A gleam of mad determination flashed in Vashtorr's eyes.
There is still a chance.
As the greatest arms dealer in the Warp, he was unrivaled in the galaxy when it came to the Dao of Contracts. Countless daemons seeking power and cruel aesthetics had thrown themselves into his forges to be reshaped into peerless daemon engines; countless fools who dared to break their agreements had their essences stripped by him, becoming wailing dross in the furnace.
He held the most contracts in the entire galaxy. And this accumulation was finally being put to use at this moment.
The four strongest entities located in the deepest reaches of the Warp—the Chaos Gods—all had intricate connections with him. Their daemon engines, those war machines that had made humanity pay a heavy price during the long Great Game, mostly originated from his forges. Nurgle's rot-engines, Tzeentch's twisting constructs, Slaanesh's creations of desire, and even Khorne's never-ending war machines—they were all his works.
This dependence had once made him arrogant; it was his leverage. Now, it was his final lifeline.
Vashtorr gritted his teeth, his remaining left hand tracing a distorted symbol in the void. It was the Mark of the Covenant, an ultimate clause signed alongside those four entities countless eons ago. He had never thought he would need to use it. But right now, he had no choice.
Adam's gaze flickered slightly. The longsword in his hand was about to descend.
In that instant, the entire chamber, bathed in dazzling white fire, suddenly turned eerie. Something was seeping in.
Faint green mist bled from the void, silent yet omnipresent. The steel walls began to change—mysterious corrosion surfaced on the metal, not ordinary rust, but a wet, moss-like mold. It spread at a speed visible to the naked eye, crawling over the walls, up the pillars, and into every corner of the ceiling.
The air grew thick and viscous. Countless tiny particles suspended in the light resembled spores or decaying dust. The brilliant white flames burned fiercely, trying to incinerate them, but the mist was inexhaustible, and the fire could not disperse it immediately.
"What's happening?" Adam's pupils shrank.
Something was wrong. He didn't hesitate; his wrist snapped with power as the Solomon Ceremonial Sword traced a blazing white arc, slashing down toward Vashtorr's neck! Regardless of what was coming, he had to kill this guy first! Delay brings trouble!
He couldn't finish the strike.
The blade stopped abruptly a few meters from Vashtorr, as if caught in an invisible mire. Adam felt his sword entangled by countless strands of power. They were like spider silk or some slimy mycelium extending from the void, tightly binding his blade, his wrist, and his entire arm. The sensation was sticky, slippery, and carried a nauseating warmth.
"What the hell is this?!" Adam struggled with all his might.
The brilliant white flames erupted, incinerating all the entangling threads. He retreated in confusion, staring fixedly at the daemon on the ground.
Vashtorr did not answer. He was panting, his expression incredibly complex, carrying an unspeakable sense of humiliation. There was a method to seeking aid. Even among the Chaos powers whose domains overlapped with his—like Tzeentch—some were so terrifying in nature that he could never ask them for help. In that final split second, he had made his choice.
Adam didn't press for an answer. At that moment, a flickering voice echoed within the mental link.
It was Sibyll!
Adam turned his head sharply, as if he could see through the bulkheads to the Inquisitor who was maintaining the psychic barrier to lock the Warp. He could feel that Sibyll's seal was enduring an unimaginable pressure. The once-indestructible barrier was trembling violently, its surface covered in fine cracks.
Something was projecting itself here.
"What is this?" Sigismund's low voice rang out. His Black Sword was raised slightly, his eyes locked on a specific point in the void.
Then, everyone felt it. That aura. It wasn't a standard daemon, nor was it anything they had ever faced. It was something more—massive.
"Nurgle..." Adam whispered.
Nurgle. The Lord of Plague and Decay, the master of despair and stagnation, the deity symbolizing the end of all things in the material realm. He was called "Grandfather" by his followers because his "gifts" were eternal—a type of immortality unacceptable to ordinary people, an existence that persisted forever within rot and disease.
As the name left his lips, visions surged uncontrollably into Adam's mind. They were indescribable. A dark center, bloated like a tumor, infinite in size. It was formless yet possessed ten thousand shapes—sometimes appearing as a mass of expanding smoke, other times as a pool of endlessly flowing grease.
Its eyes were like dead, cold suns, watching the cycle of decay and rebirth. A huge mouth split open on its belly, as wide as the horizon, with countless stars flickering in its depths. Infinite black constellations and dying worlds writhed beneath its feet, forming a living swamp. It held a cauldron so large it seemed it could contain a galaxy, within which boiled endless plague and rot.
The God of Plague. His gaze pierced through the endless void, casting a brief glance toward this place. Just a glance.
Adam felt his scalp go numb. Dammit—
Boom!
The floor shattered suddenly! The power projected from the void finally reached reality. The metal ground was thrust upward by something massive from below, with countless twisted pipes and steel beams flying off in the explosion. Everyone instinctively leaped to the sides to avoid the sudden impact.
When the dust settled, they saw it. A massive figure rose slowly from the hole in the floor. It was a gargantuan beast, its belly stacked like a small mountain in front of it, covered in festering sores and wriggling maggots. Its skin was a sickly grey-green, with countless flies circling it, producing an irritating hum. A huge mouth grinned across its face, the corners reaching almost to its ears, revealing jagged, rotten teeth.
It was a hideous smile, yet for some reason, it carried a strange sense of kindliness.
A Great Unclean One. A Greater Daemon of Nurgle, the avatar of plague and decay, a walking source of pestilence.
Adam suddenly let out a relaxed laugh. He remembered something. The number of people present... Adam, Sigismund, Garro, Tarvitz, the World Eater, Zharost... six people. If you added Vashtorr—seven.
Seven was Nurgle's sacred number.
"Seriously..." he muttered, his mouth twitching. Who could have guarded against that?
The Great Unclean One's massive body turned slowly, finally locking onto Vashtorr on the ground. It opened its large mouth and let out a low, sticky sound, like a laugh and a voice combined:
"What are you still waiting for?"
The voice was like rotting sludge flowing; every word carried a suffocating viscosity. "Grandfather has agreed to your request. As long as you leap into the Warp now, we can save you. Then..." It paused, a kindness that could almost be called "affectionate" appearing on its hideous face. "We shall be reunited in the Garden of Nurgle."
Vashtorr struggled to prop up his broken body. He panted, his remaining eye staring at the Great Unclean One before looking at Adam and the others who were watching like tigers.
What a joke. He had struggled for so long, and it wasn't to become the puppet of some Chaos God. He wanted to become a god himself, to ascend to that supreme position and stand as an equal to those four.
It was true that the psychic lock had been torn open significantly by this sudden descent of great power. If he chose to cut his losses now, discarding most of this body's power and letting his essence escape into the Warp—then what? Would he then be snatched up by "Grandfather" and refined instantly?
No. Absolutely not.
Vashtorr took a deep breath, his remaining body suddenly exploding with a final surge of strength! He let out a roar and lunged toward the gap between the six figures, rushing toward the path he had come from!
"Pursue."
Adam's voice was terrifyingly calm. He didn't look back, merely staring at the massive Great Unclean One in front of him. But his words reached the ears of every Astartes clearly.
Sigismund was the first to move. His figure was like black lightning, instantly flashing toward the direction of Vashtorr's escape. Garro, Tarvitz, and the World Eater followed immediately. Only Zharost hesitated for a second, looking at Adam.
"Go." Adam waved his hand.
Zharost nodded, his scepter waving as silver psychic light pulled a long trail behind him, disappearing down the corridor in an instant.
Inside the chamber, only Adam and the still-smiling Great Unclean One remained. The daemon watched the direction where Vashtorr had disappeared. It didn't chase or stop them. It simply turned its head slowly, its cloudy eyes falling on Adam.
"So, my friend—"
Its words stopped abruptly. Because a terrifying sense of warning exploded in its heart like thunder at that moment! The human who looked no different from a mortal was staring intensely at it.
Adam's face was as dark as the bottom of a pot. He calmly retracted his gaze from the corridor and turned toward the Great Unclean One. His tone was very flat.
"Now—" Adam smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Have you decided how you want to die?"