Boom—

A strange sorcerous trap detonated instantly, unleashing a cloud of virulent miasma that engulfed Guilliman.

His vision and perception were instantly stripped away, and his Armor of Fate was cloaked in a layer of corrosive black mycelium.

Guilliman swung the Emperor's Sword, burning away the fog, but the massive scythe named Silence was already slicing toward him. He could only raise his blade in haste to block.

The force of the blow knocked him off balance.

Mortarion seized the opportunity, gripping the massive scythe and shifting his angle for a follow-up strike. The Regent of the Imperium's breastplate was gouged by a grotesque, toxic gash.

Even the Armor of Fate momentarily failed under this venom.

Mortarion's moth-like wings flared wide, and his strikes came faster, more viciously, each one oozing with different strains of plague, stirring the fabric of the Warp itself.

The surrounding ground festered, eaten away by corruption, riddled with explosive fungal overgrowth.

He sneered, "Even with that blade your father gave you, you are nothing compared to me.

I am the supreme creation of both reality and the Warp. You are a remnant of a bygone era, a tool of a dying god."

"Traitor… You have no honor!"

Guilliman barely held his stance, his body covered in vile sorceries and toxins, unable to even catch a breath.

"You're right," the Lord of Death said, and then he used sorcery to detonate the plague toxins that had soaked Guilliman's armor, conjuring phantom thorns that pierced into the Primarch's flesh, releasing neurotoxins.

With a crushing blow, he knocked Guilliman to the ground. "You've lost. You never had the right to challenge me."

The Corruption Network had granted Mortarion immense power—warp energy harvested from the decaying souls of countless humans.

There was no way Guilliman's mortal body could match it.

The Primarch fell, tangled in a writhing mass of corrupted thorns. His nerves burned with pain, convulsions overtook him. Blood and rot seeped from his mouth and nose, and even the Emperor's Sword nearly slipped from his grasp.

The Primarch had fallen.

"My lord!"

The Ultramarines cried out in horror as they witnessed their gene-father collapse. They charged forward to rescue him—only to be halted by a fortified wall of Death Guard.

Fierce battles erupted on every front.

"Hold! Focus on your own fights!"

Felix, body tense, forced the words through clenched teeth. "The Primarch is not defeated. He can still fight!"

As the Lord Commander's adjutant, Felix knew better than most. Even if they reached Guilliman, they could do little but die in vain.

He had fought beside the Primarch through countless wars—from the pilgrimage to Terra, to the Indomitus Crusade, and now the Plague War.

Each battle had been a desperate ordeal.

And Guilliman? He always fell. And he always got back up.

Felix had become numb to it.

If Eden were here, he'd probably shout something like "The Lord Commander is just warming up!"

Falling over? Totally normal. Not falling over would be surprising.

But gradually, worry crept into Felix's heart.

This time was different. The Primarch wasn't rising.

The pain had dug deeper.

DONG DONG DONG—

A strange chime echoed from within the depths of Iax, sending tremors through every loyalist's soul. A great and terrible omen loomed.

The corruption inside the planet surged in intensity.

It heralded the completion of the Godplague.

Mortarion's excitement was uncontainable. After ten millennia, his masterpiece was finally coming to fruition!

"Don't bother resisting. You're finished," he hissed, stepping on Guilliman's chest and casting another malevolent hex. "This pain? It's only the beginning.

You'll watch as everything you cherish succumbs to glorious rot."

He could've killed Guilliman outright—but that would be wasteful. No, the Primarch of Ultramar, the Regent of the Imperium, had to perish in the proper way: consumed by the Godplague.

Only then could the Corruption Network reach full power and drag Ultramar into the abyss.

Mortarion contacted Ku'gath and dispatched a corrupted plague fly to retrieve the Godplague.

He gave Guilliman a cruel stomp. "Be patient, brother. The gift I've prepared is almost here.

Your soul, Ultramar, and the tens of trillions of humans within—it will all belong to Grandfather Nurgle."

"I... won't allow it..."

Guilliman's eyes were bloodshot as he fought to tear away the unnatural mycelium. But despair was creeping in.

And then—

He saw fear in the Lord of Death's eyes.

Mortarion had just received word that the Godplague had been completely destroyed.

At the apex of triumph, he broke.

"No! My Godplague... Ku'gath! You must get it back!"

Thousands of years of planning—ruined at the final moment.

"Mortarion! You've lost!"

Realization lit Guilliman's mind like a flare. With a roar, he tore the fungus from his limbs. The Hand of Dominion roared, firing alchemical shrapnel that burst against the Daemon Primarch's body, forcing him to shield his face.

That brief opening was all the Regent needed.

Flames from the Emperor's Sword seared through the clinging rot. Guilliman broke free and put distance between them, no longer fighting from his back foot.

Mortarion blinked away the burn, seething. "Fool! I'll kill you and grind you beneath my heel again!"

The Godplague and the artifact were gone. The only thing left to salvage was a broken corpse.

If not, even Grandfather Nurgle's patience might run out.

But then Mortarion froze.

Not far away, Guilliman uncorked a vial and drank deeply.

The plague vanished from his veins.

Still unsatisfied, he downed another elixir, healing body and mind. All the damage he had suffered moments ago—gone.

"You've lost your window," Guilliman declared.

The Purifier's Elixir and Universal Panacea flowed through him, restoring him to peak condition. Even his old wounds felt healed.

A gift from his dear brother, the Savior.

And not just that—the Hand of Dominion was now loaded with a fresh batch of specialized ammunition.

Last time, he had been caught off guard by Mortarion's traps. Not this time.

He wouldn't lose again.

"If I could knock you down once, I can do it again."

Mortarion roared, swinging his scythe and unleashing a foul storm of plague-bearing flies.

This was one of his vilest plagues—enough to melt entire regiments.

The air turned black and greasy. Alarms lit up Guilliman's visor.

There was nowhere to dodge. Even the Armor of Fate's energy fields wouldn't hold against this infection.

But Guilliman didn't move.

He simply raised the Hand of Dominion.

BOOM—

A micro Sanctified Ash Bomb exploded midair. The light it released vaporized the entire swarm of flies in an instant.

Ash rained down. The corruption between them vanished, replaced with the aroma of burning incense.

Mortarion's pupils narrowed.

He rammed Silence into the ground, pulling in more warp energy. "THIS is a real corruption spell! DIE!"

His roar echoed through the warp-warped battlefield.

But Guilliman simply fired another sanctified round.

The Daemon sorcery disintegrated, the holy light scorching Mortarion's pale, decayed skin.

"How?! You also possess such accursed weapons?!"

Mortarion was stunned. His prized powers seemed... ineffective.

Then came the drizzle—sacred, cleansing rain falling onto his shoulders.

It wasn't water—it was the Hand of Dominion's chemical sprayer, unleashing a mist of purifying agents that melted the warp-taint from his very flesh.

Even the Nurgling spirits orbiting him were dissolved with high-pitched screams.

No... I'm being countered!

His plagues evaporated before his eyes. The Lord of Death trembled, his strength visibly fading.

Before he could regain his bearings—

SLASH!

A radiant arc of sword light cut through the air.

Mortarion dodged—but only just—and caught a fist to the face.

He was sent flying into the mud, stripped of his former arrogance.

As he staggered upright and tried to conjure more sorcery—

BAM! A micro holy grenade detonated against his face.

It was like he'd been slapped by the Father Himself.

Mortarion collapsed again, face blackened, his hood scorched to ash.

Clutching Silence, he screamed, "Guilliman! Stop using those disgusting tricks!"

"You liked your witchery. Consider this payback."

Guilliman sneered, raining purifiers and sanctified shells upon him.

Blow after blow, the holy energy pounded the Daemon Primarch's form. And in the brief lulls, the Lord Commander sipped more healing elixirs.

"I—it's not fair…" Mortarion croaked, his moth-wings tattered, his voice barely a whisper.

"You fight without honor…"

He seemed to have forgotten—those were the exact same words Guilliman had used to condemn him.

And in the end, sorcery is best answered with sorcery.

Guilliman no longer cared for honor. His body trembled with excitement—this was the most exhilarating battle he had ever fought.

So this was what his brother Eden called a "pay-to-win warrior"—complete counters, overwhelming suppression, and firepower saturation. It felt... glorious!

But soon, a touch of bitterness crept in. Why hadn't he had such weapons before?

All his past suffering had been for nothing. If he'd had access to holy weapons before, all those cheap curses and ambushes could've been resolved with a single shot.

So much for "honorable duels" and "brave charges." Firepower supremacy was the true way.

First, bomb the battlefield—saturate it with cleansing blasts—then execute survivors. That was the winning formula.

A realization dawned upon Guilliman, as though a new door to warfare had opened before him.

He made a silent vow to request even more of these weapons from Brother Eden after the campaign. This was what true battle should feel like!

When the Regent of the Imperium sliced off Mortarion's arm—

The Lord of Death turned tail and fled into the Warp like a beaten dog, not even bothering to retrieve his precious artifacts or the scythe Silence.

He was terrified. He knew—if this continued—

He would be consigned to eternal death by the combined might of the Emperor's Sword and the sanctified ash grenades.

The Death Guard were stunned when their gene-father fled without them. They fell into disarray and were slaughtered in greater numbers.

Soon after, they too scattered and fled.

As was customary after each battle, the Champion Apothecaries of the Ultramarines charged in with stretchers.

Ready to rush the Primarch to the medicae bay.

"I'm fine. I can still fight,"

Guilliman replied, firm of voice and face, refusing all treatment.

He truly was fine—if anything, he may have gone a bit overboard on the elixirs.

Soon after, the Lord Regent led his forces toward another region where a Great Unclean One had been reported. He blanketed the area with holy bombardments.

"Now this… this is war."

Guilliman murmured, gazing at the corpse of the defeated daemon.

Though he couldn't help but feel a little sting of regret—he had burned through most of his high-tier reserves.

"But in a battle of this scale, using more resources is worth it."

He comforted himself, without realizing his values had warped completely—drifting toward saturation bombing and total firepower solutions.

In fact, he was beginning to seem even more radical than the Savior himself.

The Regent of the Imperium shall fall no more!

With Mortarion's retreat, Ku'gath too was heavily wounded and forced to flee under the onslaught of the Terror Legion. Nurgle's forces on Iax began a mass withdrawal.

Even the plague fleets in orbit began to break formation and exit the system at full speed.

A chain reaction rippled outward—Nurgle's armies across Ultramar began retreating toward the Scourge Stars.

Their grand undertaking had been crushed. Without momentum, they risked being annihilated if they stayed.

On the battlefields of Iax—

The warriors roared in triumph. They had secured a decisive victory!

Guilliman watched the celebration, a rare breath of relief escaping his lips.

Together with his brother, they had routed the legions of Nurgle and shattered their schemes. Ultramar was safe once more.

But the thought of the Godplague lingered in his mind.

Who had destroyed it? Eden hadn't seemed involved in the operations inside the hidden realm…

"Emperor…"

Suddenly, the battlefield's psykers turned their eyes skyward, expressions frozen in dread.

They sensed it—an accumulation of corruption, an unknowable, malevolent gaze cast upon the world from beyond.

Even Guilliman and the soldiers felt it. Their bodies recoiled instinctively.

It was the gaze of a Chaos God.

Everyone shared a single thought—something terrifying was about to descend!

Within the Hidden Chaos Realm

The dark plasma furnaces blazed furiously.

The flames made the Great Cauldron of Nurgle boil more violently. The toxic fumes that rose from it gnawed at even the Blackstone defenses.

"It's almost done…"

Eden muttered, standing far from the cauldron, his demonic form layered with multiple protective suits.

He was excited.

So far, everything had gone unexpectedly smoothly. No enemies had shown up to sabotage him.

According to the latest intel, Guilliman had already defeated Mortarion and driven him off-world. The enemy was in full retreat.

Now, no one could interfere with the forging of the Godplague.

Eden made no noise, careful not to disturb the final stages.

Nearby, a group of Black-Oil Priests burned incense and chanted binary prayers, invoking the blessings of the Omnissiah.

Eden briefly considered reminding them that the Machine God probably had nothing to do with brewing plagues… but then again, who else could they pray to?

Certainly not Nurgle, right?

Then, he caught a familiar name woven into their prayers—Diablo.

Ah, so they were asking him for blessings now.

Fair enough. At least these priests from the Savior's domain weren't praying to the Emperor—that would've been awkward.

Near the cauldron—

"All right. Just a bit longer. This is the most dangerous part."

The Panacea-Magos was on high alert, mechanical tendrils gently lifting a container of gene-samples—blood from twelve Primarchs, and trace essence of the Emperor himself.

Slowly, he poured the blood into the bubbling, toxic brew.

The crimson liquid vanished beneath the green glow—no obvious reaction.

But he knew—the catalyst had taken effect. The transformation was brewing.

The Panacea-Magos severed the now-corroded tendrils and stepped back, waiting.

He was confident—this new plague would surpass anything Ku'gath had ever dreamed of.

The final stage had begun.

The condensed concoction boiled violently, bubbles rising and bursting with putrid force. The cauldron shook, spewing noxious clouds.

Fly-runes etched into the iron glowed under the firelight. A supernatural wind surrounded the cauldron, forming a vortex that rose into the sky.

The vortex twisted reality itself, and from beyond, something was being drawn in. Something was watching.

"Oh crap… is that… Grandfather Nurgle?"

Eden felt the grotesque, familiar pressure and broke into a cold sweat. "This is still realspace, right? He shouldn't be able to break in…"

Within the swirling storm, a massive, rotted eyelid opened. A yellow eye gleamed with excitement as it peered downward.

Nurgle, resting within the Black House, had sensed the birth of a perfect plague—and followed the trace of his stolen artifact to this point.

He was ecstatic at first. This plague was even better than Ku'gath's previous attempts. He was already pondering how to reward his favored child.

But then—

Something didn't add up.

There was no Ku'gath. The scene was unfamiliar.

The one brewing the plague was some kind of techno-heretic priest.

And… this heretek's skill in rotcrafting rivaled that of Ku'gath?!

"What a splendid child. Perhaps I should recruit them…"

Nurgle mused briefly.

Then he paused—and noticed his connection to the artifact had weakened. It felt… stolen.

A god's senses spanned all; in an instant, the flies informed him of everything.

"My Godplague… my artifact… stolen?!"

Fury erupted.

His grand project—his all-in effort—gone. A catastrophic loss.

His already bloodshot gaze burned brighter, locking onto the culprit—a being called the Dark Prince.

"YOU… a lowly demon, dare to desecrate my holy relic?!"

"Honored Plague Lord, yes, that was indeed me," Eden replied calmly, standing beneath the cosmic pressure, not a trace of fear on his face.

He even made sure to give Diablo a little advertising shout-out.

He had already stolen the cauldron—what was there to fear now? Nurgle couldn't leap into realspace to exact revenge.

And besides, he'd already pissed off the Goddess of Life. May as well go all-in.

This was too good a PR moment to waste. The emotional energy and faith gains were incalculable.

This was the moment when Diablo and the Dark Prince would rise from minor deities to headline acts.

Eden tapped into Diablo's power through the Black Sun's Dark Aspect and projected a vision into the Warp—a livestream, basically.

Immediately, all manner of daemonic entities took notice, watching intently.

After all, this was Grandfather Nurgle.

He appeared to be confronting a newly risen powerhouse—the Dark Prince.

Everyone held their breath, expecting the upstart to be annihilated in the wrath of a Chaos God.

But Eden?

He stared right back into that massive, oozing eyeball—and charged forward.

And while doing so, he narrated to his "audience":

"Yes, Plague Lord, I stole your relic cauldron. Got a problem with that? Come and fight me!"

The Warp erupted in stunned silence.

Shock! Diablo's Chosen, the Dark Prince, openly challenges the Plague Lord!

(End of Chapter)

[Check Out My Patreon For +20 Extra Chapters On All My Fanfics!!][[email protected]/zaelum]

[+500 Power Stones = +1 Extra Chapter]

[Thank You For Your Support!]