Chapter 169: Drinks Soup!
Francis turned his head to regard Isha, and the flesh armor that enveloped him gradually split apart, revealing his true self beneath.
Isha's eyes brightened noticeably, and her smile held the warmth of a sacred forest elf.
"Little one, you are quite fair," she whispered, her voice like a breeze moving through new leaves, like clean water finding parched earth.
"What... what are you doing?" Francis looked up, confusion still plain in his expression.
Isha did not answer. Instead, she reached out one fair hand to rest gently on his shoulder and rose slightly onto her toes, her form moving with natural grace. Then she lowered her head, and her lips...soft and unhurried, pressed lightly against his forehead.
The contact was like spring rain. Warmth spread from the point of contact throughout Francis's body, a power gentle but undeniable, revitalizing his very essence. In his consciousness, he glimpsed countless new seeds sprouting, and felt the original force of life itself flowing through him.
For a moment, the entire Garden of Nurgle thrummed with vitality. Even the corrupted soil split to reveal fresh green shoots, defiant in their emergence.
"This is a blessing," Isha said softly, her tone carrying profound tranquility. "For your indomitable will and your peculiar persistence. I do not approve of your methods, yet life should not reject life."
Francis touched his forehead and grinned widely. "Hehe, you're actually pretty decent. If I get the chance, I'll cook for you myself. Proper meal, not this swill."
Isha shook her head in exasperation. She had already granted him the power to save his brother, and still, he was not satisfied.
But where there was light, darkness followed.
Nurgle's massive frame convulsed, and more foul pus wept from his festering sores.
"Francis, you belong to me now!" His roar shook the foundations of reality itself.
"Huh?" Francis blinked, genuinely bewildered. Why was the old bastard suddenly so angry?
He didn't have time to wonder. A colossal hand, imbued with the full weight of corrupting power, reached for him. He shoved Isha aside and bolted, still clutching his spoon.
"My ass belongs to me, you old f**k!" he bellowed, which made no sense whatsoever, but he was committed to the principle.
"Old man! Someday I'm coming back with disinfectant and cleaning this place top to bottom! This is a sickness, it needs treatment!"
Countless Nurgle Daemons surged toward him, their roars rattling the Garden: "For Father Nurgle! For Nurgle!"
The moment they drew close enough to see his face clearly, they stopped. Fear rippled through their ranks. They shrieked and scattered.
"Ah! What is that?"
"I'm not clean anymore! Ah!"
"What in all the Warp is that thing?"
Francis was mildly offended. "What's so ugly about this? It's always looked like this! Don't be rude!"
The newly arrived Nurgle Daemons took one look and transformed into Chaos Spawn on the spot.
Nurgle stared in silence.
What drove him to genuine madness was what happened next. As Francis ran, he dropped Chaos Spawn continuously, not from his grasp, but from his very being, eggs scattered in his wake.
The moment they struck the ground, they hatched into grotesque crawling things that scuttled everywhere, gnawing at everything indiscriminately: rotten trees, Nurgle Daemons attempting to block them, all became sustenance for this undifferentiated swarm.
"Damn it! Where are these eggs coming from?" A massive Nurgle Daemon, surrounded by hundreds of the creatures, felt its body hollowed out in seconds. Its screams were the screams of genuine horror.
Other Nurgle Daemons descended into chaos, attempting to exterminate the swarm, but the number of crawling things was simply too vast.
Nurgle's fists tightened. He seized Francis directly, but to his shock, the Chaos Spawn multiplied even faster. Hundreds, thousands of them poured forth like a tide, and the screams of Nurgle Daemons echoed endlessly through the Garden.
"Don't bite me!"
"It's getting in! Everywhere! Ah ah ah ah!"
"How do they, what are they doing?!"
Nurgle turned his gaze from the chaos to Francis, who was still generating Chaos Spawn with alarming regularity.
"Uh... surprise?" Francis offered weakly.
Nurgle stared in silence.
In one sudden motion, he tried to force Francis into the corrupted soup pot.
Just as the boy was about to be submerged, a Tzeentch Daemon, feathers still pristine, floated up from the brew and mumbled, "This too serves the plan."
"Hold on," Francis said. "Is this soup even real food?"
At that precise moment, a brilliant purplish-blue light tore through the putrid mist. Slaanesh materialized, accompanied by a seductive, manic laugh.
"He is mine! Unhand him! He can only belong to me!"
Nurgle obediently released his grip, and Francis plummeted directly into the corrupted soup pot.
Slaanesh "..."
"You told me to let go," Nurgle said flatly.
Slaanesh "..."
Thick green liquid erupted outward. With a tremendous splash, Francis vanished into the pot. Nurgle raised one massive hand, and green putrid energy coalesced into a torrent that rushed straight toward Slaanesh.
Slaanesh, however, merely waved one hand. Countless purplish-blue psychic blades materialized in the air, shimmering with lethal potential.
As Francis sank into the pot, foul soup rushed into his mouth. His mind blanked instantly.
When consciousness returned, he was lying on a wooden bed. A faint floral scent drifted to his senses, and a gentle voice called to him.
"Dalang, wake up and drink your soup."
Francis's eyes snapped open to find a stunningly beautiful face. A woman in a simple, elegant gown held a steaming bowl of soup, her voice soft with playful reproach. "Dermious, the soup will grow cold. Drink while it's hot."
"Who are you?" Francis shrieked.
The woman's face crumpled. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Francis, you don't recognize me? I am Jen."
"Ah, Jen. Your husband is unwell today. I fear we won't be selling steamed buns." Francis's expression grew pained. Without husband, so much burden fell to her. So much.
"Drink the soup first," Jen urged softly. "We can discuss everything else afterward."
Francis hesitated. As he reached for the bowl, an alarm shrieked through his mind. Pain lanced through his skull. He clutched his head and screamed.
"No! I'm not Dermious! I—I am!"
"No! You are my Husband! Are you saying you don't want me?" Jen suddenly embraced him, and he felt something soft press against him.
But hunger gnawed at his consciousness, amplifying the pain, and whispers crowded his mind, countless voices.
"Thank you!"
"HE'S AWAKE!"
"A miraculous recovery! Primarch, you are alive!"
Tall Astartes stood everywhere, shouting without cease that he had saved them.
"Get away from me! I'm not your husband! I am—I am!" Francis clutched his head until that gentle voice broke through the chaos.
"Francis, you will use life to save life."
The words hit like a hammer. His mind cleared instantly. Memory flooded back. He roared, "I am Francis! Lord of the Soul Drinkers! Eleventh Son of the Imperium!"
Everything shattered.
The world distorted violently. Beautiful Jen transformed into a mass of putrid flesh in an instant.
She was Nurgle.
The implications struck him with full force. That soft warmth he'd felt, what exactly had that been? The thought exploded across his consciousness, and Francis's mind shattered with it.
Seconds later, bubbles burst from the surface of the soup pot. Francis's head erupted from the liquid, gasping and roaring.
"Ugh! You're absolutely vile! And you don't even salt your soup! It's disgusting!"
Chaos Spawn surged upward like a tide, forcing Francis out of the pot. Countless more spilled from its depths. The entire Garden of Nurgle descended into chaos, a sticky, writhing mess.
Nurgle Daemons swung rusty weapons, their roars shaking the Garden as they fought to push back the Slaanesh Daemons falling from above.
The followers of excess danced in bizarre, elegant patterns, engaging in vicious melee with whips and radiant blades.
In the center of the battlefield, Chaos Spawn became the true chaos. They bounced and leaped across the combat zone, gnawing indiscriminately at everything, targeting particularly sensitive anatomies with distressing efficiency.
Some Nurgle Daemons lost their rotten buttocks to teeth and claws. Some Slaanesh Daemons wailed uncontrollably as their long tails were severed.
...
Above the Calixis Sector, Sanguinius swept his flaming spear through the twisted abominations emerging from the depths. They fell like dust before divine radiance, their death-wails echoing across the void.
Then it struck him, a sharp, sudden pang in his chest. Images flashed before his vision: Francis, tormented by an entity within the Warp itself.
"No one will touch him." The words emerged as barely contained fury. "Accursed Chaos! I will end all of you!"
Sanguinius had already lost brothers to the Warp's cruelty. He would not lose another. Especially not Francis, innocent, determined, somehow pure despite everything.
His wings spread wide, emitting a radiance so intense it seemed the void itself bent away from him.
His voice was low, dangerous: "These vile things have dragged him into damnation itself. Don't be afraid, Francis. Your brother is coming."
His entire being ignited.
The asteroid behind him, encircled by ribbon-like eyes beyond counting, merged with his form. In that moment, his aura could no longer be concealed. It blazed forth, unbound.
The explosion of golden light tore through the Warp's barrier itself. His wrath flowed like a tidal wave, golden streams of light cutting through the storm, driving toward the Garden of Nurgle.
Nurgle Daemons shrieked in primal terror, sensing the angel's judgment descending upon them.
"Release him! If you dare, face me! Francis, do not fear! Your brother has arrived!"
The golden star fell toward the Garden like divine vengeance made manifest.
[End of Chapter]
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