The air gradually fell silent.
Mortarion's eyes widened. As the Lord of the Fourteenth Legion, how could he possibly have said those words? Had he lost his mind? Or was something else happening?
But if it wasn't his own will, what on earth could control his mind? His consciousness was clear. Even the Grandfather did not influence his core will; he had already shaken off his past dependence on the Emperor's flowery lies.
Yet, for a Primarch of the Death Guard—a Legion that emphasized resilience above all else—to utter such words was unthinkable. Mortarion's mind went blank for a moment. He couldn't even find a word to describe his current situation.
Was this not the ultimate humiliation?
At that very moment, the sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps thundered. Accompanied by the synchronized vibration of metal boots hitting the ground like claps of thunder, a group of Astartes clad in various patterns of power armor burst through the chamber doors.
Then, they witnessed the scene.
A group of Astartes—Grey Knights and several other heroes of the Great Crusade—had sensed the massive Warp energy fluctuations and immediately united to charge in, barely having time for a brief exchange.
Everyone froze, standing like wooden statues.
How was this possible?
Whether it was the Grey Knights, experts in Warp daemonology, or the heroes who had faced Mortarion during the Great Crusade and the Heresy, they all recognized the figure on the ground.
Mortarion, the Primarch of the Death Guard, a Daemon Primarch.
Yet there he was, cut in half, clinging to life only through the grotesque vitality bestowed by the Grandfather.
How much time had passed?
Under their incredulous gazes, Mortarion felt not only an inexplicable surge of intense pain but also an overwhelming sense of shame. He wanted nothing more than to seize his weapon and reap these intruders with his scythe. This was especially true as he sensed his own unknown descendants and the Grey Knights among the group.
Those unbelievable, strangely meaningful looks they gave him stung more than any blade.
Mortarion had lived for over ten thousand years. He had experienced betrayal, fall, and all manner of bizarre events in the depths of the Warp. But he had never felt shame this intense.
Mortarion opened his mouth to speak, but someone else beat him to it. Or rather, something else.
With a massive surge of Warp energy, waves erupted in the void once more. Mortarion's gargantuan body was seized by an unseen force and vanished into thin air at high speed, leaving behind only a large puddle of corrosive blood and a lingering stench.
Nurgle had intervened.
The group stared blankly at the spot, their expressions odd. After a long silence, they all turned their gaze toward Adam.
Even Kaldor Draigo, the Supreme Grand Master of the Grey Knights, was among them. Even for a Chapter as obsessed as the Grey Knights—who would go so far as to eliminate mortal allies just to ensure no witnesses remained—they were psykers of high intellect.
A mortal-looking human who could effortlessly defeat a Daemon Primarch, holding an unknown holy sword radiating the Emperor's power so brightly it practically blinded their psychic sight... both his strength and identity were clear as day. Even if his origin and the origins of the Astartes beside him were mysterious, accusing him of heresy now would be a waste of everyone's time.
Finally, someone spoke up.
"Lord Adam, that Daemon Primarch... did he escape?"
What kind of question was that? Wasn't he banished? Draigo frowned slightly. All his Warp knowledge told him that the essence of a daemon is immortal. This was clearly a case of Mortarion being banished back to the Warp after suffering a massive blow.
Undoubtedly, this was a glorious victory worthy of the Imperial annals. So why did the question sound so strange?
"No, you've guessed wrong."
Adam's eyes were distant, as if looking through the void or savoring a memory. It took a moment for him to snap back.
"I've placed a beacon—or rather, a set of coordinates—on Mortarion. It will help me locate Nurgle's Garden."
Silence fell. Absolute silence.
Even the Grey Knights, usually detached from mundane shock, were speechless.
Locating Nurgle's Garden?
That was the Grandfather's domain, one of the most hidden realms in the depths of the Warp—a holy land that countless daemons dreamed of but could never enter. Despite ten thousand years of war between the Imperium and Chaos, no one had ever truly breached such a core territory.
And yet, what was this man saying?
"Of course, it's more than just a marker," Adam murmured to himself, as if explaining. "Actually, come to think of it, it's simply a reason to convince myself—or rather, to convince my ability—that I can do it. It's quite fascinating..."
Having reached Class IV Reality Bender status, Adam's perception of his own limits had become blurred. In this state, he needed a logical justification to better exercise his power.
As everyone knows—traditionally speaking, following a wounded enemy commander back to their stronghold is a perfectly normal tactic in human history, right?
If so, I can do it too.
"So, is anyone interested in coming with me?"
With that thought, Adam made his decision. Since he had spoken harsh words to the Grandfather, how could he not keep his promise?
He turned to face the Astartes. His gaze swept over the faces hidden behind helmets, over the heroes of different eras, and over warriors whose eyes held a mix of awe, confusion, and disbelief.
"Shall we go together and burn down the nest of that Plague God?"
The air froze completely. Draigo opened his mouth, then closed it. The Grey Knights looked at each other, for once unsure of how to respond.
Nurgle's Garden.
This was a realm of eternal corruption deep within the Warp. Under the shroud of the Plague God's will, all concepts of disease, rot, decay, and despair converged here to form a bizarre and lush "paradise."
The air was so thick it felt like breathing rotten meat. As far as the eye could see, the land was a soft marsh made of festering organic matter; every step splashed foul pus. Things called "trees" grew trunks covered in massive tumors that pulsated rhythmically, like countless deformed hearts.
Within the decaying thickets, giggling and laughter echoed. Swarms of Nurglings were playing happily. These round little daemons were covered in sores, with green pus oozing from the folds of their skin. Some rolled in puddles of sludge, some gnawed on each other's rotten limbs, and some simply lay in piles of decaying leaves, letting maggots crawl in and out of their orifices.
To a mortal, this was hell. To a child of Nurgle, this was home. Naturally, if vibrant life is life, why can't decay—coexisting with microbes—be called vitality?
In the deepest part of the Garden stood a massive, pitch-black mansion. This was the residence of the Lord of Pestilence. At this moment, the master of the house was watching the material universe with his cloudy eyes.
It is a well-known fact that Nurgle presides over decay and stagnation. And the arch-enemy of stagnation is, of course, Tzeentch, who is constantly plotting change. To the Plague God, change is evil.
Recently, a major event had occurred in the material universe—the Imperial Regent, who had slept for ten thousand years, had awakened. To Nurgle, this was intolerable. In thousands of years, what change in the galaxy could be greater than this?
Although Nurgle and the one sitting on the Golden Throne—who stubbornly refused to join the Great Game—never saw eye to eye, the Grandfather knew exactly what kind of person he was. A gambler who couldn't afford to lose, a bastard who loved to cheat. The resurrection of a Primarch seemed wrong, yet it was precisely in character for the Dark King.
Even Tzeentch, the master of fate, frowned at this massive change, to say nothing of the other powers. They had rarely reached an agreement, intending to use this opportunity to throw a grand carnival on Terra.
But then, another change appeared.
Vashtorr was dead. He had fallen into a trap and been hunted down by something that looked like a mortal but was unlikely to be human. Upon his death, the domain of Malefic Artifice collapsed, and the resulting Warp storm was instantly sensed by the Great Powers.
And Nurgle was very angry. He wanted to teach that fellow a lesson.
Then...
A massive portal appeared in the sky above Nurgle's Garden. It was a passage to the material universe, now frantically spewing chaotic Warp energy. Green light poured down like a waterfall, illuminating the entire decaying land.
Mortarion.
The Primarch of the Fourteenth Legion, Nurgle's favorite, was now lying on his back in the rotting marsh. His power armor was in tatters, and a terrifying crack ran across his waist.
But a gentle power was surging, converging from every corner of the Garden like the palm of a grandfather, softly wrapping around his broken body and healing that horrific wound bit by bit.
Around him, the giggling Nurglings suddenly froze. They stared at the scene, and then—
"Mortarion is back! But... how?!" a Nurgling shrieked, its smile instantly hardening.
"Oh my! Poor Mortarion! What happened to him!" another Nurgling cried in terror, covering its face as pus seeped through its fingers.
"Quick, call Ku'gath! Ku'gath will have a way! He can heal any wound!"
Chirping voices rose everywhere, but there was no fear in their words, only pure concern and worry. To the children of Nurgle, every family member was important. This was the Grandfather's teaching.
Within the dark mansion, the gargantuan figure nodded slightly. It's good that he's back. It's good that he's back.
Vashtorr had died mysteriously, and Nurgle had truly worried that Mortarion might follow in his footsteps. Nurgle refused to think about the consequences of that.
Ku'gath.
Nurgle's Great Unclean One, one of the Grandfather's most beloved children, the incarnation of plague and disease. As he ran, chunks of rotten flesh fell from his massive body. Those pieces hit the ground and instantly exploded into clouds of buzzing rot-flies.
"What happened to you! My brother! What happened?!" Ku'gath rushed to Mortarion's side, his cloudy eyes full of anxiety.
"I'm fine."
Mortarion struggled to stand. The Grandfather's power had already repaired most of his injuries, but the lingering presence of that indefinable power within him still made his entire body tremble. He gnashed his teeth, his voice muffled and hoarse.
"I was just careless. I didn't dodge."
He did not mention his inexplicably humiliating behavior after being cut in half. That was too shameful. He would bury this hatred deep in his heart, waiting for the day he could personally avenge it.
"There is such danger outside?" Ku'gath breathed a sigh of relief but remained concerned. He leaned in closer, buzzing his question: "Did you encounter Roboute Guilliman?"
"How could that be?" Mortarion spoke gloomily, his tone full of rage. "Guilliman's swordsmanship? Could he beat me into this state? It should have been me beating him into this state!"
"Then what happened?" Ku'gath was even more confused. His massive body leaned forward, the swarm of flies on him buzzing loudly. "Who did you encounter? What did they look like? Don't worry, tell me, and I will surely help you get revenge."
"They look like this."
A calm voice interrupted their conversation without warning.
Ku'gath froze. Mortarion froze. The Nurglings huddled around, chirping, all froze. They turned their heads blankly toward the source of the sound.
Then, they saw a man.
The man stood in the middle of Nurgle's Garden, in the heart of the area where the Plague God's power was most concentrated—a place of corruption that would instantly turn any mortal into a puddle of pus.
He wore simple, dark traveler's clothes. His steps were steady, and his posture was relaxed. He had no protective gear; he just stood there calmly, treating the surrounding plague and disease as if they were nothing, chatting and laughing with total composure.
Behind him, Astartes clad in various patterns of power armor stood in solemn formation as if facing a great enemy, their weapons gripped tightly, their gazes locked onto everything before them.
Adam looked around, taking in the full sight of the Plague Garden's corruption. He couldn't help but shake his head.
"I have to say, the taste here is truly poor. It feels even worse than... Yaldabaoth."