"First Officer, how far are we from contact?"
Imperial Navy Admiral Quaron stood on the magnificent bridge of his flagship. His eyes were locked on the blinking red dot on the tactical holographic projection as he asked in a deep voice.
"Reporting, Admiral. Auspex arrays show we are thirty thousand standard distance units from the target, the Claw of Pestilence. Estimated time to effective firing range is twenty minutes," the First Officer quickly responded, a hint of poorly concealed tension in his voice.
Quaron nodded slightly without saying anything more, though his white-gloved hand subconsciously tightened its grip on the edge of the command console.
Recently, the situation in the Segmentum Obscurus had grown increasingly precarious. The Eye of Terror was like a festering wound, continuously spewing malicious pus outward—large numbers of Space Hulks were emerging without warning from Warp storms, their headings pointed with abnormal precision toward several of the Imperium's strategic strongholds.
Amid this surge, the Claw of Pestilence, a Murder-class Cruiser belonging to the "Plague Fleet," was particularly vile. Since its appearance in the Uswold Sector, the originally secure Imperial Navy defense line had begun rotting like gangrene. Widespread plagues broke out among the crews of voidships, dropping morale and severely depleting combat capability.
To stem the spread of this corruption, Quaron was forced to assemble his fleet and sail out of port, venturing deep into this contagion-filled expanse in an attempt to hunt down that cursed cruiser.
Theoretically, surrounding and destroying a single lone cruiser with the firepower of an entire Imperial Fleet should have been a straightforward victory. But in this dark 41st Millennium, the term "Plague Fleet" often carried a special significance—it usually referred specifically to forces commanded personally by Typhus, First Captain of the Death Guard and the Traveler.
Even if only one warship appeared, the fact that it could trigger a plague wave on such a scale was itself an omen of grave danger. This was an outright military gamble; a single misstep could turn the entire fleet into nourishment for Nurgle's Garden.
Quaron took a deep breath, trying to calm the anxiety within him. However, when his thoughts touched upon the special group of passengers aboard the fleet, his tense nerves relaxed slightly.
That was the Helldiver Legion.
This mortal regiment, whose entire history spanned less than a thousand years, had already made a massive name for itself across the galaxy. Known for their almost fanatical "death-worshipping" faith and unbelievable tenacity, they fought to the absolute death in the harshest environments whether facing Orks or Tyranids.
Intelligence even indicated that in the recently concluded Badab War, this group of mortals had managed to use the flesh and blood of just a few thousand men to stubbornly hold off a boarding raid by an entire company of Chaos Space Marine Terminators.
When Quaron first heard that battle report, his initial reaction was pure absurdity. How could mere mortals equipped with lasguns and flak armor hold back the advance of Tactical Dreadnought Armor? He could not envision such a battlefield scene no matter how hard he tried.
Yet that battle report had been personally confirmed by the Executioners Chapter.
Making the Sons of Dorn lie? You might as well say the Great Enemy of Chaos had collectively slit their own throats to ascend to heaven.
Since those stubborn Space Marines acknowledged the achievements of the Helldivers , it meant this unit truly possessed some terrifying combat prowess that turned the impossible into miracles.
"Having a force like this in our battle order truly gives peace of mind," Quaron thought to himself.
He had already prepared for the worst. If this operation unfortunately ran into Typhus's main fleet, he would throw the Helldivers to the front.
Let them carry out boarding and counter-boarding operations. In that narrow meat grinder, those lunatics could definitely stall the enemy long enough for the main fleet to successfully execute an escape.
This was not Quaron being heartless or planning to betray allies and flee before the battle even started.
In fact, this was a tactical proposal that the commander of the Helldivers had actively presented to him upon boarding. Quaron still remembered the expression on that young mortal commander's face as he patted his chest and declared: "If we encounter a formidable enemy we can't handle, send us in. Don't worry about whether we live or die—you retreat first."
Even Quaron, accustomed to life and death, was left entirely stunned at the time, unable to process it for a good long while.
As the fleet advanced, the deep, cold void was gradually encroached upon by a sickening hue. The starlight dimmed, replaced by an endless expanse of yellow-green mist. Floating in the universe like massive globs of purulent phlegm, they engulfed the entire battlefleet.
"Auspex readings are corrupted! My Lord, we're losing target lock!"
The Tech-Priest at the console let out an alarmed binary warble. The clear signal on the screen turned into a chaotic mess of static, as if something was gnawing away at the warship's electronic senses.
Then, something even worse occurred.
A sweet, rot-filled stench managed to penetrate the thickest armor and the filtration systems of the void shields, wafting through the bridge. It was the breath of death—the plague flowers blooming in Nurgle's Garden.
"Cough—cough, cough!"
Admiral Quaron clapped a hand over his mouth, coughing violently. When he opened his white-gloved palm, he was alarmed to find a trace of dark red blood. It wasn't just him; crew members all around began collapsing in waves. Some vomited uncontrollably, while others rapidly developed black spots on their skin. The once orderly bridge plunged into a state of sickly panic in an instant.
"This is bad—"
Quaron forced down the surging nausea in his chest, his gaze turning sharp. They hadn't even spotted the enemy ship yet, and merely the environmental aura it released had dealt them such a blow.
"Immediately—cough, immediately conduct a headcount! See how many people retain combat capability! Bring the medical decks to full capacity and raise isolation protocols to the highest level! I fear we are about to face an unprecedentedly hard battle."
The order spread across the fleet via vox broadcast. After ten grueling minutes, a casualty and readiness report was delivered to Quaron's hand.
Looking at the numbers, Quaron quickly calculated in his mind. Although a large number of auxiliary personnel and lower-deck laborers had fallen, the non-commissioned officers and technical personnel in critical positions were mostly holding on. It was barely enough to maintain the fleet's navigation, shields, and main battery volleys.
He breathed a slight sigh of relief, then lowered his gaze. His eyebrows raised, displaying a look of surprise.
A special note was attached to the end of the report: The Helldiver Legion—all members show stable physiological signs, with the worst case being nothing more than a severe cold.
"Strange. Even the void shields couldn't block this plague. How are the Helldivers basically unaffected?" Quaron couldn't help asking. Such a biological anomaly went far beyond his understanding.
The First Officer was pale, clutching an Aquila emblem tightly in his hand as he whispered a guess: "My Lord, perhaps it is due to their fanatical faith. Look, those among the fleet crew who are most devout to the God-Emperor and pray most diligently every day are also relatively less affected by the plague. And those Helldivers—their fanaticism is famous."
Hearing this, Quaron nodded thoughtfully.
Indeed, when facing the horrors of the Warp, steadfast faith was often more effective than ceramite armor. Since these mortals were willing to die for the Emperor without hesitation—and even took joy in it—perhaps that extreme mental strength was precisely the bane of Nurgle's rotting plague.
"Very likely." Half of the worry in Quaron's heart lifted. "It seems that in this engagement, they might truly play a massive role—pass my command: Have the Helldivers stand ready. The moment we make contact with the enemy, deploy them immediately!"