Septicus was very sad.
As a Great Unclean One under the Grandfather's command, his daily tasks were actually quite leisurely—idling away each day in the Garden, spending long, easy hours playing with various Nurglings.
Take today, for instance.
He had been lying comfortably in a foul woodland, slumped in a marsh of rotting mud, gulping down a beverage primarily made of decayed phlegm. The drink was so thick it seemed like a living thing, squirming slowly in the cup and occasionally emitting gurgling bubbles.
A group of Nurglings cheered, running around him, clumsily climbing over various fungi, frolicking among the trees, and rolling in the muck. Septicus watched all this with a chuckle, occasionally reaching out with a rotting finger to poke a Nurgling that rolled near him, making the little thing giggle incessantly.
All things rot. Whether it is decay or rebirth, everything is a link in Grandfather Nurgle's cycle.
Beside him, a massive Beast of Nurgle was nonchalantly tending to nearby trees—the shapes of those humanoid trees made it clear they had been transformed from some kind of humans. Whenever the beast lashed a trunk with its rusted iron chains, the twisted branches would emit bouts of coughing wails, serving as indispensable entertainment in the Garden.
What a beautiful day.
Septicus took a cozy sip of his drink, feeling the viscous liquid slide down his throat to hatch new life within him. His eyes were half-closed, enjoying this eternal tranquility.
Then, the anomaly erupted.
Blinding holy flames surged upward, illuminating half the sky of Nurgle's Garden. The light was so fierce, so dazzling. Septicus instinctively raised his arm to shield himself, his eyes—accustomed to the gloom—stinging so badly they almost leaked pus.
A rolling roar followed closely, sweeping across the wilderness with lightning speed, carrying the declaration of war into the ears of every Nurgle daemon.
Septicus froze, inadvertently setting down his drink and looking up in bewilderment.
Who exactly would dare to run wild in Nurgle's Garden? He had lived for tens of thousands of years and had never seen such a thing. Even in the Great Game between the Chaos Gods, no side had ever managed to invade another's core domain. This was the Grandfather's residence, an eternal sanctuary, a...
"Look! What is that?" a Nurgling shrieked, pointing a chubby little hand toward the distant disturbance.
Septicus followed its finger. Then, he scrambled out of the marsh with a start, his drink crashing to the ground as the thick liquid seeped into the mud.
It was a group of figures. Figures rising from the horizon.
They were wreathed in pitch-black flames—flames different from the treacherous sorcerous fires of Tzeentchian daemons, the violent blood-fires of Khorne's daemons, or the decadent embers of Slaanesh's followers. This was a pure black flame that seemed to condense all the hatred in the world.
Their heads exposed clearly identifiable white skulls, the shapes of which were hauntingly familiar. They held various weapons that glinted with a cold light under the reflection of the black fire.
Were these... humans?
Septicus opened his mouth, but before he could react—
The screech of tearing air rang in his ears.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
It was as if countless invisible heavy hammers were falling, ravaging this rotting land. Countless fire meteors rose from the ranks of those figures, crossing the vast distance at extreme speed and landing among Septicus and his Nurglings.
Explosions. Hundreds of explosions.
Shockwaves easily tore vast tracts of land to shreds, and buzzing daemons were turned to ash in the flames. The terrified screams of Nurglings rose from all sides; their round little bodies were tossed into the air by the impact, only to be swallowed by the strange, blooming black flames that followed.
The fire raged, clinging to them like thick napalm. The Nurgle daemons rolled in the mud, letting out shrill wails and using rotting sludge in an attempt to extinguish the fire, but the black flames seemed to possess a life of their own. No matter how they rolled, they could not shake them off.
It was like the hatred of humanity itself. Relentless. Until death.
"What is happening?!" Septicus shrieked, his bloated body trembling violently.
Fury rose in his chest, and the marsh beneath him began to twist. A massive shield took shape under the drive of his will, shrouding the surviving Nurglings around him. The roar of artillery continued, and the shield vibrated violently under the impact, but it managed to hold back this round of bombardment.
Then—
Kaldor Draigo laughed wildly.
He had never felt the psychic energy within him flow as freely as it did today. That power surged through his body as if resonating with a grander existence—the will of the Emperor, the will of Adam, and the combined wrath of all humanity.
Violent thirteen-fold lightning erupted from his hands, striking Septicus's gargantuan body. The psychic lightning split the shield, split the rotting flesh, split all defenses, and struck the core.
Septicus retreated with a scream, his bloated body twitching in the lightning. Then, a figure teleported to his side.
Geronten. The forty-seventh Supreme Grand Master of the Grey Knights—the hero who was supposed to have died at Mortarion's hands—now wielded his Nemesis Force Sword, piercing into Septicus's abdomen with almost flawless tactical precision.
The longsword transfixed him. Septicus looked down.
His intestines were pulled out. Golden flames danced on the blade, spreading into his body along the wound, charring the rotting organs he had cherished for countless ages and making a sizzling sound. It was a type of agony the Great Unclean One had never experienced.
"No... please..." Septicus cried out loudly, green blood-tears falling from his massive pupils. Those tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped into the marsh, turning into wisps of green smoke.
"Aren't we family?" His voice trembled with deep despair.
The Great Grandfather loved every form of life in the universe. His gaze fell equally upon every lifeform that propagated within the Garden; His power projected downward, forming the most perfect cycle among all things—from vitality to decay, and from decay back to vitality.
If this birth-to-death cycle wasn't the most beautiful manifestation in the world, what was? And even so, the Grandfather did not hesitate to share His love with any mortal, pouring His gifts across the entire universe.
And you... why do you reject Nurgle's gifts? Why do you turn your blades against us?
Septicus turned his head with difficulty, surveying his surroundings with his fading vision. Some Nurgle daemons knocked down by artillery were being herded into one spot by a group of burning Custodians. Those golden giants were expressionless, using Guardian Spears and Sentinel Blades to execute the wailing daemons beside the marsh like an execution squad.
A group of Plague Drones flew aimlessly, being picked off one by one by snipers from afar. Those extermination bullets seemed to have eyes, each hit precise, knocking them down like target practice.
A group of Beasts of Nurgle, possessing the innocent mindset of simply wanting to play with others, stumbled toward those figures.
Then—
A Baneblade roared toward them at the speed of sound, easily sending them flying. The gargantuan steel beast roared as it crushed their bodies, the sound of grinding bones coming from beneath its treads, trampling those Beasts of Nurgle into meat paste.
Septicus's body trembled violently.
He felt it. He felt the Grandfather's power still moving through his heart, moving throughout his entire body—but that power could not heal him, could not save him. It only allowed him to feel everything that was happening more clearly.
Those Legion members...
They were simply continuing to vent the wrath humanity had accumulated over ten thousand years and the ending all humans desired.
Destruction. The destruction of everything.
Septicus vaguely realized that the days ahead were likely to change. If he had any "days ahead" at all.
"...Grandfather, save me!" The Great Unclean One exhausted his last bit of strength, roaring at the sky.
The voice penetrated the burning sky, reaching toward that black mansion, toward the existence he had believed in for tens of thousands of years.
But the Grandfather only maintained His silence.
Septicus fell into total despair. He swung his bloated body, charging left and right in an attempt to escape this purgatory. But those figures were like maggots in the bone, clinging to him relentlessly. One hero after another from history joined the siege, one blade after another piercing his body.
His shouting gradually became feeble, his struggles became weak, and his bloated body teetered under the continuous attacks.
Finally—
He crashed to the ground. Septicus was dead.
That massive, rotting corpse lay in the burning marsh, green pus-blood gurgling out and intertwining with the black flames, making a sizzling sound.
And this phenomenon, so rare in normal times, was currently playing out in every corner of Nurgle's Garden.