"Charge, loyal soldiers! Plant the banner of the Imperial Aquila into Nurgle's pestilent domain!"
The Primarch's voice thundered across the battlefield. Even though he knew such a feat was impossible in this battle, it did not stop him from leading his expeditionary legion with unwavering resolve.
Despite carrying the unconscious Goddess of Life over one shoulder, Dukel moved through the battlefield unhindered, cutting down enemies without pause. The act of carrying her was not a matter of choice but necessity.
No matter how delicate she appeared, she was still a lesser god. Within the warp, her authority surged, her power beyond mortal comprehension. Entrusting her to anyone else was out of the question.
—It was not as though he could simply sever her head and hang it at his waist.
Besides, Dukel had plans for her. He intended to use her divine essence to heal the Emperor's broken body—to restore flesh to the corpse upon the Golden Throne. For the sake of this goal, she could not be treated as Magnus had been.
Far above the battlefield, nestled deep in his foetid garden, a portion of Nurgle's vast and bloated consciousness was fixed upon the goddess. His plague-ridden realm trembled with rage. The wrath of the Lord of Decay roiled like a triple-layered purgatory, his fury cycling through seven putrid reincarnations.
Yet he could do nothing.
Not only was he powerless to harm those who had stolen the goddess, but he himself was suffering under the relentless assault of their progenitor.
For twenty-two days, Dukel had waged his campaign of fire, reducing the northern reaches of Nurgle's garden to charred ruin. Now, the Emperor's divine might poured into the warp, a lance of pure radiance searing through the Plague God's bloated form. His hubris had cost him dearly; his reckless punishment of Dukel had come at an unbearable price.
He was not merely unable to retaliate—he was actively being undone. His flesh rotted away, his bones shattered, his tendons frayed like decayed sinew. And to compound his misery, his enemies were not limited to those from the north.
His neighbors had joined the fray.
In the northwest, Khorne's legions rampaged through the garden, slaughtering without restraint. Every corrupted tree, every weeping pustule, every disease-ridden beast—none were spared from the wrath of the Blood God's chosen. The once-stagnant paradise of filth was being transformed into a landscape of gore-drenched ruin.
Khorne had deemed this incursion significant. Angrath the Unbound, known as the Deathbringer, the Lord of the Bloodthirsters, and Khorne's Kin, led the charge. With Skarbrand's exile, Angrath had become the Blood God's favored warlord, the greatest of his daemonic generals.
For Khorne, who preferred an elite cadre over vast legions, Angrath's deployment was a rare and momentous decision.
And yet, for all his titles, for all his power—he had once been beaten by Lorgar.
—In the warp, no less.
Still, his presence spoke of the Blood God's seriousness. Khorne's army tore through Nurgle's realm, transforming his festering paradise into a charnel house.
In the northeast, Tzeentch's plan neared completion.
Crystal spread like wildfire across the garden. Flesh-blossoms and rot-slicked soil became solidified works of shimmering artistry, frozen mid-decay in resplendent hues. The garden no longer reeked of putrefaction but gleamed with unnatural beauty, as though a fairy tale world had been born amidst the rot.
At its center, nine enormous crystal citadels neared completion.
From the highest realm of change, hidden within the ever-shifting Crystal Labyrinth, Tzeentch laughed triumphantly.
Far above, beyond mortal comprehension, in a plane of illusion and deceit, the Gods of Chaos played their endless game.
Tzeentch lounged upon his seat, his expression unreadable. Across from him, the bloated form of Nurgle arranged his cards, his putrescent mouth splitting into a vile grin. From between his split lips, clouds of flies spilled forth, their buzzing a hymn to pestilence.
"The Stars of Disaster," "Seven Plagues," "The Garden Unchained."
Nurgle played his cards, his decayed laughter gurgling from deep within his diseased throat.
Tzeentch merely shrugged and placed three of his own.
"Nine Mantras," "Blood God's Pact," "Crystal Prophecy."
The game shifted. The Garden trembled. Nurgle frowned, sensing something amiss.
Cautiously, he bolstered his defenses.
"Plague Legion," "Great Unclean One," "Scythe of Mortality."
But Tzeentch had anticipated this.
"Tzeentchian Host," "Lord of Change," "Thread of Fate."
At first, Nurgle scoffed. His authority was ancient. His power was vast. His strength was beyond contestation. These cards were meaningless.
Then he noticed something—Tzeentch's turn had not ended.
The Architect of Fate flipped his earlier cards.
From "Nine Mantras," he drew "Son of Vengeance"—Roboute Guilliman.
From "Blood God's Pact," he pulled "Legions of Khorne."
From "Crystal Prophecy," he unleashed a tide of golden fire, the righteous fury of "The Lord of Destruction"—Dukel. The very table quaked beneath the revelation.
The "Scourge Stars" cracked. The game had turned.
Nurgle seethed, but he did not panic. His realm was eternal. He turned his "Garden" card, drawing from its depths.
"Garden of Plenty."
This was his bastion, the heart of his power. Here, he was supreme.
Tzeentch merely smiled.
He pulled at the "Thread of Fate."
From its weave emerged the "Scythe of Death"—Mortarion.
And then, one by one, the final cards fell upon the table.
"Son of Vengeance."
"Lord of Destruction."
"Emperor of Mankind."
Three cards, each heavier than the last, landed upon the table with a weight that made it tremble.
The "Garden of Plenty" was pierced by golden light, its verdant splendor engulfed in searing scarlet flames. Nurgle's breath grew labored, and the thick miasma surrounding Him churned with wrath. His disadvantage deepened, and He knew He must act to overturn the tide.
With a moment's contemplation, the Plague God cast an imposing card onto the table. A distorted ripple spread outward, warping reality itself as the card revealed its true nature.
— "Triple Reincarnation"
This card, an embodiment of death, decay, and rebirth, was one of Nurgle's greatest trump cards, a core facet of His divine authority.
A triple curse, a triple gift, a triple toxin—these were eternal truths, present since the birth of the cosmos, binding past, present, and future. Within this domain, He was omnipotent.
Raising eyes riddled with seven festering afflictions, Nurgle gazed upon the Lord of Fate across from Him, expecting some semblance of reverence—a retreat in the face of His ancient power.
But He was disappointed.
Tzeentch remained composed.
The Architect of Fate lifted two cards—"Tzeentch's Army" and "Lord of Change." Merging them, a new card materialized in His grasp.
— "Crystal Castle"
Nine resplendent crystal fortresses shimmered into existence within Tzeentch's garden. Nurgle's rotting gaze flickered with disdain.
Such a feeble creation could not possibly threaten His ancient might.
Yet He did not lower His guard. They were eternal rivals, each knowing the other intimately.
Tzeentch would not rely solely on this one card.
Nurgle attempted to anticipate His foe's next move, but no matter how His festering mind churned, He could not unravel the Lord of Fate's intentions.
His own power was absolute, His cycle flawless.
The Plague God could not fathom what card could possibly counter His "Triple Reincarnation."
Then He saw it.
Tzeentch cast His next card upon the table.
A loving father's patience shattered in an instant. Rage, hot and unrelenting, surged through the Corpulent One.
Once more, Tzeentch had pulled the threads of fate, once more He had grasped the scythe of death.
Crack!—
A sound of shattering resonated through the void.
Nurgle's card, the manifestation of His boundless power, wavered—its edges fractured, its permanence undone.
The cosmos itself trembled. From the material realm to the highest celestial plane, a deafening reverberation echoed through existence.
Bang! Bang! Bang!—
The Plague Lord slammed His festering hands against the table, a rage so great He nearly sought to overturn it entirely.
But before He could act, three figures materialized—blood-red, gold, and violet—taking their seats around the table.
The game was beyond undoing.
Reality itself had become entwined with its outcome.
Wounds, terrible and weeping, spread across Nurgle's bloated form.
Tzeentch, ever-smiling, regarded the final card in His hand.
—A titanic blade wreathed in golden flames.
And behind the Changer of Ways, where no god, no force in existence dared to look—
Tzeentch held countless hands, each clutching a thick stack of cards.
His options were endless. His possibilities infinite.
Nine paths led to victory.
Nine inevitable triumphs.
"Everything is proceeding as planned," the Lord of Fate murmured, amusement dancing upon His lips.
—
Time in the High Heavens was erratic and unbound, absent of mortal logic or laws.
While the gods waged their battle over the table, war raged in the divine paradise.
In that incomprehensible dimension, the confrontation between the Plague Lord and the Emperor of Mankind reached its climax.
High above, the choking haze of Nurgle's pestilence began to recede.
His influence recoiled, withdrawing into His festering domain.
Suspended in the air, Roboute Guilliman opened his eyes.
Blinding radiance surged forth.
"The hour of reckoning has come!" the Primarch bellowed. "Plague Lord, eldest of the Ruinous Powers, your vile corruption shall be answered for!"
Golden light coalesced around him, its brilliance akin to a newborn star, radiant enough to sear mortal vision to ash.
He gathered his strength.
Judgment was at hand.
"Impossible… What should I do? Shouldn't they all be dead? Why is this happening?"
Mortarion murmured within the garden-jungle, his voice barely above a whisper. He had always relied on the great art of numerology to guide him, shaping his grand design with unwavering certainty.
Until now.
For the first time, he hesitated.
The numbers foretold that this moment would bring his true liberation. It was the final link in his grand plan—the moment he had anticipated for uncounted years. A chance to escape his eternal torment, to cast off the yoke of the tyrant above, to never again bow before another.
Yet, when the moment arrived…
He faltered. Fear gripped him.
He had seen what happened when Nurgle struck down Dukel's hand before. He had witnessed the boundless power of his so-called loving father. If his plan failed, what unimaginable price would he pay?
And then there was the power wielded by his former brother, now the self-proclaimed Lord of Destruction. A power that only those who truly embraced their own essence could wield—a power rivaled only by the Dark Gods themselves.
Even if my plan succeeds, my own kin will hunt me to the ends of reality.
The thought chilled him. He had faced impossible odds before, always certain of victory. Yet, at the most crucial moments, something within him always wavered.
To the outside world, he projected an image of indomitable will. But deep in his scarred heart, he could not lie to himself.
For the first time in his wretched existence, he found himself paralyzed by doubt. Without an external force to drive him forward, his steps would forever remain frozen.
But fate did not let him linger.
A sound shattered the stagnant air.
A creaking door.
From within the ancient mansion of Nurgle, the eternal dwelling of the Plague God, the door groaned open. It had never opened before.
Mortarion turned, slowly, fearfully. A small window on the gable swung open, revealing a void-like pupil—a depth darker than the blackest forests.
"Forgive me, Father," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
At that moment, another gaze fell upon him.
Roboute Guilliman.
His eyes, radiant with terrible wisdom, pierced through existence itself, as if seeing through all of reality in an instant. It was not just Guilliman who spoke then, but something greater.
"You are a traitor, Mortarion," the Primarch's voice rang, yet it was not entirely his own. "You have destroyed all that could have been. You are nothing more than the plaything of a monster. Mortarion, perhaps one day you can be saved, but until then, return to the master you chose."
"No—!"
Mortarion barely had time to react before it was too late.
An unseen force yanked at him, as though an owner pulling the leash of a wayward hound. The grip was unrelenting.
He was being pulled back.
Fear surged through him, but so too did rage.
"No one controls me," he hissed, voice trembling. "No one."
His words grew louder, reverberating through the garden like a chant.
"No one controls me!" His roar shook the air. "No one!"
From within his tattered robes, he withdrew a sphere of radiant light—the elixir he had bargained for with the Goddess of Life, a relic capable of momentarily breaking Nurgle's grasp.
Without hesitation, he swallowed it whole.
Reality cracked. An invisible chain shattered in the void. His body lurched forward, free from the force dragging him toward the mansion.
With newfound resolve, Mortarion raised the Scythe of Silence and swung with all his might.
The blade cut through the toxic haze of the garden, biting deep into the flesh-like soil of Nurgle's domain.
The ground trembled.
A vast fissure split the garden asunder. From its depths, an abyssal darkness poured forth, devouring everything it touched. In mere moments, Mortarion's body, armor, weapons—his very essence—was unmade and remade within this abyssal tide.
Death tore through him, consuming him utterly. His skin rotted, his bones withered, his very soul twisted.
Yet he endured.
His teeth clenched. Darkness swirled within his gaze. He had not been destroyed—he had been reborn.
"I am Mortarion, the Lord of Death! I am the embodiment of decay! I am the unyielding rebel! I will overthrow all tyrants, and my scythe shall harvest the foul blood of every dictator in this galaxy!"
His proclamation echoed through the rotting heavens.
CRACK—!
The very fabric of Nurgle's Garden groaned in protest. The eternal dominion of the Plague God, an unshakable fixture of the Warp since time immemorial, now bore scars from the blade of rebellion.
For the first time, Nurgle suffered a wound worse than even the one inflicted by the Emperor Himself.
"Nice job, bro!"
A voice rang through the carnage—Dukel, leading his army forward, laughter booming through the corrupted air. As Mortarion's dark mist spread, the domain of the Plague God shrank.
Nurgle's Heaven, once vast and eternal, now deflated like a punctured corpse.
Dukel raised his weapon, amusement flickering in his gaze.
"But this is where your journey ends, brother."
Without hesitation, he charged. Mortarion had stolen a portion of death's power, but that did not make it his own.
If Dukel slew him now, the power would be his.
Then, the garden itself reacted.
Boom—! Boom—!
The very flora of Nurgle's paradise roared with fury. Every flower, every vine, every rotting tree vibrated with barely contained wrath.
For the first time in history, the loving and ever-patient Plague Lord knew true rage.
But even He could do nothing.
Because a golden light, the antithesis of His being, blazed once more.
Guilliman hovered above, the Emperor's Sword raised high. He had gathered his strength, and his voice, imbued with celestial authority, resounded through eternity.
"Plague Lord, hear me!" Guilliman's voice shook the Warp. The flames upon his blade burned with such intensity that time itself seemed to waver. "I am Roboute Guilliman, loyal heir to the Emperor of Mankind! You shall not die today, but you will remember this. I will return for you, and when I do, you will burn to ashes!"
The firestorm erupted.
"No, wait—old man, don't—!" Dukel shouted, but it was too late.
A cleansing inferno, hotter than a million suns, engulfed everything. The garden, Nurgle's throne, the remnants of battle—all were reduced to pure nothingness. Not even ashes remained.
The firestorm ceased just before reaching the Eternal Mansion, yet even its halls quaked, its walls splintering, its putrid wood steaming with foul vapor.
"This is your warning," Guilliman declared, his voice a final decree. "The Warp and the Materium are in balance. For too long, you have tilted that balance. But understand this—this realm is not reality. Only will is real. And in this realm, no will is stronger than mine."
He leveled the Emperor's Sword at the mansion.
"Remember this, Lord of Plagues. And tell your brothers." Guilliman's voice rose to an imperial crescendo. "I do not speak for myself."
The flames flared once more.
"I speak for the Emperor of Mankind!"
And with that, they fell.
Dukel, the Goddess of Life, the Imperial forces, Guilliman, and even Mortarion—plunging away from Nurgle's Heaven, vanishing into the void.
The battlefield was no more, but the impact remained.
Southwest of the Immaterium, the supreme dominion of Nurgle had shrunk by nearly one-third.
The eldest of the Dark Gods had suffered his greatest defeat.