It had to be admitted that capturing this group of so-called Helldivers alive was far more difficult than simply crushing them.
These lunatics seemed to have injected themselves with an excessive amount of combat stimulants; the hyper-arousal of their nervous systems was enough to render standard paralyzing toxins useless. Several times, just as the Death Guard thought their targets on the ground had lost consciousness and bent over to drag them away, the supposedly "fainted" Helldivers would suddenly snap their eyes open, flash a mouthful of bloody teeth, and grinning madly, pull the pin on a suicide grenade hidden beneath their bodies.
Only after paying the price of several Plague Marines having half their torsos blown off did the Death Guard finally learn their lesson. They bumped up the dosage, deploying a potent neurotoxin capable of dropping a giant Grox, which barely managed to quiet these raging mortals down.
Now, on the vast cargo deck, hundreds of players were neatly stacked on top of one another, bound hand and foot and stiff as zombies.
Typhus approached with heavy footsteps, the drone of the Destroyer Hive drowning out all surrounding noise. He surveyed the spoils with satisfaction before nodding to his subordinates, signaling that it was time to begin: "Wake them up."
"My Lord," a Death Guard reminded him with some hesitation, "based on prior experience, the moment they awaken, they are highly likely to attempt self-detonation or attack whatever is closest to them."
"It matters not." Typhus waved a hand dismissively. "Under the gaze of the Grandfather, their little tricks cannot stir up much of a storm."
As another stimulating toxin was injected, the players on the ground gradually woke from their stupor.
Sure enough, exactly as the subordinate predicted, the moment these players regained consciousness and saw a ring of towering Death Guard standing over them, their eyes instantly lit up—a greedy gleam driven by the sight of top-tier gear and massive amounts of merit points.
Almost instinctively, everyone tried to reach for their explosives.
However, they quickly realized that while their minds were crystal clear—clear enough to make out the fine textures of every rust spot on the power armor—their bodies felt as though they belonged to someone else. They couldn't move even a pinky finger. The potent paralyzing toxin still firmly locked down their motor nerves.
Well, looks like we've hit a story cutscene. Guess we just have to watch and see what's going on.
Watching the captives who could do nothing but roll their eyes around, Typhus let out a wet, raspy chuckle. Spreading his arms wide like a benevolent elder, he launched into his sermon—a speech he had practiced over countless centuries.
He spoke of the fragility of life, the pointlessness of suffering, and the eternal peace and joy that awaited within Nurgle's great family. His voice was laced with seductive psychic ripples, attempting to tear a breach in the mental defenses of these mortals.
When the speech concluded, a brief, dead silence fell over the deck.
Suddenly, a player struggled to move his lips, breaking the silence: "So... bro, that was genuinely moving. I get it now. I sincerely want to join up. Can you cure the paralysis toxin on me now? I want to start serving the Grandfather right away."
Typhus looked down at the player, the eyes behind his helm narrowing.
"Hehehe..." He chuckled, a sound like bursting marsh gas. "Young believer, I appreciate your eagerness. But why bother curing it now? Once I bestow upon you a true blessing and completely corrupt your flesh, this mere mortal toxin will naturally heal on its own anyway. Wouldn't that be the same?"
With that, Typhus reached out with a large, sore-covered hand and brutally tore a piece of squirming rotten flesh right off a patch of decayed skin between the seams of his power armor.
The piece of flesh was a nauseating dark green, dripping with thick pus. Upon being detached from its host, it actually contracted and expanded on its own, as if possessed of its own life.
Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, the chunk of rotten flesh acted like a leech scenting blood, diving straight into the player's open mouth and sliding down his throat.
"Ugh!!"
Before the player could even dry-heave, he felt something cold and slimy surge straight into his stomach.
A miracle occurred; just as Typhus had said, he almost instantly regained his ability to move.
Yet he did not leap up to counterattack or detonate his explosives as expected. Instead, the player engaged in a behavior that was exceedingly rare—if not entirely unprecedented—among the Helldiver community: he curled up violently on the ground, frantically clawing at his chest and throat as he screamed in agony.
"AAAAAH! Fuck! What is this! WHAT IS INSIDE ME!"
He could feel with absolute clarity that the chunk of rotten flesh was rapidly dividing and proliferating inside his body. Countless tiny, barbed worms burrowed through his stomach wall, surging through his blood vessels into every part of his limbs and body. They drilled into his heart, tunneled through his lungs, and even crawled up his spine toward his brain.
Although the game's pain system had a ceiling to prevent players from dying of sheer pain, there was no limit on sensory simulation!
He could feel the wriggling of every single worm, feel them devouring his muscle tissue, feel them laying eggs inside his bone marrow... This extreme sensation of a foreign presence and the terror of being hollowed out alive far surpassed the impact of simple physical pain.
"I can't take this! This is too fucking disgusting! I'm out!!"
The player finally broke down. This psychological pollution, exceeding all physiological limits, drove him to force a disconnect immediately.
The next second, his body, which had been twisting and screaming on the ground, suddenly went limp like a puppet with its strings cut. Immediately following that, the flesh that had lost its human controller began to rot and decompose at a speed visible to the naked eye.
In just a matter of seconds, a living person melted into a pool of foul-smelling, rotten meat. Within that pile of filth, tens of thousands of plump maggots rolled and squirmed joyfully, making a rustling sound that made the surrounding immobilized players feel their scalps go numb and their Sanity points plummet.
Typhus looked at the heap on the deck, shaking his head with a touch of regret: "A pity. It seems his resolve was not steadfast enough, nor did he sincerely devote himself to the Grandfather, making him unable to endure such profound love."
At this moment, a somewhat bolder player nearby couldn't help but ask in a trembling voice: "So... if he hadn't died, would those worms just keep drilling around inside his body forever?"
Typhus turned his head and explained in an exceedingly caring, almost gentle tone: "Fear not, my child. By then, you and they will share a symbiotic relationship. They will be a part of your body, and you will be their nursery.
Since we are all family, what is there to fear?"
"Hss—"
"Holy shit..."
A collective gasp echoed across the deck.
Even the Fourth Plague—who feared neither heaven nor hell inside the game—felt extreme physical revulsion when faced with this concept of "family."
One player subtly signaled to his companion next to him with his eyes, lowering his voice: "Hey, didn't you always babble about how unique Nurgle's aesthetic was and how you wanted to visit the legendary Garden of Nurgle? Look, here's your chance! It's a direct express trip! Go sign up!"
The called-out companion stared intently at the squirming heap of worms on the floor, his face pale as a sheet. Swallowing hard, he declared with righteous indignation.
"Well... I just gave it some serious thought, and taking the backdoor like this is disgraceful. I think it's far more reliable to wait until Guilliman wakes up and march into the Garden alongside the Lord Regent properly. That way, it's fair and square."
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Inkstone doesn't work, posting off of phone