surged higher.
This was the Plaguefather's heartland. Here, in the depths of the Warp, every act of destruction wrought upon the garden echoed across reality itself.
In the material universe, plagues inexplicably vanished.
Patients stricken with terminal illness gasped as newfound strength coursed through their bodies.
When asked how they had recovered, they all spoke of the same dream.
A titan of fire and fury, laughing as he chased sickness like a shepherd scattering a diseased flock, burning away their afflictions with crimson flames.
Dukel laughed, his voice a booming, mirthful roar of destruction.
Plague Apostles? Crushed underfoot.
The dirge-singing heralds of Nurgle were reduced to nothing but smears upon the grotesque, pulsating ground, their decay-ridden forms ground into paste by his titanic iron boots.
Plague Lords? Cut down like rotted wheat.
Towering warlords of disease, bloated with corruption, found themselves obliterated upon impact as Dukel barreled through them without slowing, his form a blazing comet of destruction.
A Great Unclean One?
A true general of Nurgle's forces, a being of immense, world-ending power, loomed before him, a mountain of filth and putrescence. But Dukel merely grinned, his charge never faltering.
With a single, brutal grip, he seized the daemon's jowled head and let loose a storm of blows.
One punch. Two. Three. Each impact sent shockwaves across the battlefield, the very ground trembling beneath the force. Flesh split, diseased matter ruptured, and finally, with a sickening squelch, the daemon's skull burst like an overripe fruit, its foulness spilling out as it crumpled into oblivion.
And then—
An Eldar?
Dukel's eyes locked onto his next target.
A slender, veiled figure stood before him, radiating an energy wholly unlike the servants of Nurgle. But his bloodlust did not waver.
Without hesitation, he swung.
The blow connected. The Eldar figure collapsed.
And across the galaxy, every Eldar, no matter where they stood, felt an unexplainable wave of pain ripple through their very souls. A cosmic wail echoed across the Webway, as if the race itself had suffered an unspeakable wound.
Dukel frowned. The alien had survived the strike. Intriguing.
He stepped forward, raising his armored boot, intent on crushing the wretched xeno's spine beneath his heel—
"WAIT! BROTHER, STOP! THAT'S NOT A DAEMON!"
A desperate voice rang out.
Magnus, still clinging to Dukel's waist, screamed with urgency, his psychic might crackling in the air.
"Father, stay your hand!"
Another voice joined in—Doom, gripping Dukel's crimson cloak, pulling with all his strength.
"Your Highness, that is not our enemy!"
A third figure—a radiant form, wings of fire spanning dozens of meters—descended like a comet from above, interposing herself between Dukel and his fallen foe.
Saint Efilar, her diminutive form almost laughably small before Dukel's mountainous stature, placed her hands against his forehead, desperately attempting to restrain him.
For the first time, Dukel hesitated.
"What is the meaning of this?!" His thunderous voice shook the battlefield.
"Your Highness, look carefully," Efilar pleaded. "This may be the one you spoke of before the war."
Dukel's burning gaze fell upon the fallen Eldar.
A tall, elegant figure lay motionless upon the grotesque ground of Nurgle's domain. Even through her veil, her features exuded an impossible beauty, a presence that resonated with the very essence of life itself.
Realization struck.
"Isha?" he murmured.
The Eldar goddess did not respond. His blow had rendered her unconscious.
Dukel frowned. Why was she here? The Goddess of Life should have been trapped in the deepest reaches of the Plaguefather's domain. What madness had led her to place herself directly in his warpath?
Shaking his head, he made his decision.
With little ceremony, he slung the unconscious goddess over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
"No matter. The charge continues!"
And then—
A tremor.
A deep, rumbling, primordial tremor.
The air itself seemed to buckle, and reality distorted as something vast—something beyond comprehension—stirred.
The sky darkened.
The Plaguefather had taken notice.
The battlefield fell into stunned silence as a colossal hand, large enough to blot out the very heavens, reached down from the sickly, rotting sky.
Bloated fingers, each the size of planets, descended with the weight of inevitability. Plague boils and putrid cysts oozed sickly fluids across their grotesque surface, and the sheer presence of the appendage sent waves of despair rippling through even the most stalwart warriors of the Imperium.
Magnus, witnessing the horror above, could only stammer, his voice trembling with disbelief.
"N-N-N-Nurgle…"
And Dukel, staring up at the descending horror, felt his mind reel with a singular, impossible thought.
"Is that bloated bastard seriously ignoring the Emperor's attack just to swat me?!"
Dukel's expression twisted in disbelief. He could not comprehend why the enemy was so desperate.
"I'm sorry, my son."
A solemn, divine voice resonated within Dukel's mind—an abstract presence more than mere words.
And with that single utterance, the Primarch understood everything.
He turned his gaze toward the bound Goddess of Life resting upon his shoulder. A sneer curled across his lips.
"It was for a woman."
He had not expected that abducting the Goddess of Life would drive Nurgle into such madness.
The Plague God was frantic, unrelenting in His efforts to reclaim her. He was even willing to endure a strike from the Emperor Himself just to undo Dukel's theft.
But upon remembering how Nurgle had once dared to challenge Slaanesh for the same goddess, it all made sense.
Even now, thousands of voices flooded Dukel's mind, offering their apologies. The Emperor's voice was among them.
The battlefield had shifted beyond the arena of gods. Not even the Emperor could shield the Primarch in time from the full wrath of the Plague God.
And an attack from a true god—even a mere aftershock of their battle—was not something a demigod could withstand.
"A god? Just another wretch scrambling for scraps."
Dukel's fighting spirit remained unbroken. Though he lacked the power to stand against a god, it did not stop him from curling his lips in disdain.
Deep within the rotting groves of the Garden of Nurgle, Mortarion knelt.
"Grandfather, forgive me. Please… forgive me."
The Primarch of the Death Guard quivered in the face of Nurgle's fury, like a child caught in the act of wrongdoing.
Elsewhere, in the Imperial Legion, soldiers bore witness to the impossible.
"Hah! So even a god can throw a tantrum!" Some warriors laughed, gazing upon the spectacle in the sky.
"Die with honor! May we meet again beneath the Emperor's throne!"
Yet not all thoughts were of war.
"I've got a question I've been holding back—who the hell stole the rations I looted from those traitorous wretches?!"
"It was me! So what? They were delicious."
"You bastard! We're battle-brothers, how could you betray me like this?!"
"Exactly! We're brothers. I'd trust you with my life on the battlefield, but I'd never trust you with rations!"
"I swear on the Emperor, I'll fight you for this in the afterlife!"
"Hah! Fine by me! When we return to the Throne, I'll beat the grox dung out of you right in front of His Majesty, you crybaby!"
Despite the looming doom, the warriors marched forward, side by side.
None bore regret. None showed fear. Their expressions were serene, as if they walked toward victory, not death.
"Your Highness."
Efilar approached Dukel, carrying the Eagle Banner of Destiny. Her voice was steady.
"We are not afraid. Death is our duty. But you cannot die here. You are the pillar of the Empire. The leader of warriors. The hope of mankind."
She extended the banner toward him.
"Within this wretched realm of Nurgle, our Librarians cannot open a teleportation gate. But I have tried, and your banner alone can carve a path through. It is unstable and can only accommodate your power."
Her eyes held firm resolve.
"We will protect you one last time."
She smiled wistfully, gazing at the Primarch she had served so long. Then, without hesitation, her massive wings—dozens of meters across—unfurled, igniting in blinding white fire.
She rose above the gathered sisters and raised her arms.
"Burn, sisters! Let our final song echo through the void!"
"For the Empire! For the Glorious Lord of Destruction!"
"For the Empire! For the Glorious Lord of Destruction!"
The chant swelled into a thunderous chorus. The nuns of the Heart Network burned with sacred fire, their devotion flaring into a pyre that lit the sky itself.
The hymn filled the battlefield.
But it did not last.
Dukel moved.
Like a mountain stirring, he extended his hand and seized the burning saint from the air, snuffing out the flames.
"Your Highness! Why?!" Efilar knelt in his palm, frantic.
With the ritual interrupted, the last escape route was severed. Panic flickered across her face, and tears welled in her eyes.
"My dear girl, when did you start giving me orders?"
Dukel's voice was firm.
"But, Your Highness—"
"He won't leave."
Magnus, watching in silence, finally spoke. His single eye reflected the looming apocalypse above.
"He's made his choice. Nothing will change his mind."
His expression darkened.
"Brother, you are going to kill me."
Above, the end of the plague descended.
Dukel laughed, madness dancing in his eyes.
The sky trembled.
The hand of the Plague God fell like judgment incarnate.
The air thickened with rot. The land boiled like a putrid cauldron.
Dukel stood unmoving.
Seventy thousand meters. The hand loomed ever closer.
"Get up."
A voice, raw as thunder, erupted from Dukel's throat.
Boom!
The colossal, rotting hand collided with Dukel's outstretched arms.
A force beyond mortal reckoning surged through him. Millions of plagues entwined like serpentine vines, burrowing into his flesh.
His body cracked, crimson fire spilling like molten blood from gaping wounds.
His knees buckled.
But he did not kneel.
With a feral snarl, he roared, summoning every ounce of his being.
His hands shattered—bone, flesh, and sinew reduced to dust.
New arms, forged from fire, erupted from his wounds, fueled by rage.
"FUCK YOU! DIE!"
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The battlefield shook like a war drum beaten by gods.
One punch.
A hundred punches.
A thousand punches.
Ten thousand punches.
The Plague God's hand halted.
It shattered.
A vile, toxic fog exploded outward, engulfing the battlefield.
The silence was deafening.
"Did he… did our lord triumph?"
Dukel's voice, hoarse and triumphant, rang through the haze.
"WATCH OUT FOR THE GOD OF PLAGUE!"
The heavens quaked.
Crimson flames erupted, consuming the pestilent fog.
Dukel stood, his body torn and bleeding, yet he laughed—wild, defiant, unstoppable.
His injuries healed at an impossible rate, flesh knitting as he extended a hand.
A veiled Eldar woman, unconscious, fell into his grasp.
"Goddess of Life, let me show you your true purpose."
With a cruel smirk, he clenched his fist.
Power surged. Life was stolen.
In the sky, the Plague God howled in fury.
Dukel raised the Eagle Banner high, his voice unyielding.
"Onward, my children! We will plant the Imperial flag across Nurgle's domain!"