Titus led the Ultramarines in a relentless purge of the lesser Skaven. These gaunt, diminutive, and loathsome xenos shrieked as they hurled themselves at the Astartes, only to be crushed under the sheer momentum of the Space Marines' armored charge.
The Angels of the Emperor didn't even bother to pursue the fleeing ratmen; their escape speed was unnatural, and no matter how many were slaughtered, their swarming numbers never seemed to dwindle.
As they navigated the twisted corridors, the Purity Seals affixed to their shoulder guards and plastrons suddenly began to smolder. When the parchment bearing the Emperor's holy words bursts into flame, it is a definitive sign of overwhelming Warp-taint and filth.
"Gadriel, proceed with caution!" Titus signaled, glancing at the charred remains of his Purity Seals.
"Understood, my Lord!" Gadriel nodded, raising his plasma incinerator and firing at a heavy iron grate ahead. The superheated matter melted the barrier instantly, clearing the path forward.
Bzzzzzz...
A cloud of flies, each the size of a man's fist, suddenly swarmed the interlopers. Thick carpets of nauseating, yellow-green fungi choked every corner, and even the cold iron was encrusted with disgusting, rusted clusters of bacterial growth.
"Burn them!" Titus commanded without hesitation. Two heavy Astartes armed with flamers stepped forward, unleashing twin torrents of promethium flame.
Fwoosh—!
The intense heat spared not even the supernatural carrion-flies of Nurgle. The fist-sized insects fell in a cacophony of wet, popping explosions. The pyrotechnic specialists did not stop, advancing steadily to clear a path for their battle-brothers.
Witnessing this, Nurgle frowned. Patting his rotund belly, the Great Father muttered, "This is no good. So many lovely lives... humans truly are cruel, just like this one here, who scorched my garden."
Nurgle gestured toward the Emperor, grumbling and whispering curses. The Emperor remained impassive, his silence leaving Nurgle frustrated.
"Even I have grown weary," Nurgle announced, his tone shifting. "The games are over. Whosoever takes the head of this human shall be the victor. What say you? I shall use their skulls as compost bins to compensate for the tiny lives they have reaped!"
Nurgle's tone was deadly serious. Having seen his garden burned and having felt the sting of holy fire himself, he had developed a deep loathing for flame-based attacks.
Khorne, still stinging from his earlier loss of face, saw this as an opportunity to reclaim his honor. Victory would settle all scores. He bellowed his agreement immediately.
"Heehee~ since that's the case, the previous bouts don't count. I demand to rejoin~" Slaanesh giggled, leaning against Lucius and pressing her perfectly shaped, teardrop breasts against him with wicked playfulness. "Don't be so stiff, darling~ it's no fun if the rules are too rigid~"
Lucius, of course, was immune to Slaanesh's temptations. He surveyed the expressions of the others; seeing no objections, he nodded. "Very well. Let it continue!"
"Heehee~ so considerate, darling~" Slaanesh laughed. With a wave of a hand, the resurrected Lucius and his scattered warband were swept up by a decadent gale and hurled back into the fray!
Nurgle grinned and issued a direct command to his favored son, Typhus.
Typhus, who had been wondering what the Plaguefather intended, felt the command flood his mind with terrifying clarity.
He knelt devoutly on one knee. "It shall be done. Victory shall be mine, for the glory of the Grandfather!"
Under Nurgle's personal blessing, the region was instantly saturated with Typhus's pestilent power. Violent warp energy surged through the area, forcing even the World Eaters to recoil.
"This is the foul sorcery of Nurgle… Ready the incendiaries and gas masks!" Metaurus shouted. As Titus's former mentor, his experience was vast.
But before he could finish, a volley of bolt shells detonated at their feet.
Through a thick fog of spores, dozens of bloated, emerald-armored Astartes emerged like a living wall. At their head stood a figure whose single horn pierced his helmet, wielding a massive, terrifying manreaper.
"First the Emperor's Children, and now the traitors of the Death Guard... where in the hell have we ended up?" Gadriel lamented, raising his plasma weapon to track the target.
"Hahaha, you shall be joyous offerings to the Grandfather. Be honored, lapdogs of the False Emperor," Typhus chuckled, his voice thick with phlegm. Without further ceremony, he raised his great scythe and charged.
A swarm of flies accompanied the heavy tread of the Death Guard. Moving like living trenches, they maintained a steady rhythm of fire from their rusted bolters, hurling plague bolts at the Ultramarines.
Titus reacted instantly, executing a tactical roll behind cover and returning fire. Their bolt rounds slammed into the corpulent bodies of the Death Guard, but they only blasted away chunks of necrotic flesh, failing to slow these heralds of Nurgle.
"Come... come into the Grandfather's embrace!" Typhus roared, advancing while firing, intent on crushing the foolish followers of the False Emperor.
A targeting laser suddenly locked onto Typhus's head. A split second later, a high-caliber round detonated, obliterating half of his skull.
Yet, Typhus did not fall. Myriads of daemonic flies swarmed the wound like bees building a hive, stitching his face and helmet back together in seconds.
"Dammit, it's useless!" an Astartes scout cursed from his sniping position.
"Cover us! Gadriel, Metaurus, on me! Snipers and flamers, provide support!" Titus unsheathed his chainsword. Years of combat had taught him that only the righteous bite of cold steel could truly bring down such foes.
As the roar of the chainsword filled the air, Gadriel activated his power fist, and Metaurus raised his storm shield and power sword. The three of them lunged toward the Death Guard in unison.
They were joined by a dozen Ultramarines wielding bolters and chainswords.
Typhus swung his manreaper in a wide, sweeping arc. Titus parried the blow with a heavy two-handed block, realizing instantly that the Champion of Nurgle possessed monstrous strength.
"Such a sacrifice... has true value," Typhus hissed. He didn't believe he could lose, putting his weight into the scythe to force Titus's blade back.
The resilience of the Death Guard was beyond expectation. Titus resorted to a brutal maneuver, firing his bolt pistol point-blank into Typhus's plastron. A spray of concentrated filth erupted, drenching Titus!
A sound like hissing sulfuric acid erupted, and a wave of unprecedented agony tore through both Titus's body and soul. This bile, infused with Nurgle's direct power, could normally reduce a transhuman warrior to a broken husk, forcing them to kneel in supplication to the Plague God.
But in that moment, the Emperor's eyes flared with golden light. A surge of overwhelming psychic and divine power instantly purged Titus's agony.
"You're cheating, you bastard!" Khorne roared in fury. "Then don't blame me! Khârn, take his head!"
"Heehee~ I can't miss out on this~ go, Lucius! Do not disappoint me again, or I shall have to issue a... small punishment~"
Lucius (the observer) saw that the three gods were determined to challenge the Emperor. He smiled nonchalantly, nodded to the Emperor, and then shouted: "Get back in there, Queek!"
Simultaneously, Khârn, Lucius (the Eternal), and Queek Headtaker received the direct mandates of their respective gods. They turned as one to hunt Titus. However, because each god demanded that their champion be the one to strike the killing blow, the four champions were incapable of anything resembling cooperation.