Hunger. Cold.
The boy curled up in a shadowed corner, eyes sharp and wary as he scanned his surroundings. From within the filthy rags that barely passed as clothing, he pulled out a scrap of meat and shoved it into his mouth, swallowing it whole without chewing.
BOOM—
The street shook with distant explosions. Cries of agony echoed through the air, and flickers of flame lit the far-off horizon. He knew what it meant—but he didn't care.
Live. He just needed to live. Even one more day was enough.
To live, he had attacked a kindly neighbor. To survive, he had raised the banner of heresy and joined a warped cult. To ease his gnawing hunger, he had eaten the rotting flesh of his fellow man...
So what? He forced the chunk of meat down his throat, ignoring the bile. The cult's warlock had promised to lead them up through the hive's levels—to spread the so-called blessings of the "Kind Father" to more souls.
But truthfully, he didn't give a damn about the Kind Father. Or the Emperor, for that matter. He just wanted to survive.
Even if it meant... eating people.
"Hhh..."
With a final swallow, the last piece of meat slid down his throat. He licked the remaining blood from his hand with desperate greed.
It was, without doubt, a grave heresy. But who cared anymore?
As the fresh flesh settled in his belly, he thought—perhaps the disease felt even worse now. Or maybe it didn't matter.
None of it mattered.
He lay flat on the ground, eyes blank as he stared at the blackened hive ceiling above. Once, he had cried out from the pain, but as the sickness grew worse, it felt as if his brain had begun to rot along with his body. The pain dulled. Even screaming took too much effort.
His body twitched weakly. Bacteria multiplied beneath his skin. Flies buzzed around him. Strange, crawling parasites danced across his limbs, sucking the pus from the open sores festering across his flesh. Fungal tendrils spread from his shoulders to the swollen, discolored meat of his chest. Fat maggots burrowed through his necrotic skin, punching nail-sized holes in his body—some still squirmed, others had sealed themselves into cozy nests.
With trembling fingers, he picked off a maggot and popped it into his mouth. For a fleeting moment, he even envied these parasites—at least they had somewhere warm to live.
He knew he was dying. The hallucinations, the stench, the decay—it all told him so. But something inside him refused to surrender. His survival instinct screamed, clawed, begged for a way to keep going.
Torn between despair and the will to live, his mind and body were breaking.
He no longer belonged to the world of the living.
Yet he hadn't crossed into the realm of the dead either.
In that liminal space between life and death, he began to rot.
And in that rot, the Kind Father whispered of eternal constancy.
Somewhere beyond sight, something inhuman crept closer. It spoke in blasphemous tones, murmuring gently in his ear:
"Only Grandfather Nurgle's mercy can ease the pain."
He reached out with a dazed hand, like Adam in some forgotten Terra fresco, begging salvation from a god long abandoned.
At last, a non-human hand grasped his own.
He heard them speak:
"May you find redemption beneath the Four-Armed Emperor."
"...Huh?"
The Four-Armed... Emperor?
Confused, he blinked. The next moment, a rough hand seized his jaw, and a strange liquid was poured down his throat.
"Mmff—!"
He struggled, body thrashing violently. Ironically, the disease-ravaged frame now pulsed with greater strength than ever before—maybe because he no longer needed to worry about breaking his own flesh. But even with that strength, he was held down with ease.
As the unknown liquid hit his stomach, his body convulsed violently. Fat maggots squirmed out of his pores, necrotic flesh sloughed away, torn skin knit back together as if time reversed itself. Fungi shriveled. Flies scattered. His mind cleared as the last hallucinations were purged with retching spasms and the fading whispers of disappointment...
"Th-this... what is this?"
He stammered, staring at the figure before him.
"It is the blessing of the Four-Armed Emperor," the man declared proudly, raising a tall banner. One side depicted the radiant figure of the Four-Armed Emperor, glowing like a star. The other showed a mysterious blue entity, unknowable and divine.
"It was granted to us by the blue incarnation who descended under the Emperor's guidance."
At his side, a Plaguebringer—clad in stained robes and wielding a metallic staff bristling with syringes—grabbed the boy's arm and injected a second unknown serum.
Before he could even ask what it was, a fragrant sack of food was shoved into his arms.
"Th-this is..." The scent flooded his nose. He felt uneasy—scared.
Inside were five loaves and two fish—grown from seeds synthesized by the Seed Maker, capable of meeting all human nutritional needs.
As the boy rose to his feet, now miraculously healed and with food in hand, the other plague victims stirred in a frenzy. Stumbling forward on swollen limbs, they moaned in desperation, leaving trails of blood and pus on the ground.
"They have medicine! And food!"
"Please—give me some! I'll do anything!"
"Emperor! I've always been faithful to the Emperor!"
Driven by hunger and hope, their frail bodies surged with strength, eyes locked on the carts of supplies behind Puta, the preacher.
Without a sound, the Genestealer Guard beside him extended twin chitin blades from beneath their heavy robes and drove them into the ground. A neural field washed out—sharp migraines and illusions overwhelmed the minds of the desperate.
Puta nodded with satisfaction.
"Fear not, vermin. The Emperor is merciful. He has heard your prayers and poured down His grace. But in return, you will repent for every flicker of doubt you've ever had in your faith!"
"Of course! Of course, my lord!" the sick croaked and sputtered, groveling at his feet. "Thank you, Emperor! Thank you!"
Tch.
Puta clicked his tongue, amused by how much easier this mission was than expected.
All he had to do was cure them, convert them—and the political unity of their original faction would be diluted. This would make it far easier for Roy to rise as the bishop overseeing their entire sub-cult.
And once the soil of plague and famine was purged, there would be no room left for heresy to grow.
"Step forward to receive your medicine and food. But remember—this is a gift from the Emperor. A second life, granted by His divine will!"
Puta barked the command, and the faithful obeyed.