Nurgle regretted it.
His titanic form sat within the black mansion, his hands absentmindedly adjusting the cauldron before him. Within it, seventy-seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy-seven types of viruses—each lethal enough to wipe out mortals—were being born, weaving and converging together.
Ultimately, Nurgle's hand trembled. The soup base splashed out, and this batch of personally brewed plague was utterly ruined.
His movements came to a halt. He remained silent, his mood clearly foul.
Those eyes, usually brimming with fatherly love, now stared emptily at the ruined cauldron as green pus dripped from the rim. The essence of those seventy-seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy-seven plagues had been wasted for nothing. In normal times, He might have mourned such a loss for an age.
But now, Nurgle did not care.
"It seems I was wrong..."
He looked down at Mortarion, who lay slumped beside him. His most favored son, the Lord of Death, was now submerged in a deep stupor. That face, usually shrouded in toxic fog, was as pale as parchment. His chest rose and fell slightly, each breath accompanied by bubbles of pus-blood escaping his lips.
For the Plague God who cherished his children, the sight of his scions being slaughtered was enough to pierce his heart with agony. Moreover, as the master of the cycle of life and decay and the lord of Nurgle's Garden, those slain daemons were both parts of his body and members of his realm's cycle.
However, the actions of the Cursed Ones this time involved using some ability to continuously erase His power and diminish His existence, causing Him to feel a pain he had never experienced before.
Realizing this, Nurgle's regret deepened. Had He known earlier, He might as well have raised his hand to clash with that mysterious intruder.
Upon seeing the holy sword the intruder held and the Emperor's divine light shining upon it, even from the perspective of a Chaos Great Power, He could not fathom how such an entity had appeared in the very core of His domain. Nurgle realized that to strike here would be to duel directly with the Unborn King upon the Throne.
Would He win? He didn't know.
In any case, ten thousand years ago, He and the other Chaos powers had nearly been killed by that individual, forced to lick their wounds in the Warp for a vast age; that much was indisputable.
And at this very moment, the Dark King had been worshipped for ten millennia. His power was far greater than in the past. It was also a fact that He was using the Golden Throne as a device to forcibly suppress the destructive progress of all humanity, interrupting His own ascension to godhood.
How much damage would a direct clash with the Dark King cause Him? Nurgle did not dare to gamble. The damage from such a strike would inevitably be permanent, causing irreversible harm to Himself and His divine realm.
Thus, Nurgle had chosen to trust His children. He let them go to exhaust the enemy, to stall, to drive the invaders out, or simply to incorporate them into His eternal cycle of life.
Clearly, Nurgle's calculations were wrong.
His children were retreating step by step under the opponent's onslaught, suffering heavy casualties. Vast numbers of His scions were turned to ash, failing even to return to His divine realm. This point left Nurgle utterly perplexed.
"This is impossible..."
The One on the Golden Throne shouldn't possess such immense power, nor should the daemon-army under His command have such bizarre traits. Furthermore, the identity and origin of the most critical figure—the one who appeared so strangely in the heart of His domain—were completely unknown.
Even as a Chaos Great Power, Nurgle could not perceive how the opponent had achieved this. Such a scenario could not be described as anything less than absurd.
Nurgle frantically simulated every possible answer in his mind. He eliminated one after another, until all possibilities were cleared away, leaving only one conclusion that caused Him immense pain:
He simply could not see through the opponent.
"Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee..."
Just as Nurgle fell into deep self-doubt, the shrill laughter of an uninvited guest echoed through His mansion.
"Haha, Rotting One, do you see it now? This is change! Change has happened!"
"Shut your mouth, Tzeentch!" Nurgle snapped irritably at the sound of the voice.
"Don't be so cold-hearted. I am very eager to study such a change. That change is in your Garden right now, isn't it? Have you truly not considered opening your gates and letting me handle this change? I might see something useful."
Tzeentch, the Weaver of Destinies, Master of the Crystal Labyrinth, and Lord of all Change, chuckled.
"Don't even think about it," Nurgle refused flatly, without a moment's hesitation.
"You actually don't trust me, hahahahaha!" Tzeentch laughed uproariously, as if rolling on the floor. Clearly, realizing His old rival was in a difficult position brought Him immense joy.
Forcing back the urge to lash out at the mockery, Nurgle said coldly, "Since that is the case, why don't you offer a feasible plan?"
"Of course, no problem. Haha, this is naturally all part of the plan," Tzeentch said cryptically. "I will go with the others to figure out what happened to that Cursed One. I am truly interested. Haha, I have a premonition—the change is about to accelerate!"
...
The Imperial Palace, Terra.
Guilliman stood upon the battlements, gazing down at the distant conflict. Below the walls, the daemons launched wave after wave of charges, only to be broken against the defensive lines he had personally established.
Everything was under control. Guilliman felt quite relaxed.
Although he hadn't received a report from Adam yet, he had full confidence in the suddenly rising Class III Reality Bender. Based on his analysis of the man's personality, the matter should be well-assured.
A Class III Reality Bender was already capable of providing a solution to escape dependence on Warp travel, bringing far-reaching impacts to every aspect of the Empire. So now that he had ascended a rank, what else would he bring to the Empire? Guilliman was looking forward to it. It seemed that hope still endured.
As for the daemons below—honestly, their offensive was even weaker than he had anticipated. He had originally planned to use this opportunity to bring the tens of thousands of Primaris Astartes hidden deep within Mars onto the battlefield for a debut, showcasing his power and consolidating his authority in the Empire.
Now it seemed that reason wasn't sufficient yet. A minor flaw in an otherwise perfect situation.
Just then—Guilliman looked up sharply.
What was happening?
Even for someone like him, whose Warp sensitivity among the Primarchs was relatively low, he could clearly sense something was wrong. Behind the veil, energy so vast it was hard to imagine was surging, gathering, and—
"Ugh... ahhhhh..." A suppressed cry of pain sounded behind him.
Guilliman turned abruptly. His psychic advisor, Tigurius—the man serving as the Chapter's Chief Librarian ten thousand years later—was now showing a face of agony, clutching his psychic staff tightly. His body trembled violently, his knees buckled, and he finally collapsed.
"What's wrong, my brother?" Sybill stepped forward quickly, helping Tigurius up.
Tigurius struggled to raise a hand, pointing in Guilliman's direction. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Sybill understood and decisively helped him toward the Primarch.
"Gene-father... be careful..." Tigurius's face was twisted almost out of shape. He desperately tried to organize his words to warn his gene-father, but as a psyker, the shock he endured was too heavy. Every attempt to speak felt like a thousand red-hot needles stirring in his mind.
Finally, he only managed to squeeze out a few words: "...The big one is coming."
Guilliman nodded seriously. He turned around, his gaze falling upon the distant daemon-tide.
The previously disorganized daemons were now undergoing a bizarre transformation. Their movements were becoming synchronized, and their roars were converging into a single voice. The tide was surging and churning, as if preparing for the arrival of an even more colossal existence.