"So, is this your plan, Nurgle?"
Within Nurgle's Garden.
The great war continued. The black mansion remained standing in silence, coldly observing the slaughter occurring within its domain. The Legion of the Damned continued to advance. Those pitch-black warriors knew no fatigue, no fear, and no pain. Under a command that surpassed mortal understanding, they operated like an infinitely precise killing machine, methodically harvesting everything in the Garden.
Ash and the scent of char rose straight into the sky, mixing with the originally sickly-sweet, rotting air to form an unprecedented scent—one that symbolized the true end of death.
Directly in front of that black mansion.
Adam still held his sword calmly. The tip of the blade pointed toward the depths of the manor from a distance. One man and one god confronted each other across the plague-contaminated air; neither took the first move.
Adam was in no hurry. He understood the current situation perfectly—every second, his Legion of the Damned slaughtered Nurgle's children and burned the core of this divine realm. And the opponent... the opponent did not dare to gamble on the consequences of that single sword strike.
Waiting was clearly to his advantage. The will of a Class IV Reality Bender was sufficient to maintain this state of confrontation until eternity, should the opponent truly intend to remain in this stalemate forever.
Just then—
Adam tilted his head slightly. His gaze seemed to pierce through the heavy veils of Nurgle's Garden, through the barrier between the Warp and reality, projecting toward a place now so distant it could not be measured by distance.
Terra.
What was happening? His pupils contracted slightly.
Weren't Nurgle and Tzeentch bitter rivals? Would Tzeentch actually commit to such a coordinated move? Nurgle embraced stagnation, while Tzeentch was obsessed with change—their very natures were in conflict.
A touch of doubt arose in Adam's heart. However, he quickly saw through the opponent's intention.
Besiege Wei to rescue Zhao.
It was a simple tactic: by attacking a location as critical as the Imperial Palace on Terra, they hoped to force the Emperor—and Adam—to withdraw their strength, thereby relieving the pressure on Nurgle's Garden. In the process, Tzeentch might even be able to observe the specific details of the "change" He had long craved.
The corners of Adam's mouth curled upward.
You want me to follow your script? Wouldn't that be quite embarrassing for me?
He gave a soft laugh and raised his hand to snap his fingers.
The Imperial Palace, Terra.
Guilliman was closely monitoring the battle below. The appearance of the Primaris Astartes had indeed stabilized the lines, but the presence of those nine Lords of Change remained a massive threat. With every swing of their staves, patches of Imperial warriors fell. He needed to command the Talons of the Emperor to handle those nine Great Daemons immediately.
Just as this thought flashed through his mind—Guilliman looked up sharply.
A streak of radiant golden light flew overhead. Pure white feathers scattered down like rain, falling on the battlements, on the shoulders of the warriors, and on the blood-soaked earth.
That was... a Living Saint?
Guilliman's gaze followed the light and saw the figure hovering in the air. Saint Celestine—no, Lucia—the Living Saint who had followed him ever since his resurrection ceremony.
Regarding these so-called "miracles of the Emperor," Guilliman's attitude had always been complicated. Accepting that the Emperor might have undergone some change over these ten thousand years—or perhaps even... ascended to godhood—was something Guilliman found hard to truly accept. Even when his fallen sons were resurrected in a manner akin to a miracle, once Adam explained the principles of "Warp rituals" to him, he naturally preferred to believe it was some quantifiable, reproducible psychic technology.
And now, what was she doing?
Lucia hovered in the air. Her face was holy and solemn, golden light radiating from her body, enveloping her like a deity descended to the mortal realm. Within the depths of her eyes, a deeper light was burning.
That was... Lord Adam's will.
She could feel a consciousness so vast it was hard to imagine descending, merging into her existence, pushing her reality-strength to a brand-new height.
A Class III Reality Bender, formed in an instant.
Under everyone's gaze, she slowly spoke.
"Let it be filled. Let it be filled. Let it be filled... repeated five times for each—"
Everyone held their breath. Some members of the Inquisition even began trying to record every syllable of the incantation.
However, just as everyone waited with bated breath—Lucia paused.
"The following is omitted."
It was a simple formality, a mere perfunctory gesture. Adam only did it to reinforce his own will with the mental image of "chanting a Heroic Spirit Summoning," allowing the Reality Bender to better exert his power.
Before anyone could recover from the shock of this absurdity, a pillar of fire surged upward. It emerged from the void, burning, roaring, and condensing, finally taking shape.
It was a massive giant clad in pitch-black power armor. And most striking of all was his head—a burning skull formed from pure psychic energy. Crimson flames rose from his eye sockets, nose, and mouth, flickering in the air like a burning crown.
Guilliman's body stiffened. His lips moved, murmuring in a voice only he could hear.
"Ferrus...?"
As the giant descended, his backpack instantly deployed. Countless strange and exotic weapons unfolded from within. The styles of these weapons were so complex and precise they would drive the top Tech-Priests of Mars into a frenzy of study.
Then, they opened fire.
An unimaginable complexity of firepower poured out, a density of fire as if an entire Legion were firing in unison. Those two Lords of Change currently wreaking havoc didn't even have time to react. Their shields were pierced in an instant, and before they could even scream, they dissipated into the air, leaving not a single trace behind.
Simultaneously—communication was patched in.
"Follow me."
The Primaris Astartes clad in pitch-black armor, their gene-seed originating from the Iron Hands Legion, were stunned. Then, their eyes welled with tears.
That was the voice of their Gene-father. That was the voice of Ferrus Manus.
The Iron Hands were organized in an instant, forming an incredibly sharp wedge formation. Their firepower distribution was precise to the extreme, their coordination so seamless it felt as if they had never been separated.
The battle lines collapsed. Tzeentch's daemon-tide was in full retreat.
Nurgle's Garden.
Adam withdrew his gaze. The corners of his mouth tilted up, and the Solomon Ritual Sword in his hand remained steadily pointed at that silent black mansion.
"What now?"