The force field shockwave generated by the collision of power weapons swept across the area, instantly scattering the dense toxic fog that hung around them and creating a momentary vacuum.
Cato Sicarius leapt back smoothly using the recoil of the impact, his cobalt-blue power armor shining with an unyielding light in the dim canyon.
Facing the giant before him—a monstrous figure reeking of decay, looking as though it had stepped directly out of a nightmare—Sicarius felt no fear. He held his head high, his voice echoing across the battlefield through his vox-grille: "Rejoice, traitor, your redemption has arrived! Today, I, Cato Sicarius, grant you the only forgiveness you deserve: death!"
Upon hearing this, a malicious yellow light flickered in the single eye beneath Typhus's rotted helmet. He swung the massive Manreaper in his hands as countless fat plague flies hummed around him, forming a sickening shield.
"Redemption? From you?" Typhus uttered a wet laugh that sounded like thick phlegm stuck in his throat. "What a boastful little pup. When I was harvesting souls during the Long Night, your ancestors weren't even born. Do you truly think that toothpick of a toy sword can harm the Chosen of Nurgle?"
"Die, dog of the False Emperor! Becoming fertilizer in the Grandfather's garden is your only destiny!"
Typhus moved. Despite wearing heavy Terminator armor, the First Captain of the Death Guard possessed astonishing speed. He stepped forward, bringing the massive Manreaper around in a sweeping arc accompanied by a howling wind—a strike capable of cleaving a Land Raider in two.
Sicarius did not meet it head-on. He knew that in terms of raw strength, his artificer power armor could not match Typhus, who bore the blessings of Nurgle and wore Terminator plate.
He veered sideways like a flash of blue lightning. The blade of the Manreaper scraped past his pauldron, raining down a shower of sparks. Immediately after, Typhus flipped his wrist, bringing the scythe around in a bizarre change of angle aimed straight for Sicarius's waist.
A sharp glint flashed in Sicarius's eyes. The instant before the scythe reached him, he executed a daring and exquisite maneuver. Rather than retreating, he lunged forward into the inner reach of Typhus's attack, pressing the plasma pistol in his left hand directly against the joint of the Manreaper's shaft and pulling the trigger.
BOOM!
Although the point-blank plasma burst failed to sever the Manreaper, the immense force shifted Typhus's attack off course.
The moment Typhus's guard was thrown wide open, the power sword in Sicarius's hand struck.
It was no simple slash, but a fluid sequence of moves: an upward parry, a thrust, and a horizontal slice. The sword technique executed in that split second was so fast that even an Astartes' dynamic vision could barely track it.
With the hum of its disruption field, the blade bit cleanly into the vulnerable armor joint of Typhus's right arm.
Sizz...
Accompanied by the harsh screech of tearing metal and a roar from Typhus, a spray of black, foul-smelling corrupt blood erupted. Typhus's previously impenetrable right arm plate was cut open down to the bone, the deep wound causing his movements to stiffen for a fraction of a second, nearly causing him to lose his grip on the Manreaper.
Having scored a hit, Sicarius disengaged instantly, leaping back to a safe distance and flicking the foul blood from his blade.
Holding his right arm, Typhus stared at the "smurf" in disbelief. He had never expected to be wounded so easily by a junior warrior in a direct duel.
"How is this possible... this style of swordsmanship..." Typhus gritted his teeth as the flesh at his wound squirmed violently to knit itself shut.
Sicarius stood tall, raising his chin slightly with the quiet pride reserved only for victors, and said calmly: "Surprised? Master Calgar taught me this move himself."
"Disgusting arrogance... Guilliman's little pup," Typhus muttered low, the sound resembling bursting bubbles from the depths of a swamp.
He wasted no more words, simply raising the massive scythe once more to charge forward. But this time, the First Captain of the Death Guard changed his strategy.
There were no more wide, aggressive sweeps, nor any rushed attempts at a killing blow. Typhus's tactics became simple to the point of shamelessness: pure, unassailable caution. Leveraging the thick defense of his Terminator plate and the Destroyer Hive surrounding him, he acted as a heavily armored, toxic mobile fortress, holding Sicarius in place.
This was his home ground. Endless waves of Nurgle poxwalkers were flooding in, and time was on the side of the Death Guard. As long as he dragged out the fight, the Ultramarines' ammunition would dry up, their stamina would wane, and the tide of battle would snowball in Nurgle's favor.
Sure enough, Typhus's seasoned and calculated tactic took effect quickly.
Though Sicarius's swordsmanship remained sharp, he could not break through Typhus's turtle shell in a short time. Meanwhile, without their captain leading aggressive thrusts, the surrounding Ultramarines began to falter under the overwhelming numbers of the Death Guard.
Watching an Ultramarine pushed back while under assault by three Plague Marines, Typhus spoke again with mockery in his tone: "It seems your brothers are about to pay the price for your reckless tactical choice."
"As long as I take your head, everything will be settled!" Sicarius roared. His power sword struck a flurry of sparks off the shaft of Typhus's scythe once more, but it still failed to break his defense.
"Excessive arrogance and heroism..." Typhus remarked, adopting an even more conservative fighting style. He took half a step back, focusing entirely on defense to wear his opponent down.
Just as the duel reached a stalemate, a intense burst of bolter fire rang out from the flank.
The fifteen Helldivers, who had been stalking the battle nearby, accidentally had their positions compromised by a Death Guard patrol returning to reinforce the area.
A clash erupted instantly. To the Death Guard's surprise, this squad of Helldiver auxiliaries—whose gear appeared far from top-tier—was holding its own.
Their small-unit tactics were astonishingly precise, their movement and coordination seamless, and their focused fire operated like a single organism. Naturally, their exposure also drew the attention of the Ultramarines.
"Are those allies? The Helldivers caught up?" an Ultramarine exclaimed over the vox.
The unexpected encounter thoroughly disrupted the player squad's plan. Their original stealth ambush was blown, and facing enemies converging from all directions, someone whispered urgently over the team voice channel: "Holy crap, this is awkward! Captain, are we still transforming?"