In the immaterium—the realm of the Warp—abide entities far removed from mortal logic. Daemons, born of chaos and emotion, transcend the physical. Though they may be banished from the material universe, they do not die. They simply return to the Warp, waiting to be reborn.
This immortality breeds recklessness. Bereft of fear, they abandon reason and surrender to their violent urges.
Yet this very trait, which once made them terrifying, now became their doom. For in front of the Doom Slayers, such arrogance held no power.
Not just the daemons—even the gods they served, those arrogant Warp-spawned beings who called themselves eternal—could fall.
Climbing the blade of red energy, the Doom Slayer cleaved effortlessly through daemonflesh. Blasphemous sigils, once etched into hideous armor, shattered like crumbling ruins before a storm. There was no resistance.
Their once-feared claws, capable of rending ceramite and carapace, failed to even scratch the Slayer.
The same creatures that once scourged entire sectors, that brought terror to untold trillions, now found themselves prey. The hunter had become the hunted.
The Desecrators—those daemons who reveled in corruption—felt despair for the first time. No matter what they summoned, no matter what cursed rites they performed, they could not halt the Slayer's advance.
Their resistance was meaningless. Every effort was a delay at best. And delay meant nothing when the end was inevitable.
As the truth set in—that this death would be true death, not a return to the Warp but utter oblivion—many screamed in terror. Madness overtook some. But their rage, their howls, their dying fury only delayed the inevitable.
Through the storm of claws, shrieks, and Warp-born hatred, the Doom Slayer advanced—unstoppable, unbroken.
From the pyres of daemonkind, he emerged.
A daemonette of Slaanesh, clad in violet and gold, charged with a siren's shriek. With a single stroke, Doom's blade tore through her silken skin, split her open, and sent her entrails spilling to the ground. Her skull was then crushed beneath his iron tread—one boot, one step, no hesitation.
A Bloodletter Champion, a Knight of Khorne, barreled forward atop a juggernaut chariot, roaring with bloodlust.
Doom met him with a punch.
Steel, bone, and daemonhide shattered in an explosion of gore. Doom didn't even glance at the wreckage. Such kills no longer stirred emotion.
Their blood pooled at his feet—no longer violent, no longer virulent. It became energy, primal essence, which seeped into him.
He grew stronger with each kill. And he knew his brothers were the same.
When daemons became sustenance, their corruption meant little. They were fuel. They were food.
Breaking through their ranks, Doom entered the portal the daemons had tried so desperately to guard.
There, standing amidst filth and fumes, was Typhus—Herald of Nurgle, Commander of the Plague Legion, bearer of the Destroyer Hive.
Doom's normally cold eyes flickered with contempt. The traitor standing before him—this bloated husk of corrupted humanity—would pay the price. Doom would collect.
The souls burdened with countless sins would suffer under the weight of Argentum—that strange energy inherited from the Master, Dukel.
Doom advanced, one step at a time, every motion calculated. Daemons surged to intercept. They were butchered with impunity.
As Doom drew near, Typhus began to understand.
The warp-born mycelium infecting his body recoiled. The bloated blessings gifted by Grandfather Nurgle began to decay.
Even the Plague God's power—eternal, rampant, and vile—recognized the Doom Slayer as a threat. Instinctively, it retreated.
Typhus' armor, a fusion of metal and diseased flesh, pulsed with unnatural growth. Bone-spurs burst from his body. Buzzing nests of daemonflies writhed within his swollen frame, and from the spurs, a miasma of noxious gas erupted.
The Destroyer Hive swarmed into the air—billions of daemonflies, shrieking with psychic fury. They consumed entire battalions in seconds. To them, Doom was just another meal.
But Doom raised a hand.
A red force field expanded outward—an extension of the Mindlink, the psychic gestalt inherited from Dukel's firstborn heirs.
Reality warped.
The swarm exploded—each bloated fly bursting mid-air, reduced to trails of green ichor splattering across the pestilent ground.
The attack was crushed without fanfare. Doom pressed forward.
Typhus now showed fear. Not outwardly—his pride would not allow it. But inside, deep within the corrupted soul twisted by centuries of rot, the fear was there.
All sentient beings feared oblivion. Even the daemonic. Especially the daemonic.
Still, Typhus did not beg. He was no coward.
Ambition had always driven him. He was the author of plagues that had consumed stars. He had walked the Garden of Nurgle, received teachings from the god of decay himself—how to gestate disease, how to seed order within rot.
He had turned billions of Kalandi into shambling corpses, watched empires crumble under viral storms.
And he had enjoyed every moment.
During his Dark Crusade with Abaddon, he poisoned countless systems, laughing as mortals wept in agony.
He would not apologize. He would not pray.
There was no mercy for his crimes—and he never wanted it.
He took up his Manreaper, that massive corrupted scythe, and charged.
With a roar thick with rot and hatred, Typhus, the Traveler, launched the first strike.
In a moment of dazed clarity, Typhus beheld a colossal shadow behind the advancing Slayer—an overwhelming presence radiating pure martial will, enthroned above the carnage. A great being sat upon a throne wreathed in unrelenting fire, gazing down with merciless eyes.
Around the base of the throne moved warriors wreathed in the same pitiless flame, their armored forms cutting down daemon and traitor alike as they advanced through a battlefield strewn with ruin and filth.
The sight crushed the air from Typhus' lungs. The very space seemed to warp around him, growing heavy. His movements faltered, stalling for but a fraction of a second.
That momentary hesitation proved costly.
A towering daemon charged forward—its bloated, ichor-dripping frame nearly thrice the size of a mortal. Its pustule-ridden skull bore three twitching eyes, and it wielded a moss-encrusted bone staff from which countless trapped souls wailed in eternal torment.
It was a herald of agony. A being of the Warp given form.
And Doom didn't even spare it a glance.
With a flick of his wrist, the double-barreled shotgun roared. The daemon exploded into a spray of gore, its corrupted flesh reduced to steaming chunks, pooling foul pus across the ground.
Nothing could impede the Slayer.
Typhus snarled and swung his Manreaper wildly, trying to fend off the approaching juggernaut. But the disparity in power was abyssal. Doom parried his blows effortlessly, retaliating with mechanical precision.
Each counterstrike from the Slayer felt like being struck by a Land Raider at full speed.
Typhus reeled as hunks of rotting flesh were sheared from his body. Maggots spilled from the gaping wounds, writhing in the decay of his own meat.
Then came the shriek of metal upon metal—the Manreaper snapped in half beneath Doom's crushing counter.
Forced into retreat, Typhus released a shroud of noxious gas from the hollow bone spurs protruding from his bloated armor. The Hive of Destruction on his back screamed and buzzed, but Doom was undeterred. He marched forward, unstoppable.
Fear now took root in Typhus' eyes. It was not fear of pain or defeat—it was the raw, instinctive terror of oblivion. The doom of soul-death.
"Traitor. Why do you tremble?" Doom's voice rumbled through the comms.
"You should have descended into the warp's pit long ago."
Typhus raised his head, locking eyes with the visor. The Slayer's helm revealed no expression, only the faint glow of red optics—dead and unwavering.
Still, the contempt was palpable.
The so-called "Lord of Death" now feared death itself.
"The Imperium," Typhus spat, "is just another gilded womb for rot. A breeding ground for bloated lies wrapped in shining banners.
I have done no wrong. And you, Slayer, will be mulch in my master's garden."
His voice steadied. He was calm now. Resigned.
To Typhus, the Garden of Nurgle, with all its pestilence and corruption, was still cleaner than the hypocrisy he saw within the Imperium. He could accept defeat—but not judgment from the self-righteous.
Doom said nothing.
Words were wasted on the damned.
He surged forward, leapt, and cleaved through Typhus' arm with a strike infused with pure Argent energy.
Typhus screamed.
He had endured unending torment over millennia. He had wallowed in the filth of the Plague God's blessings, shaped the virus winds, and survived the wrath of rival Daemon Princes. But this was unlike any pain he had ever known.
The Argent blade didn't just maim flesh—it raked across his very soul, peeling it back with every searing strike.
A memory returned to him—rumors of a being named Dukel. The Warmaster of the Imperium. The Emperor's chosen sword. They said he would bring finality.
At the time, Typhus had dismissed it as idle heresy.
But now…
Now, staring through the veil of pain and broken perception, Typhus saw the truth behind Doom.
He looked again—not just at the Slayer—but at the towering figure seated behind him, watching from some higher plane.
The man upon the throne did not gaze at him, nor at the battlefield.
He simply existed—merciless, inevitable.
A being that even the Chaos Gods dreaded. No burning halo, no words of judgment. Just the silent weight of doom.
In that final moment, Typhus saw beyond the veil. A glimpse of the one who ruled the stars like a clenched gauntlet—more terrifying than the corpse upon the Golden Throne. Less predictable, more wrathful.
In the moment of his greatest agony, Typhus' soul flared with unnatural clarity.
A glimpse of the end.
A future shaped by the hand of one greater than daemon or primarch.
Dukel.
And all that came with him.
He beheld a vision of the stars weeping, the Immaterium writhing in endless storms, and the Sea of Souls withering into desolation.
A presence towered above it all—a man who gazed cruelly upon the universe, not a daemon, but something far worse. A being beyond reason or mercy.
"Hahahaha! I'm not the one who should go to hell!" Typhus wheezed, his corrupted lungs forcing out a thick, phlegmatic laugh that reeked of madness.
Doom paused. He didn't understand what had driven the traitor into sudden insanity—but it mattered little. His blade was already raised to deliver final judgment.
Then came the thud of grenade launchers.
Explosive shells rained down like iron hail, slamming against the energy shield that automatically flared to life around the Doom Slayer.
A formation of Plague Marines, reinforced by hulking Blightlord Terminators, surged into the fray. Rusted grenade launchers belched diseased payloads in desperate volleys. They moved to shield Typhus, forming a bloated wall of flesh and armor.
Their corrupted bodies were fused with decaying ceramite. Pus leaked from ruptured seams. These warriors, born of an ancient and fallen gene-line, were no longer men—they were walking plagues, vessels of decay.
One of them bore a mutated skull grotesquely reshaped into the semblance of an insect's head. Their power armor, rotting and perforated, was crawling with daemon-flies, swarming in and out like vermin in a hive.
Words failed to convey the repulsiveness of these plague-born monstrosities.
But disgust was no shield.
Doom advanced.
His blade carved through the diseased ranks like judgment made manifest. Blightlords fell. Plague Marines were reduced to steaming chunks of fetid meat. Their shield wall crumbled. Their sacrifice was meaningless.
Corpses split open, spilling foul, rotting fluids across the deck. A storm of enraged daemon-flies rose like a black tide to engulf the Slayer—but they never reached him. An invisible force crushed them mid-air, leaving only twitching husks.
Typhus turned to flee.
It was pointless.
The Plagueburst Hulk offered no escape. The paths were clogged with daemonspawn and cultist corpses. Madness and decay reigned. His followers roared with futile devotion, but their weapons could not so much as scratch Doom's armor.
Cornered, Typhus turned with a snarl and swung his shattered scythe in a last, pathetic act of defiance.
Doom countered with ease. The scythe shattered again—and so did the arm that wielded it.
The Slayer seized Typhus by the neck and lifted him high.
"Look at me, traitor," Doom roared, his voice amplified by psychic force. "Look into my eyes—if your conscience is clear!"
Typhus flinched. His gaze dropped, unable to meet the red glow behind the Slayer's visor.
Doom drove his sword into Typhus' bloated torso. The Argentinian blade, forged of divine torment and righteous wrath, pierced not only flesh but soul.
Typhus screamed.
His corrupted spirit was set ablaze. Every atrocity, every betrayal, every plague unleashed upon mankind—now turned against him. The sins cried out. The flames judged him.
Doom released his grip, letting the traitor collapse.
Typhus fell to his knees. His innards spilled from the gaping wound, writhing with maggots. He looked down, saw his body unraveling, and knew despair.
Then came the final stroke.
The Yakin blade swept across with surgical precision. Typhus' head flew from his shoulders, rolling across the corpse-littered deck before coming to rest among gore and ruin.
The swollen, decapitated body did not bleed.
It only oozed foul pus, bubbling from the severed neck.
So perished Typhus the Traveller.
Once a son of Mortarion, once a defender of mankind. The plague-wielder. The traitor who led the Primarch astray. A monster cloaked in legend.
Now, nothing.
His body rotted amidst the corpses of lesser daemons, indistinct. Unremarked.
Erased.
…
TN:
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