The Warp seethed, an eternal storm of madness echoing through its depths.
In the domain of the Plague God—Nurgle—the Garden of Decay lay festering within the Immaterium. This grotesque realm, a twisted mockery of life, sprawled with rotting jungles, stagnant swamps, and cancerous groves of unnatural vegetation. Diseased slush and squirming worms paved its winding paths, while the air festered with pestilent clouds, buzzing plague flies, and the incessant laughter of demonic imps.
Foul flora competed for space—plague-mouthed shrubs, bloated fungi exuding noxious gases, and poisonous flowers bearing sac-like tumors. A sickly glow from the Immaterium cast unclean light over thorny groves of flesh and bile.
It was a landscape of pure corruption, a realm no mortal could endure—save for the faithful of Nurgle, those who thrived in agony and embraced the rot.
Normally, the Garden rang with raucous laughter—its daemon denizens carefree and jubilant. Among the Chaos pantheon, Nurgle's children were disturbingly joyous. But now, an eerie silence hung heavy in the air.
A small group of favored Great Unclean Ones huddled around Gath the Slow, whose corpulent form bore fresh wounds—cursed words carved into his flesh, weeping pus and plague. The runes, inscribed by Guilliman, pulsed with a power that no corruption could heal. The markings twisted with unending agony, a permanent reminder of disgrace.
"What he did was cruel… and enraging," Kugas growled, his milky eyes filled with pity as he regarded Gath.
"The Son of the Cursed has insulted all the Father's children—and the Father himself," croaked Rainfather Rotigues. "Perhaps it is time to unleash Mortarion. They are brothers, after all. He knows how to deal with the proud one."
"Let Guilliman understand the full price of blasphemy," spat another daemon. "Let him collapse in torment. Let him beg for mercy that will never come."
So it was that the Lords of Nurgle plotted retribution. Guilliman, the Avenging Son, would suffer for his arrogance.
Time in the Warp was meaningless. But for half a century—by mortal reckoning—the Great Unclean Ones debated every detail of their vengeance, each daemon offering grotesque strategies for breaking the Primarch's will. Their hate festered with purpose.
Eventually, the decision was made. Mortarion would move.
The message reached him through the ether—a call from Gath, laced with humiliation. Guilliman's taunts, especially those calling Mortarion a failure, burned through his decayed soul.
It was true—Typhus had betrayed him. Typhus, who had once stood by his side, now served as Nurgle's chosen. That betrayal had never healed. Mortarion's shame ran deeper than rot, and Guilliman had torn it open.
"I'm coming for you, brother," Mortarion hissed, his breath like a grave wind. "May your pride remain intact… until I tear it from you."
His grotesque form quivered with fury. Guilliman would learn—Mortarion was not what he once was. And he would make him bleed for those words.
While time surged forward in the Materium, only a day had passed since the banishment of Gath the Slow.
The war on Sara was over. The traitors were slain, their plague warships destroyed in orbit. The survivors, trapped on the surface, were executed without mercy by the Emperor's loyal sons. The cultists, however, proved more elusive—scattered across the hive world like spores.
Space Marines and Imperial Guard strike teams were deployed across the ruined cityscape, purging the heretics in coordinated sweeps. Cleansing operations proceeded swiftly.
Surviving civilians were relocated from the plague-ridden hive to a less contaminated zone, where the Mechanicus had begun mass sterilization protocols. The Adeptus Ministorum accompanied the crusade, chanting liturgies and invoking the Emperor's divine light to purge lingering taint.
"Destruction is always easier than creation," Guilliman murmured, standing atop a shattered balcony overlooking the ruined hive city.
This had once been the seat of power, the governor's palace. Traces of opulence remained—decadent artworks, rare off-world fruits, luxury crafted by the Mechanicus to suit a noble's whim.
The contrast was staggering.
The nobility of the hive lived in unimaginable wealth—dining on delicacies from agri-worlds, adorned in fine robes and augmetics more advanced than a tech-priest's. Below them, the middle class survived on synthetic meats and recycled produce, their lives bound by guild laws and economic servitude.
And then there were the dregs.
The underhive was a pit of despair. There, mutants roamed freely, psykers lost control, and cults festered in the dark. The impoverished masses survived on corpse-starch and waste, treated as less than human—forgotten by their lords above.
No wonder Chaos had taken root.
When pain and oppression are all one knows, the promises of the Warp—freedom, change, vengeance—become appealing. Guilliman understood this bitter truth. The problem was not merely Chaos—it was the Imperium itself.
The Ecclesiarchy, the Inquisition, and the High Lords of Terra maintained order, but their inflexibility and cruelty created enemies. Guilliman had returned to find a bloated, fractured Imperium—one slowly killing itself.
"If we do not reform," he thought grimly, "then we are doomed to rot like the corpses we use to feed the underhive."
Footsteps echoed behind him.
"My lord," Sicarius announced, "the representative of Sara has arrived."
"Let them in," Guilliman replied, turning from the ruined vista.
He entered the grand audience chamber. Bloodstains had been scrubbed from the marble, though the burn marks of war remained etched in the stone. Guilliman paid them no mind. He would not let decorum mask the truth.
A group of well-dressed figures entered. Their clothes were pristine, their flesh unscarred. Some wore fine perfumes; others bore expensive augmetics. One obese man stepped forward, his folds of flesh bulging like a parody of the Plague God's followers.
"My lord Primarch," he said with a practiced bow, "I am the planetary governor of Sara. We are eternally grateful for your intervention. Surely this deliverance is the Emperor's reward for our loyalty."
Guilliman narrowed his eyes. These people were untouched by war—no signs of hardship, no dirt under their nails, no grief in their eyes.
He glanced at Sicarius. These were the ones he had brought?
"They were hiding in a secure vault deep within the fortress," Sicarius explained hastily. "The governor and the ruling families. I assumed they should meet you."
"Sicarius," Guilliman said, his voice low but cold, "this will be the first and last time."
The room fell silent.
"I will not chastise you, because you do not yet understand why we fight," Guilliman continued. "Ten billion souls perished on this world. But these... cowards? They stand here without a scratch. Is that something to honor?"
He stepped toward the governor, who shrank under his gaze.
"They were entrusted with power meant to protect civilians. Instead, they used it to shield themselves. Is this the Empire we are fighting to preserve? Is this the example we wish to set?"
Guilliman turned back to Sicarius.
"Find me someone worthy. Someone who fought. Someone who suffered. These men and women do not represent Sara—they represent its failure."
He gestured toward the door.
"Remove them."
Sicarius bowed deeply and motioned for the guards. As the self-proclaimed nobles were led out, Guilliman stared out once more at the smoldering hive.
He had won a battle. But the war for humanity's soul was far from over.
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