Chapter 467: O Sun... Submit to Death!
Karna's power was simple.
In its essence, it was no different from that of the Dark Gods.
It relied on the collective faith of sentient beings, distilled into raw, potent emotion. He used this surging intent to stir the Warp's tides, drawing specific authority and domain from the infinite reaches of the Empyrean.
Karna had always been this uncomplicated.
His mind was not as mercurial as Ramesses', nor could he endure hellish psychological torment like Romulus. He certainly couldn't live entirely within a world of his own making like Arthur.
He had spent his existence wavering between a trance and lucidity, fearfully doing what he felt he must, terrified of a future where his failure meant universal despair.
He had once considered himself weak. During his first battles, he had hidden within his physical shell, allowing the "Black Rage" of the Blood Angels to take the reins and fight in his stead.
Karna had doubted his own endurance. He had seen too much. Often, a voice in the dark whispered for him to simply grow accustomed to the horror—to accept that doing "one's best" was enough. Yet, his innate kindness acted as a relentless spur, demanding he do more.
Long ago, while Ramesses indulged in life, Romulus faced the cold grit of reality, and Arthur sketched the blueprints of his ideal world, Karna would stare at the jagged mountains and the hollow-eyed children of the slums, forcing a smile he didn't feel.
For a human, there is no greater agony than possessing a saint's heart while trapped in a state of utter helplessness.
Karna had always wanted to do more, but reality had always dictated his limits.
Until now.
At this very moment.
Karna closed his eyes. He was listening.
He heard the voices of the faithful flowing toward him. He heard the joy of those building their lives with their own hands, and the scorching resentment of those seeing their world's ruin.
Faith was a tangible force.
The expectations others placed upon him manifested in the Warp as desires, obsessions, and concepts. Ultimately, they coalesced into the form Karna willed, becoming his strength.
He was powerful.
He could reach across the void to touch the stars. He could look upon the farmer in the field and the worker on the manufactorum line. He brought archeotech to secure their prosperity and offered faith to soothe their souls.
Burning embers warped reality around him. Karna felt his power manifest exactly as the billions desired it to be.
He did not need to calculate the maneuvers of war; he only needed to manifest his divinity to the enemy.
With this, Karna could achieve anything.
Within his burning gaze, images flickered—reflections of the old man he had met before the battle.
Billions relied on him for everything. They petitioned him for aid, offering endless devotion and demands, seeking guidance and salvation. Billions of eyes were fixed upon him.
Countless souls came and went.
Astartes, laborers, scholars, children, the elderly, men and women.
The barriers they felt vanished. They sensed that this war, through the sacrifice of so many, was finally tilting toward victory.
They looked to the Angel with yearning, surrounding him, touching his auramite plate with trembling hands. They clustered around the one who had unified their disparate wills, pouring their desires into him.
Humanity craved vengeance against the Gods.
Their hatred for the Four was a white-hot brand. Their desire to see the Dark Gods dismantled was so intense they were willing to offer themselves as tinder, just to leave a permanent scar upon the divine.
Let it be so.
Karna reached out and seized that fire—the collective fury of quintillions.
The heart that desired only to protect everything had, in this universe, won the power to do exactly that.
Now, he lacked for nothing.
Nurgle.
I begin with you!
Heat. Blistering, incandescent heat.
It was as if he stood in the heart of a solar forge. Beyond the rushing, blinding radiance, Mortarion could see nothing.
Perhaps this was how the Great Khan had triumphed over him. Perhaps the Primarchs were always intended to be something more. Perhaps he, too, possessed such latent potential.
Facing the brilliance that saturated his vision, Mortarion widened his eyes.
He perceived a power—vast, ancient, and lethal—thundering through the Empyrean. He had not felt such primal fear in millennia.
Panicked, Mortarion raised Silence, his massive scythe. He intended to strike down Karna before this gathering catastrophe reached its zenith.
He had to know.
The scythe swung, trailing the heavy essence of death, struggling to parry an assault that was becoming impossible to track.
This is the debt I owe them. For my sons, I must give everything.
His thoughts flickered back to Barbarus—to the grueling, toxic plateaus. He remembered climbing cliffs shrouded in white mist, hunting for the slightest trace of a foe, seeking the impossible chance for rebellion.
Mortarion pressed forward.
He hungered for victory, as if by winning, he could force himself to forget the things he truly should have abandoned.
And then, Mortarion realized how terrifying that moment truly was. In the overlap of awe and glory, he felt himself lose control. The only thing he knew was that something cataclysmic had begun.
Light.
For a time, it was all he could see.
The entire planet was illuminated. Billions of motes of burning light lit the deep valleys below.
The massive silhouettes of warships emerged from the swirling soot and miasma. On the surface, the unnatural green glow of the star clashed with the pure white radiance of physical explosions.
Then, he saw it.
It was impossible to miss. Every soul on Calth witnessed it, regardless of the carnage surrounding them. At the center of the duel between Primarchs, a white, translucent orb rose. It expanded at a staggering velocity, before erupting into a jagged, blinding corona of solar fire.
In the Warp, Karna manifested as a blazing star, casting the light of Vengeance directly into the Garden of Nurgle.
The very ground of the Garden shuddered. Daemons, great and small, shrieked in terror, fleeing their burrows in a blind, frantic rout.
In the distance, across every corner of the rot-realm, Nurgle's Black Manse trembled. Mortarion felt another presence—something as powerful as the sun behind him, something as vast as the entity lurking behind the Manse's eternally shuttered windows—staring at him through the light.
The earth cracked and groaned.
Voices rose in a unified chant, singing the name of the Burning Angel.
Voices shouted the names of their lost homeworlds.
Voices bellowed war hymns as they charged the foe.
Finally, the discordance merged into a single word:
"VENGEANCE."
Karna reached out. The Sword of the Emperor—the blade of the Master of Mankind—traversed the impossible distance, appearing abruptly in his hand. It erupted with the fire of a thousand suns.
Karna had always aligned himself with the strength of humanity. And above him, there was one who was his mirror.
The Emperor, stunned by the emergence of these four, had long feared they would be corrupted by the Warp. He watched Arthur most closely, fearing the loss of their most precious insurance. He watched Romulus, fearing the collapse of their material foundation. He watched Ramesses, fearing the scholar would lose his way in the esoteric.
But Karna? He did not worry about Karna.
Karna was simple. His earnest desires granted him the power most compatible with this broken world.
At this moment, he was the mirror of the Angel.
He reached into the Angel's power and used it to turn the tide.
"O Sun..."
He raised the spear high. The sickly green star of Calth was eclipsed by a white, solar brilliance.
"...SUBMIT TO DEATH!"
A split second later, the shockwave hit.
The deafening roar was followed by a scream from the Empyrean—a concentrated, collective hatred directed at a single target.
The malice of millions manifested as a burning spear-tip, thrusting forward with absolute finality to pierce everything it loathed.
It cast the shadow of the End and Death upon his opponent.
Slaanesh looked away. Tzeentch laughed with malicious glee.
Even the Blood God paused to marvel.
Death.
It threaded through the gaps in the massed armies, pierced the weakest point of reinforced plate, and finally came to rest at the center of the tyrant's skull. It let out a sigh that sounded like a whisper.
It appeared there as a lethal coincidence, a signifier of the destination all—mortal, daemon, and god—must eventually reach.
This was True Death.
The weak and the hypocritical recoil from such a moment in terror, but the strong choose to challenge their fate.
The Blood God let out a world-shaking war cry, rising from His Brass Throne. His burning gaze was fixed on the radiant Angel. For a moment, He wished the attack were aimed at Him.
If it were, the fires of war would ignite across His wastes. Both sides would embrace eternal fury and plunge into a conflict worthy of their names.
He slammed His fist against the Brass Throne. Countless blades and daemons rose once more, projecting their essence into the material universe as a new, grand crusade began.
Khorne's only response was war. He would answer this strike with even more fervent slaughter, until the fires consumed one side entirely.
But Mortarion was too close. He could not react.
"Come then!" he roared, gripping his scythe, desperately trying to see through the glare.
Beneath his despair, there was a glimmer of expectation.
The Death Guard were dead already. All that remained to numb him was his own self-delusion.
Perhaps this was his proper end.
To submit to death.
Mortarion looked into the golden light. He felt an existence calling to him.
If he just stepped forward—if he followed the path of his sons and accepted the end—he could leave all of this behind.
He watched the meteor falling toward him.
No.
Mortarion's body refused his command.
He was frozen in that instant.
No, no—
Forced by a power beyond his own, Mortarion turned. Slowly, agonizingly, his pale form looked back toward the black house—Nurgle's Manse.
The Garden of Nurgle possessed many unique domains, but the Black Manse was the most sovereign. It was the inner sanctum of the Plague God. It was Nurgle Himself.
Creak...
A door opened in the gabled wall, revealing a darkness deeper than the white light of despair.
"No!" Mortarion cried, but it was too late.
A force reached out and yanked him back with a violent jerk.
He flew backward, soaring through the Garden, away from the pursuing flames and toward the Plague God's fortress. Before he vanished through the open door, he felt a spike of primal terror—a fate far more horrific than death.
SLAM!
The door vanished shut behind him.
Once again, a worse god had trapped him.
CRACK!
The sound of the door latching echoed through the Garden. The Plague God was attempting to bar the door against the uninvited guest bringing death.
But the spear of death always finds its mark.
"SUBMIT TO DEATH!"
Millions surged forward, raising their flaming spears.
BOOM!
They raised the spears, passing strength from one to the other, eyes wide, doing everything in their power to contribute.
Forward.
The air fell into a suffocating silence once more.
Flames flickered along the edges of the driving spear, outlining its lethal geometry.
The Burning Angel's body was taut. The hand gripping the spear erupted with sparks from the sheer force of the exertion.
The stalemate was brief.
CRACK!
Sensing the terror of the master within the Manse, the flaming spear flared with renewed intensity, dispersing the deep shadows.
And so, the light of Vengeance flashed once more.
CRASH—!
The sound was the splintering of a door turning to carbonized shards.
Black ash scattered, vanishing into the spray of sparks.
Forward!
"ROAR!!!"
The master within the house bellowed.
He is inside!
Ku'Gath carried his cauldron, gasping for breath, his steps unsteady.
His attendants followed, daemons who had just escaped the entanglements of the Tzeentchian host, now scurrying through Nurgle's halls.
His hearts thundered with fatigue and fear.
The Grandfather's voice was too slow now, hindered by the wavering of the collective mind, the total collapse of morale, and the wave of panic sweeping through the realm. The Garden was a fortress of pure life, layered and complex. Without that life to execute the Grandfather's commands, they could not control the reality of the domain.
BOOM!
Now he could hear the thunder outside.
Every Nurgle daemon could. Normally, no sound of death should penetrate the thick timber of the Garden, but the situation had changed. The sound had entered the Manse, the supposedly most stable paradise of life.
Ancient foundations were buried in the raw materials of the World-Shapers, yet the resonance traveled through the earth, echoing in every chamber and shaking dust from the narrow vaults.
Then, the floor lurched. It began to tilt. Seventy percent of the daemons present were thrown to the ground.
A fissure opened at the top of the outer wall, spreading at an impossible speed. Masonry fell like a waterfall, striking the floor and bouncing into the newly torn abyss.
Spears of fire erupted from the cracks. A deafening war cry thundered, echoing through the halls.
The primary structure of the wall had been torn open from the outside.
The local laws of physics began to dissolve into chaos. Ku'Gath gritted his teeth, clutching his cauldron, and ran toward the breach.
Do something, Ku'Gath! Pour the Godblight! Drown the enemy!
He no longer hoped the Godblight would poison a Primarch or secure a new son for the Grandfather.
He found himself praying he could just tip the cauldron over, for a single moment.
He found himself begging the Grandfather to permit this one tiny act.
It was not enough.
Ku'Gath's will was iron, and his courage in protecting his master was real.
However, as a tremor like a tectonic drill threw him to the ground, Ku'Gath watched in despair as his cauldron tipped.
And what brought him to the depths of despair was that it was empty.
"NO!"
He wailed. Behind the fire of vengeance, he heard other sounds approaching—cunning, obscene, and brutal voices.
The other three Gods would not miss this opening. When the gates of the Plague Manse were breached, no one would pass up a once-in-an-eternity opportunity.
This was Chaos. If one displayed a single shred of cowardice, the other "Sovereigns" would not hesitate to tear a pound of flesh from them.
Just as the Gods had forced Tzeentch to break his staff, and Nurgle had snatched Isha during Slaanesh's birth.
Ku'Gath watched as a panel above him was blown away entirely. Thousands of fragments rained down into the Grandfather's nursery. The screech of scraping metal rose to a crescendo, followed by the roar of rushing air.
BOOM!
Ku'Gath watched a spear flash past his vision, surging deep into the Manse, leaving a trail of burning feathers.
Heat. Death. Apparitions constructed of pure flame flooded through the breach from the external battlefield. Shattered metal struck biological plating with deafening impacts. Massive sections of the outer wall tumbled like spent shells.
Now, as Ku'Gath clutched his great bell and looked up at the headless giant towering over him...
A sense of total powerlessness surged within him.
As the guns thundered again and the stunned daemons regained their senses, desperately trying to cast their remaining spells, the Burning Army—the army wreathed in fire—stood atop the withered wood and rubble.
The Legion of the Damned. These manifestations of the Emperor's will had arrived alongside the vengeful souls who believed in the Angel.
Together, they wielded their blades and pried open the Plague God's fortress.
They stood at the peak, staring into the infinite darkness ahead.
Behind them was a forest in flames, with countless soldiers scrambling up the walls of the Manse. Beside them were the shattered walls, bricks still tumbling. The fissure torn by the spear was widening, and the wooden gate that once served as a breach-point had vanished entirely.
Before them, under the heavy shadows of dust and smoke, was their long-dreamed-of target—the promise that had driven them forward through the years.
Countless eyes looked upon it, staring into the overflowing terror, entering the sanctum to ignite the fire and coldly observe the extinction of the rot.
It was these existences that had made their survival so agonizing.
Only death seemed a viable release.
Spires rose like a forest, layered and dense. The structures within the Manse were so tightly packed they seemed capable of housing the lives of an entire world. Now they were packed with life, weeping and trembling before the Burning Legion.
And so it began.
Everything started here.
Survivors huddled in plague-wards. Daemons and the Fallen stood paralyzed amidst the noise and stench. There, they saw everything—the true privileged elite of this world, and the atrocities they had committed.
Now they had finally arrived. Humanity. The Avengers.
They had already slain much in this battle, but now, more stood before them—unimaginable numbers, like cattle led to the slaughter.
"WE ARE HERE!"
The Headless General struck the skull of a Nurgle daemon. The surging vitality on the battlefield prompted the ancient victims around him to shout in excitement.
The warriors who died in that horrific tragedy ten thousand years ago—time could not diminish their fury nor excise their hatred.
"We have entered," he murmured, fire and black smoke billowing from his headless collar.
"Plague God, we are inside!"
The thirteenth aimed beam pierced the outer shell of the nearest plague cauldron. Ku'Gath knew the hour had come.
He had failed.
He still resisted stubbornly, speaking his final words.
"Grandfather, protect us..."
Then, the beams of energy weapons lanced into the hall, igniting the air mixed with charcoal ash.
Everything turned into a sea of fire.
CLANG!
Nurgle's Great Cauldron was pierced from top to bottom.
Steam erupted; cracks spread.
Boiling soup splashed from the rim, hitting the ground and leaving scorched marks.
Motes of searing heat splashed onto Nurgle's foot, burning a string of poxes, but the Plague God could only ignore the pain.
Filled with resentment and panic, Nurgle gripped the cauldron.
From the outside, the pot was shattered. In the numerous cracks, a molten gold light shone, mixed with other colors at the base, spreading constantly.
It wasn't until the domain of the Garden shrunk to a certain extent, and the multiple forces finally reached an equilibrium under the master's concession, that the veins spreading in the cracks stabilized.
But the countless fissures were still terrifying to behold. The golden light remained bright, as if it would tear the cauldron apart in the next instant.
It pressed closer and closer.
As if the moment He relaxed, the infinite Legion of the Damned would surge out from within.
Nurgle gripped the edge of the cauldron fiercely. Boundless heat spread up the rim, charring His palms black and burning searing blisters onto His forearms.
Pop~
A Nurgling fell from a blister, dying instantly in the high heat.
Nurgle stared fixedly at the spear before Him. The tip was inches away.
"It is over," Karna said, releasing the spear.
Countless souls plunged forward—mortal and Astartes, regardless of rank, supporting each other, holding the weapon steady, keeping the tip forever fixed before Nurgle's face.
"Thank you, Karna," the headless giant said, nodding toward the Burning Angel.
Beside him was a Manse now cleansed.
Everything had been incinerated—vines, bacteria—leaving only exceptionally clean white ash.
"You have more than just me to thank," Karna smiled. He dared not take all the credit for himself.
"I thank you in turn. I thank all of us. I thank the fact that we are still striving for a single goal."
Thank you, Ramesses, for your wild imagination that gave us a viable plan. Thank you, Romulus, for your toil that gave the plan the conditions for execution. Thank you, Arthur, for your consistency that allowed us to try a thousand things without hesitation.
Thank you, Lion, for your warcraft. Thank you, Corax, for your silent sacrifice. Thank you, Emperor, for the power you provided.
Thank you to the millions and millions who fight so that humanity can better survive in the galaxy.
To reach this level was never his power alone. He never had to face this solitude.
This victory belonged to everyone.
In this burning world, Karna met the eyes of countless souls.
They spoke to each other, shared the joy of revenge, and then bid farewell, stepping onto their own battlefields once more to bring the joy of victory to a companion who was about to wake.
And Nurgle.
He could only watch.
He could only grip his cauldron with all His might, wary of every human strike.
He could only watch over Mortarion with extreme caution, preventing death from truly descending.
Smoke billowed; the stench was overwhelming.
Isha watched the bloated deity hunched over the broken pot, the sound of crackling heat rising from Him, His entire form a glowing, searing red.
He would remain in this ridiculous posture for a very long time—until the next turn of eternity.
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