"Hurry! We must destroy that Greater Daemon before the others arrive!"

Brokenhorn urged his Terror Legion warriors forward, launching a desperate charge regardless of cost.

Any war involving the Terror Legion was fiercely competitive. Apart from being forbidden to attack their own comrades, everything else was fair game.

Inept warbands would leave empty-handed and become the laughingstock of the Legion.

And that was a big problem.

With fewer spoils, they would earn fewer Blood Points. Without Blood Points, they couldn't upgrade gear, leading to a further decline in combat power.

This would spiral into defeat, with rivals snatching kills again and again.

Eventually, the weak would be absorbed and relegated to the Legion's bottom rung.

Even worse, most Terror Warriors had already taken on the Dark Prince's "special blessings"—essentially borrowing Blood Points in advance to arm themselves for battle.

This had become a tradition within the Terror Legion: if you wanted to become a high-ranking Terror Warrior, you had to take the risk.

No one wanted to be weak.

While the Legion did provide basic armor, weapons, and ammo, that was nowhere near enough to satisfy the warriors' ambitions.

The strong grew stronger. Without explosive firepower and the best gear, there was no way to seize the most glorious kill-count and earn Diablo's favor.

You'd be stuck watching everyone else snowball into greatness.

So they all boldly accepted the "special blessings"—loans of Blood Points, often several dozen or even hundreds of times their expected income.

Once borrowed, repayment could take decades.

The warriors had to fight harder and enter more wars just to keep up.

But for the strong, these loans meant superior firepower that could quickly build wealth and elevate their warbands to higher tiers.

That's one of the reasons the Terror Legion's combat power was so terrifying—driven by greed, shackled by debt, fueled by pressure—and loving every second of it.

Every Terror Warrior could tap into power advanced by the Dark Prince himself.

Each war was an extreme gamble—would they win riches and glory or end up floundering in the mud? That was the thrill.

Brokenhorn was under a lot of pressure right now.

For this war, he had gone all in.

He had maxed out his Blood Point credit line, deploying ten Centurion battlesuits and even more Dreadnoughts. He wore a full set of Master-grade Terminator armor and weapons.

His entire warband was fully re-equipped, loaded with special munitions and endless firepower.

All to secure massive Blood Point earnings in this galactic-scale battle and advance his warband to a higher class.

But failure would be catastrophic.

He'd go bankrupt, be annexed, or worse—get assigned to menial rear-line logistics work.

So he was desperate to slaughter as many powerful enemies as possible.

When his warband detected a Great Unclean One of Nurgle, they had charged in immediately.

They weren't the only ones. Several warbands were also en route, aiming to gang up on the Greater Daemon to earn huge Blood Points and possibly earn Diablo's direct favor.

This was the jackpot.

But when Brokenhorn and his warriors arrived, all they saw was the Dark Prince himself slaughtering the Greater Daemon.

That being casually tore off the Nurgle Daemon's head in front of terrified witnesses.

Brokenhorn didn't hesitate—he turned around, swearing under his breath.

Who would've thought their big raid boss would get sniped by the boss himself?

Talk about frustrating.

Still, he dared not voice any complaints—only mutter resentfully under his breath.

He and his warriors pivoted toward another battlefield, charging in with wild abandon.

The Nurgle forces trembled at their name.

The Dark Prince and his Terror Legion had become infamous.

Across the galaxy and into the Warp, everyone had heard of their savagery.

No one wanted to mess with these maniacs—more unhinged than even the berserkers of Khorne.

Imperial armies or Astartes usually fought for strategic reasons. If their enemy retreated, they might not even pursue.

Not so with the Terror Legion.

These lunatics had no rules, no honor. They didn't care who won the war—only that you died. Once they locked on, it was over.

There was even a case where a Chaos warband was hunted by Terror Warriors for years—chased from the galaxy into the Warp—until they were all brutally dismembered.

To the end, they couldn't understand what they'd done. All they'd done was kill a few humans. Why were these madmen so obsessed?

Chaos traitors and Daemons alike viewed the Terror Legion as total freaks—"rabid dogs," they said.

Ironically, Khorne's warriors looked good in comparison. They came off as charming and reasonable.

More Chaos warbands decided it was better to join the madmen than to fight them.

From prey to predator, the tide had turned.

But the Terror Legion had become more selective about new recruits.

Some warriors even feared that absorbing too many outside forces would dilute their Blood Point income.

What if they ran out of enemies to kill?

Fortunately, Chaos Daemons were endless.

They remained prime targets for Blood Point farming.

On the battlefield…

"Not bad. Very spirited."

Eden tossed aside the Great Unclean One's head and looked upon his rampaging warriors with satisfaction.

This was the kind of Chaos army he wanted.

To fight Chaos, they had to be even more ruthless—more insane.

He wanted Chaos itself to feel fear.

Now, the strongest Terror Warriors could even take down Greater Daemons on their own.

Though they still couldn't handle the top-tier ones.

Even among Greater Daemons, the power gap could be absurd—wider than that between an Ork and a Grot.

Some were strong enough to pummel Primarchs. Others were literal cannon fodder—so weak a tank could run them over.

It was the same with Astartes.

Legends like Dante, Calgar, or Draigo could casually kill Greater Daemons.

But rookie Astartes? They could get shanked by cultists or blinded by flashlight-grade lasguns.

After executing the Greater Daemon, Eden withdrew from the front lines.

He didn't want to steal experience from his warriors—and there was no need.

Every enemy they killed, every bit of fear and faith they harvested—he shared in all of it.

His focus now was concealment—saving strength for more critical threats.

Soon, the Terror Legion and Tyranids had wiped out all Nurgle forces in the area.

Even the plague pollution was happily licked away by the xenos—an efficient cleanup crew.

After they left, the Savior's purification teams arrived to spray diluted decontamination mist.

The environment was restored—better than before.

The local troops and survivors were deeply grateful for the Emperor's and the Savior's blessings.

…

A ruined chapel.

Warp corruption had desecrated the entire area, flames roaring in the darkness.

Within the central shrine hall sat a Chaotic throne, surrounded by a horde of warped entities—some of them even Tyranid in shape.

Eden sat upon the throne, listening to field reports—especially from the Tyranid recon forces.

Too many armies had converged on this world—it had become a complete meat grinder.

The landscape itself had been forever altered by the brutal warfare.

The Imperium was reclaiming territory, but they were nowhere near victory.

They still hadn't found the plague factory producing the Godplague.

Creek—

The Tyranid leader swallowed a hunk of rotting flesh before delivering its nervous report:

"Tyranid scouts have found five corrupted machines, and seventeen plague outposts. We've recovered many plague materials…

But the corruption factory you seek has not been located, Hive Master."

Eden's brows knit in frustration, sparks and smoke spilling from his mouth and nose.

"This won't do. If the Godplague is released, we'll have no choice but to retreat…"

He could already feel it—the corruption here was growing more potent and deadly by the day.

That meant the final phase of the Godplague was nearly complete.

No matter how many victories he and the Regent won on this world, if they didn't destroy the factory, it wouldn't matter.

If the Godplague was completed and released…

He, the Regent, and all their armies would have to flee immediately.

Any delay would mean annihilation on Vyst.

All it would take was one vial of the Godplague—released by that giant flapping insect—and every life on the planet would be snuffed out.

Even if he and the Regent could survive it, their elite forces would be utterly wiped out.

And that was a price they could not afford.

But they couldn't afford to sit idle and let the enemy get their hands on such a heaven-defying plague weapon.

That would be the equivalent of a super nuke from the previous life—a table-flipping weapon of mass extinction.

Unfortunately, they didn't have time to thoroughly comb the planet inch by inch—by then the "vegetables would already be cold."

Suddenly, Eden received the latest analysis from the War Council's think tank. The report showed that the number of Nurgle troops who had landed on the planet far exceeded what their scouts had detected.

But after arriving, those large numbers of Nurgle forces simply vanished.

This strongly indicated the existence of hidden spaces on the planet.

The surface forces were just a smokescreen. The real objective—the plague factory—was likely hidden within those concealed zones.

Fortunately, the think tank had used the deployment trajectories and battle records to mark out several probable areas for priority investigation.

"Hidden space?" Eden muttered, frowning at the document.

"But what if that giant fluttering bug preempted my preemption? What if it wants us to concentrate on those hidden spaces while the actual plague factory is out in the open?"

"If that's the case, wouldn't we be walking right into their trap…"

As the leader, Eden had to make decisions that could affect countless lives. He couldn't dodge responsibility—there was no one above him anymore.

He was the final authority.

He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and made the call.

"Then we gamble."

He ordered to dispatch all Tyranid reconnaissance units to the marked zones and have the rest of the army shift their formations accordingly—ready to launch an assault at any moment.

Thankfully, he was right.

Just two days later, the recon units discovered hidden spatial pockets.

A network of corrupted machines had superimposed portions of the planet with segments of the Warp, creating several isolated, warped zones.

Nurgle's legions were guarding them.

With the help of Tyranid scouts, the psykers swiftly locked onto the corrupted nexus—and located the long-sought plague factory.

This exhilarating news was quickly relayed back.

BOOM—!

Flames erupted.

Eden stepped out of the ruined chapel, summoning his Chaos and Tyranid armies to prepare for the coming battle.

He wasn't the only one. The Lord Regent had also mobilized his forces, converging on the plague factory from multiple directions.

The Nurgle army, realizing the exposure, began flooding toward the site—reinforcements and resistance came in tandem, and constant artillery turned the planetary crust into hellfire.

Occasional flashes from Sanctified Ash Bombs lit up the chaos.

The battle had reached its most intense phase.

Eden floated above the battlefield, his body ablaze with warp fire as he looked down at his legions.

"Go, my warriors—destroy that plague factory. Slaughter every living thing that dares to stand in your way!"

The ground quaked. Jet-black burrow-serpents burst forth, roaring skyward. The Blackstone's radiation disrupted nearby psykers.

The serpent had grown again, having devoured even more Nurgle daemons.

This beast was a key weapon Eden had cultivated specifically to destroy the Godplague.

If everything went well, he might even be able to seize the Plague Lord's forbidden gift—the weapon itself.

To Eden, the Godplague was too dangerous to be left in anyone else's hands.

Such a weapon needed to be under his control.

Of course, this was only a secondary plan—a gamble.

If it failed, he would simply drop several oversized Sanctified Ash Bombs into the Great Cauldron of Nurgle, destroying the plague fluid inside…

...

Hidden Space

Ku'gath's Plague Factory

Upon a blackened, rotting hill stood a massive, twisted, and decaying hospital.

Every living thing had already perished—transformed into black sludge. Mutant aberrations roamed freely in place of former species.

Midges with shriveled human faces hummed grotesque lullabies. Capelay fish, covered in writhing tentacles, scurried across the ground.

The air around the hospital shimmered with tens of thousands of oily flames, and the hillside was packed with daemons.

Faintly, joyful songs echoed from inside.

"STOP THAT SINGING!"

Ku'gath was irritable. He roared at the Plague Spirits, "Get the rest of the ingredients in there! More filth-water, more blood clots—more rot and germs!"

He grimaced in frustration. The enemy had discovered their location. If they didn't hurry, everything would go up in smoke.

In the center of the hospital stood the Grand Cauldron of Nurgle—four to five meters tall, wide enough to drop in a transport vehicle.

That was just the physical dimension.

In truth, the cauldron had already been filled with enough plague material to equal the mass of an entire planet.

It contained Ku'gath's millennia-old collections, plus all the recent harvests gathered by Nurgle's daemons.

The First Favored One, bathing in the plague vapors bubbling from the cauldron, had grown enormous—like a mountain of disease.

Pus streamed down his greasy, blubberous form like trickling brooks.

Plague Spirits flapped tattered fans. Damp firewood sputtered beneath the cauldron, and as the broth bubbled violently, deathly green smoke curled upward.

The cauldron glowed—drawing corruption from a network built by Death Lords.

A dense green mist wafted through the air.

GURK!

A careless Plague Spirit inhaled the fog and instantly clutched its throat, stumbling back.

Its face turned dark green and ballooned—then it keeled over, dead.

COUGH COUGH COUGH!

Ku'gath stirred the broth, hacking violently as he coughed up rotten blood. "Ah… what a glorious toxin…"

Even he could barely endure it.

In three hours, the brewing process for the Godplague would be complete. All that remained was to add the blood of a Primarch.

Then the plague that would send the galaxy screaming would be born.

The Godplague would corrode both flesh and soul from within—nothing could resist it.

It didn't just kill—it annihilated. It unmade the very essence of its victims, feeding soul-rot spores that would birth even deadlier strains.

Even in its incomplete form, the Godplague was so toxic it had already severely injured Ku'gath.

Staggering back a few steps to avoid the fumes, he muttered, "Quick—I need the suit!"

Buzzing plagueflies soon delivered a massive, ugly garment.

It was a protective suit made from human skin—stitched together in an obscene patchwork that looked like a flattened person.

With the help of a Plaguebearer, Ku'gath donned the suit, its hood swaying behind him.

He pulled it over his antlers and tightened the sinew bindings.

Now, his bloated body was wrapped in greasy flesh-leather. Lenses shielded his eyes, a long beak covered his nose, and his mouth was packed with foul herbs.

All necessary safeguards.

He cursed as he fumbled with the goggles. "Damn blurry glass! And you worthless little imps—shut it!

"The Godplague is almost done! If you keep yapping, you'll ruin the brew!"

At last, even the noisiest mites and most temperamental Plaguebearers fell silent.

Ku'gath didn't immediately return to the cauldron. Instead, he tiptoed over to a pile of rusted cabinets—his ingredient stash.

He reached into a gooey nest of cotton and retrieved two tiny vials.

They held the blood of two Primarchs.

"Behold, the final ingredient. In three hours, thirty-three minutes, and thirty-three seconds, they'll be ready to pour in…"

He carefully inspected the bottles, then tucked them back into the cotton, patting them gently—as if afraid they might sprout legs and run.

He then tiptoed back to the cauldron, crouching to fan the flames beneath.

He didn't trust any of the clumsy assistants with the final steps. Now that they had all retreated due to the fumes, he had to finish it himself.

Green smoke filled the air.

In that toxic fog, his hunched form—wrapped in a suit of human skin—looked absurdly comical.

COUGH COUGH COUGH!

Ku'gath broke into another fit, grumbling, "Idiots! You didn't even tie the sinews properly!"

He was still fumbling with the straps when he heard the distant boom of artillery.

The damn Imperials had begun their assault.

(End of Chapter)

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