Gurulu~
Barag the Glutton, his mountain-sized body rotting and oozing pus, let out a massive snore. From the reeking swamp beneath him, foul bubbles rose to the surface.
Even in his slumber, he muttered nonsense under the cover of the mire:
"Soup… thicker soup… Merciful Father, boil more soup… heh, heh, heh…"
This "First Favored" was clearly lost in some indulgent dream — gorging himself, then grabbing another Great Unclean One by the foot to shove into his maw.
"Barag the Glutton!"
Rodigus Rainfather stared at the scene, unable to contain his disgust.
Compared to the late Ku'gath Plaguefather, this newly risen "First Favored" was utterly useless. He could see no hope of the Garden of Nurgle's restoration in Barag.
His fury grew, manifesting as a greater pestilent rainstorm. The plague-soaked downpour lashed the swamp and its Great Unclean Ones.
"What's going on? Is it raining in the Garden?"
Barag was jolted awake by the sudden storm, while other Great Unclean Ones grumbled and stirred from their slumber.
But the First Favored quickly realized who was responsible.
"Rodigus… don't you know that disturbing the Great Nap is most impolite?!"
Since receiving authority over the Garden of Nurgle, Barag had issued many new decrees in the name of the Plaguefather.
Among them was the "Great Nap."
During this sacred time, all Great Unclean Ones and Plaguebearers were to slumber peacefully.
Other decrees followed: "Festival of Revelry," "Day of Delicious Stew," and so on — ensuring the daemons' existence was brimming with stagnant joy.
In Barag's mind, Nurgle's children should not endlessly fight and spread themselves thin. They should bask in eternal stasis and happiness — keeping their hearts tranquil and content.
"You're the First Favored, yet you hide in the Garden instead of leading the Plague Legions?"
Rodigus, clutching his staff of tumor-ridden branches, roared:
"You must march forth, spread pestilence through the galaxy and the Warp, and avenge us!
Bring back more corrupted souls for the Garden of Nurgle!"
Ever since Grandfather Nurgle was grievously wounded and fell into slumber, His domain had lost much of its essence of pestilence.
The other Chaos Gods' daemons accelerated their encroachments, devouring Nurgle's realm.
The Garden of Nurgle was caught in a downward spiral.
Yet at this moment of dire crisis, Barag not only refused to leave but had recalled many Great Unclean Ones home.
Rodigus could not understand it.
Enraged, he stomped forward, stretching out a hand to seize the drowsy First Favored.
But before his hand reached him, several other Great Unclean Ones interposed themselves.
"Second Favored, show respect. Do you dare question the Plaguefather's choice?"
Seven or eight high-ranking Great Unclean Ones surrounded him, eyes glimmering with offense.
To them, insulting the First Favored was an insult to Nurgle Himself.
Rodigus felt their anger and forced himself to calm down. Now was not the time for internecine conflict.
He sighed deeply.
"Barag, First Favored, I never questioned our Merciful Father. I only beg that you not betray His expectations."
One Great Unclean One sneered:
"Your thoughts are utterly wrong.
The Plaguefather never chastised the First Favored. On the contrary, upon His last awakening, He praised him.
He said Barag's understanding of plague had surpassed all other Great Unclean Ones."
Nurgle, after all, is the God of Comfort — urging all beings to accept entropy and decay, to face existence with ease and laughter, to embrace their true selves.
Barag had done just that.
He accepted all that he was, surrendered to his gluttonous nature, and after the Garden's disaster, he dispersed the grief of Nurgle's children, bringing them back to joy.
That was the result Nurgle desired — restoration of His essence through their cheer.
Another Great Unclean One added:
"As for vengeance, the First Favored has already proposed a great new plan.
The whole Garden now labors toward this goal."
At that moment, cheerful music rang out across the Garden of Nurgle, like a wake-up bell.
Plaguebearers arose from their slumber, humming tunes as they dragged great cauldrons into place, tossing in heaps of plague-ridden ingredients.
Toxic smoke in every hue billowed into the air.
"Hurry, hurry! Everyone's guts must be twisting by now!
The Day of Delicious Stew is here — the Father's Sevenfold-Blessed Cauldron must bubble and burble!"
Barag's eyes gleamed with excitement.
He rallied the Great Unclean Ones to hoist cauldrons, shoveling in diseased offerings. Thick yellow mist spread across the swamps.
All threw themselves into brewing plague-stew.
Rodigus stood frozen, feeling utterly out of place. The smog churned his gut with unease.
"O Merciful Father… who will tell me what this so-called plan of vengeance truly is?"
After a long silence, he finally asked.
Barag chuckled, scooping up a ladle of stew to sip — then offering one to Rodigus.
"Try it. This is our plan."
Rodigus frowned, but reluctantly swallowed the rainbow-tinted stew. The taste was… oddly pleasant.
The next instant, his gut writhed. He felt worms gnawing inside his belly.
Nausea overwhelmed him.
Urk!
He vomited up a pile of green slime, his strength fading.
Stunned, Rodigus realized: with only a single taste, he had contracted a plague of terrifying virulence.
When he had once sampled Ku'gath's incomplete brew of the Godplague, it hadn't ravaged him so badly.
"It seems our Second Favored cannot yet endure this plague…"
The Great Unclean Ones laughed heartily, mocking him as they slurped their stew.
Truth be told, it had taken them much time to adapt as well.
"This… this is a new plague weapon?"
Rodigus gasped, his eyes wide.
The smell was unmistakable. He muttered, horrified:
"This stew… it's nearly identical to the crafting of the Godplague!"
Barag puffed out his chest, stumpy arms behind his back.
"I risked myself to sample the remnants of the Godplague lingering in the Garden. From it, I drew its essence and devised new plaguecraft.
This will be the heart of our new plan — the key to restoring the Garden."
Ever since, the Plaguebearers hailed Barag as a genius.
His techniques spread like wildfire.
Now, all of Nurgle's children abandoned their old methods, obsessed instead with brewing this new plague-stew.
At first, Barag only wanted a stronger, tastier soup.
But soon they discovered its horrifying power: it inflicted psychic-layer damage, devastating Warp-entities.
Even Plaguebearers struggled to endure it — and against other Chaos Daemons, its lethality was unmatched.
Yet in the material galaxy, it had little effect on mortals.
Whenever the slumbering Plaguefather raged in His Black Manse, cursing the Changer and the Blood God, His children's desire for revenge grew.
Barag, ever the sly traitor, fanned this hatred in the Father's name.
He proclaimed: vengeance upon the other Chaos Gods — through plague!
Under his influence, countless daemons abandoned their wars in the galaxy and returned home, focusing solely on brewing these cauldrons of doom.
This was the new "Grand Plan."
The children of Nurgle would re-emerge transformed — nightmares that even fellow daemons would dread.
Thus they would reclaim lost territory.
In effect, Barag the Glutton, sly infiltrator and cunning schemer, had single-handedly twisted Nurgle's realm into a force of chaotic neutrality — warring not with mortals, but with Chaos itself.
These changes would ripple back, even to the slumbering Plaguefather.
They would only further destabilize the fragile "cooperation" of the Dark Gods.
For in truth, Chaos has never viewed Humanity or the Cursed as true enemies.
The galaxy is merely their banquet hall; mankind, a sweet morsel; the Cursed, an obstacle.
Chaos Gods have only one true foe: each other.
Thus when Nurgle once launched His Great Campaign, aiming to slay Roboute Guilliman and devour swathes of Imperial territory, the other Gods rushed to sabotage Him.
They destroyed the Father's carefully wrought work of millennia.
Now, with the Plaguefather wounded, His children's hatred has crystallized.
They will avenge Him at any cost.
Rodigus, finally understanding, gazed across the Garden at the rising toxic plumes.
And for the first time, his feelings shifted.
That was no ordinary pot of plague stew, but cauldron after cauldron of horrific plague war-weapons.
All these years, he had never stopped thinking about reclaiming lost territory and restoring the Garden of Nurgle—yet with little to show for it.
He had even been defeated and grievously wounded by Syll'esh the Doom of Secrets, a Supreme Keeper of Secrets.
If not for that entity being abruptly recalled, he might not have kept even the last scraps of his conquered lands.
Yet before his eyes, Barag the Glutton, the First Favored, had quietly completed a grand arrangement—mass-producing plague weapons.
He had just felt their power for himself; they would be even more devastating to other Chaos Daemons.
These plague weapons would surely help Nurgle's domain reclaim its lands—and perhaps become stronger than ever!
"First Favored, I admit I misjudged you before."
Rodigus's tone lost its haughty edge and softened considerably. "Your achievements are astonishing—worthy of the Sevenfold Plague-Blessing.
If possible, I wish to learn this new craft of plague-brewing."
The Rainfather wished to master the technique and strengthen himself.
Barag did not refuse. Quite warmly, he set a great cauldron for the Second Favored as well, inviting him to join the Day of Delicious Stew.
Without notice, the Garden of Nurgle was now producing a vast stockpile of plague weapons designed to harm Chaos Daemons.
Soon, Barag the Glutton received the order of the Great Four-Armed Savior, requesting that he lead plague legions to reinforce Commorragh.
The Plaguefather's First Favored issued his first call to war, announcing that he would personally lead the pestilent host to Commorragh.
This would be the first massed sortie of Nurgle's children since the Garden War.
They would take revenge upon all Chaos Daemons who had harmed the Garden of Nurgle—and prove their strength!
The rancid fumes of the Garden began to seethe. To merry music, **seven colossal rotting void-whales—Plague Arks—**rose from Nurgle's domain and set course for the rift near Commorragh.
...
Commorragh cityscape, a spired terrace.
"Reinforcements are here!"
Eden looked toward the other side of the Warp-rent veil, where a sickly yellow shadow loomed, and smiled.
They were Nurgle's daemons.
His planted "sly daemon turncoat," Barag the Glutton, would lead a tide of plague-daemons to assail the other Chaos hosts.
That would throw the field into deeper turmoil—and curb the pressure of the warp-hordes upon Commorragh.
It would make the Great Evacuation far smoother.
Soon, across multiple fronts, the incoming tactical feeds showed the plague legions in motion.
Barag the Glutton stood out most of all.
Amid the surging daemon tide, bloated Plaguebearers bore a palanquin woven from rotting boughs, upon which the mountain-sized Barag reclined.
He hugged a cauldron four or five meters across, sampling its delicious stew with relish.
Long-horned heralds grinned broadly, chanting the First Favored's name and counting out the sacred number Seven.
Around the palanquin buzzed thicker swarms of plague-flies and Nurgle's marching bands.
They clanged and drummed, puffing out wheezy, ponderous "orchestral" blasts—ugly noises with a strangely cheerful lilt.
Wherever Barag passed, yellow plague-mist billowed; corpses and battlefield wreckage stirred, clawing upright as new undead.
The plague host swelled.
Several Keepers of Secrets under Slaanesh flicked their razor blades and lunged to strike Barag.
They never breached the Plaguebearer honor-guard's cordon before their faces were plastered with unknown vomitous contagions—retching and voiding from both ends.
"Prince of Pleasure, spare me—
No! My painstaking makeup, my artfully twisted mantle— I cannot be seen like this!"
Such filthy methods were the most intolerable torment to Slaaneshi elites, who prized luxury and image.
In the past, Keepers of Secrets could ward off such filth with sorcery or warp-energy, and even poisoned, they would not fail so miserably.
But now they could neither clear nor suppress the toxins. One after another, they went pale, clamped their legs together, clutched their backsides—
and collapsed on the spot.
They fouled the field where they fell.
This was Barag the Glutton's most dreadful Dysentery Assault—an unnatural scourge that forced any warp-entity to feel crippling gut-pain and catastrophic loss of control.
He paid no mind to the humiliated, emptied Keepers. The rot-palanquin simply rolled past the still-retching, still-soiling foe and pressed on into the warp-hordes.
Where Barag went, Chaos Daemons toppled in shame, a stench that made even the hellspawn blanch.
The Greater Daemons of Slaanesh fled the very smell; even Khornate brutes refused to duel such a foul, underhanded foe.
From that moment, a new legend began in the Immaterium—The Legend of Barag the Glutton.
Unbearably rank.
"Hiss—
That guy Barag fights way too dirty. Who could possibly stomach that?!"
Watching the front-line feeds of Barag's "battle," Eeden sucked in a cold breath.
From any angle, the attack was terrifying. If even Chaos Daemons couldn't handle it… how horrifying must it be?
Even elite human warriors would struggle. These were big names of the warp and the galaxy—who wanted to soil themselves before all eyes on the battlefield?
Puking and purging.
With toxins that aggressive, even a suit's environmental cycles might not filter it all. Once the internals recirculated…
Disaster.
Not to mention the ruin to one's image.
Imagine an Imperial Primarch, proud and roaring a battle-cry, charging the vile Barag—only to catch a faceful of filth halfway in.
And then… he soils the suit. Pale yellow fog and filth weeping through the armor's seams.
The picture was… unthinkable.
"Good thing Barag's on our side—and specialized against Chaos Daemons…"
Eden exhaled and moved on, surveying the wider war.
The plague legions pressed ferociously.
On their own, they threw the other Dark Gods' tides into chaos; their many plague-stews ravaged the daemon hosts.
Super-amped, psy-layer strains of flu, fever, suppurating blisters, rot-blossoms, weeping warts, crippling weakness and impotence—
they shredded the daemons' combat power.
For the first time since the Garden War, Nurgle's children were showcasing their strength.
Heads held high.
Not only in Commorragh— they struck other warzones as well, clashing with rival daemon hosts and seizing souls and territory.
They were stronger than before.
With Nurgle's children stirring the pot, pressure on Commorragh plummeted, and the Great Evacuation advanced smoothly.
Gateways to the Redemption Satellite Zone were destroyed one after another, severing many avenues of attack.
"Lord Asurmen, we've destroyed half the target webway gates as planned.
Over the next three Dark Days, we'll withdraw every resident of Commorragh that can be withdrawn and completely seal the routes between Commorragh and the Redemption Satellite Zone."
The Lhamean secretary Ilyss reported the latest milestones of the evacuation.
The results were gratifying.
"The situation is excellent!"
After receiving the update, Eden took a small celebratory sip of champagne.
Then he turned his attention to the repair progress on the Black Throne.
Once the Throne was repaired and successfully brought online, it could draw down the holy solar power to cork the warp-rent. Otherwise, the daemon tide would keep pouring through.
After that, they'd only need to drive off the stragglers—
and the job would be done.
Two more patient days passed. At last, the Black Throne was fully repaired.
...
Black Throne sector.
"At last—it's time to end this."
Eden's consciousness returned to the Emperor's clone-body. He gathered all his might, blazing with intense golden radiance— like the sun made flesh.
He would serve as the conduit, guiding the holy solar power to erect a veil-barrier—this was a proven method from the Black Throne's prior run.
If it worked, he could detach from the Throne.
Glancing at the nearby Archmagos of Black-Mechanica, he still felt a flutter of unease.
"Kaul, we're going to pull this off… right?"
"Do you still doubt the genius of Kaul's engineering?"
Kaul brimmed with confidence. His augmetic eyes projected cascading data. "Let me re-run the numbers. After these days of repairs, my understanding of the Black Throne's architecture improved again.
"At present, the success probability has reached 99.9999999%. Theoretically, failure is practically impossible."
"…Huh??"
Hearing that figure, Eden swallowed. "Why do I feel even more in danger now?!
Don't you dare botch this…"
"You said yourself… believe in science."
With that, Kaul slammed the Black Throne's activators.
The galaxy-spanning engine-monument thundered to life, like some primeval behemoth waking.
(End of Chapter)
(End of Chapter)
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