As Septicus fell, his thoughts drifted back to the past—to the moment he was first born from the Grandfather's Garden, and the long, leisurely hours he had spent there since.
Those were such beautiful days.
The rotting marshes bubbled and hissed like a cauldron of never-ending thick soup. Poisonous flowers bloomed in a riot of decay, their petals layered in grotesque patterns, emitting a stench that surpassed any perfume in the mortal world. Fungi and tumors thrived on every inch of soil, bursting with life. Microorganisms swam joyfully through the slime, and plague-flies buzzed in great swarms that swept across the horizon.
Nurglings rolled in the muck, their chubby little bodies covered in rotting sludge, their giggles echoing through the woods. Beasts of Nurgle lay languidly under trees, occasionally reaching out their tongues to scoop up a few unlucky Nurglings and stuff them into their mouths, causing the other little creatures to shriek and scatter, only to return recklessly a moment later.
The Grandfather sat before his black mansion, watching his children with eyes full of love.
Those were such beautiful days.
But now, everything had changed.
Those bubbling mires had turned into blackened, hard crusts. What seeped from the cracks was black tar rather than the vibrant, life-giving rot of the past. The poisonous flowers turned to ash, blown away by hot winds to unknown distances. The fungi burst apart, their spores consumed by flames before they could even scatter. Microorganisms struggled on the scorching ground, emitting faint hisses before turning into wisps of green smoke.
A variety of loud shrieks and tragic wails filled the air.
The Legion of the Damned, summoned by Adam, remained deaf to it all. They simply continued their work. To them, these entities were filth to be purged.
In the distance, the battle raged on. Within the ranks of the Nurgle host, the various killing machines created by humanity over ten thousand years unleashed a fury that sent massive numbers of daemons screaming to the ground. Many unfortunates died instantly, returning directly to the instinctive cycle of the Warp, unable to ever manifest again within the Grandfather's domain.
"Do not panic! Keep gathering! We must show our resilience; do not fail the expectations the Grandfather has for us!" a daemon shouted loudly amidst the chaos.
The courage was commendable. But it was entirely useless.
The chaos persisted. A density of firepower that defied all logic—and arguably shouldn't even exist in the mortal realm—continued to be projected into Nurgle's legions.
The gargantuan army originally organized to meet the attack consisted of seventy-seven hosts of Nurgle, led by seventy-seven Great Unclean Ones. Each host contained seven hundred and seventy-seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy-seven Nurgle daemons, with Nurglings, Beasts of Nurgle, and Plague Drones beyond counting.
Above their heads hung a shroud of foul clouds created by the Grandfather's blessing, which should have easily resisted any offensive. Yet, facing a Legion of the Damned that was more organized, more powerful, possessed greater offensive capability, and was more resilient in every possible way, the Nurgle host shattered like they had encountered their ultimate predator.
Custodes, Adeptus Mechanicus, Astartes, Sisters of Battle, Officio Assassinorum, Astra Militarum, Imperial Navy, Imperial Aeronautica, the Inquisition, Sisters of Silence...
One after another, those who had died at the hands of daemons over these ten thousand years—souls suppressed by infinite rage—charged with fanatical intensity. They integrated with unprecedented efficiency, crushing the hastily gathered Nurgle daemons.
The ranks of the Astra Militarum spread out like a tide, the roar of lasguns rising and falling as they wove a seamless net of fire. Every beam and every bolt blossomed into flowers of gore on the daemons' bodies, maintaining an unbreakable line.
Heavy fire platforms, appearing from nowhere, spat death-flames under the control of the Mechanicus. Shells of every model rained down into the Nurgle host, tossing patches of daemons into the air.
Sisters of Battle formed resolute mobile patrols. Their power swords traced golden arcs in the darkness, intercepting enemy elites who dared to charge. Hymns echoed across the battlefield—sacred songs praising the Emperor.
The Astartes converged into piercing blades. Using classic tactical company formations, they hacked gap after gap into the Nurgle lines. Their power armor was drenched in green pus-blood, making them appear like terrifying devils in the eyes of the Nurgle daemons.
And at the very front—
The decapitation strike force composed of Custodes, the Assassinorum, the Inquisition, Sisters of Silence, and those heroes from the Great Crusade era moved across the battlefield with despair-inducing mobility and efficiency. One Great Unclean One after another fell wailing beneath their blades, paying back the blood debts they had accrued over ten thousand years.
Life for life. Tooth for tooth. Blood for blood.
The Nurgle soldiers retreated step by step, their formations utterly broken.
"This cannot go on! We must stop them! We must find an effective way; we cannot let them slaughter our kin like this!"
In a corner of the marsh, Ku'gath, the premier Great Daemon of Nurgle, struggled to stand. His body, personally blessed by the Grandfather, was now covered in shocking wounds. The slashes of power swords, the explosions of bolter shells, and the searing heat of lasers were woven together; green pus-blood gurgled out, refusing to stop.
"Easy for you to say," Rotigus the Rainfather said with a dark expression. He was in a state of similar disarray, his injuries no less severe than Ku'gath's. "What plan do you have? You have seen it—that is a daemon-army of the cursed, further bolstered by that... thing that came out of nowhere. With what will we stop them?"
"Then what do you propose? We can't just watch them massacre our kin, can we? Have you forgotten the Grandfather's teachings?" Ku'gath's voice carried anger, but even more despair.
"I don't need you to tell me how to do things, Ku'gath. Can't you see? This is no longer something we can handle." Rotigus took a deep breath. The pus flowed down his respiratory tract into his lungs, bringing a familiar sting. He looked up toward the shimmering black mansion in the distance.
"Do not panic," Rotigus said, though it was unclear if he was comforting Ku'gath or himself. "We only need to wait for the Grandfather himself to launch an attack. Then, everything will be fine."
He paused, his tone becoming full of confidence again. "That is the greatest Grandfather in the Warp, the most loving and powerful existence in the entire universe. Once He personally acts, He will surely be able to easily punish that little thief, kill him outright, and resolve all of this!"
Ku'gath fell silent. As a favorite of Nurgle and the Grandfather's most beloved scion, he could not raise any objection to these words.
But in his heart, a faint sense of unease lingered.
If that were true... then what exactly was the Grandfather waiting for?