After disposing of that nauseating puddle of "failures," Typhus's single eye swept over the remaining tied-up players.
"Did you see that? That is the fate of refusing the Grandfather's kindness," he spread his hands, like a strict master patiently instructing rebellious children, his voice laced with an uncomfortable, slimy tone.
"Now, I will give you one last chance. Will you voluntarily embrace this eternal life and become one of us, or will you end up like that fool just now, turning into fertilizer to nourish the garden?"
"Do you want to join Nurgle's big family?"
The response he received was a unified chorus of spat disgust.
Though their bodies could not move, it did not stop the players from speaking their minds.
"N*gga go look in the mirror before you start talkin' 'bout family. You look like a moldy ass tomato that got left in the fridge for three months and still tryin' to act tough!"
Another player chimed in.
"Big family? Boy you look like you crawled out the dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant. Who the fuck claimed you as kin?!"
One of the most hot-tempered players yelled directly at the top of his lungs,
"Fuck yo bitch-ass, dog-breed lookin' motherfucker! You wanna kill me then do it, stop standin' there lookin' like a walking infection tryin' to recruit. I flinch for you? I'll be your grandson before I ever join that crusty-ass circus. Kill me or shut the fuck up!"
Looking at this group of obstinate mortals, a wave of disappointment welled up in Typhus's heart.
It seemed the Corpse-Emperor's brainwashing was indeed ingrained to the bone. Even after such efforts to demonstrate and persuade, he still could not free them from the bondage of that decaying Corpse-Emperor. The souls of these mortals were as stubborn as rocks.
"Hmph, quite a bunch of tough guys it seems," Typhus snorted coldly, the buzzing of the Destroyer Hive growing sharp and piercing.
"Since you are unwilling to accept it voluntarily, the Grandfather's grace can just as easily be forced upon you. Refusing the easy way only to choose the hard way... then let the show painstakingly prepared for you begin."
At his command, seven Nurgle Sorcerers dressed in rotted robes stepped out from the shadows.
Seven was the sacred number of Nurgle. These seven sorcerers stood in a circle around the immobilized players and began chanting ancient, foul incantations. Green plaguefire flared up at the tips of their staves, and thick Warp mist began to spread across the deck.
The ritual of corruption had begun.
Defiled energy washed over the players' bodies like a rising tide. Under the influence of an indescribable power, the players' originally pristine Imperial carapace armor began to rust and fester, fusing with the flesh underneath. Pustules swelled and burst on their skin, oozing holy pus. Their muscles bulged and mutated, filling with a morbid power.
After merely a moment, the former Imperial soldiers were now outwardly indistinguishable from the most loyal Plague Marines.
Once the ritual concluded, the lead sorcerer wiped the corpse-grease from his forehead and bowed respectfully to Typhus. "My Lord, the ritual went very smoothly and successfully. Their flesh has completely accepted the Grandfather's blessing and become perfect vessels."
Typhus nodded in satisfaction and signaled to release them.
"Unbind them. Now, let us welcome our new brothers."
With a wave of the sorcerer's hand, the invisible force binding the players' actions dissipated.
However, in that exact split second, the player nearest to Typhus who had just completed the "corruption" suddenly lunged forward!
He did not kneel, nor did he praise Nurgle. Instead, with an agility completely out of place for his bloated body, he pounced toward Typhus, his hands already pulling the pins on two uncorrupted krak grenades.
Typhus's reaction was lightning-fast. Or rather, he had seen far too many such betrayals and ambushes throughout his long life.
The manreaper traced a grim arc through the air.
Pfft!
The player's head was instantly pierced by the scythe, bursting open like a rotten watermelon. Carried by momentum, the headless corpse took two more steps forward before collapsing heavily at Typhus's feet. The primed grenades rolled aside with a dull sound, but Typhus casually kicked them far away to detonate.
Yet this was merely the beginning.
The other players who had just regained mobility either immediately raised their guns against their own temples and pulled the triggers, or charged like rabid dogs at the nearest Death Guard in suicidal assaults.
However, before they could inflict any real damage, the Destroyer Hive on Typhus erupted.
Hundreds of millions of daemon flies swept out like a black storm, instantly consuming these "recruits" who attempted to resist. Amidst the bone-chilling sounds of gnawing, this batch of newly transformed, death-bound men was completely reduced to dry bones.
Quiet returned to the deck, leaving behind nothing but a mess.
Typhus turned around slowly, his single eye filled with gloom as he stared dead at the seven Nurgle Sorcerers.
"Is this what you called... smooth? Successful?"
The sorcerers were equally bewildered, exchanging glances in utter confusion.
The lead sorcerer tremblingly examined a corpse and spoke in disbelief, "This... this shouldn't be possible. The ritual was indeed successful. Look at their bodies—every inch of muscle, every single cell is filled with the Grandfather's gift.
By all logic, their souls should have fallen along with it and immersed themselves in Nurgle's love. Why... why do they still retain their original self-awareness? How could they even self-destruct so decisively?"
"This is practically unheard of," another sorcerer leaned in, looking at the bones on the floor. "Could it be that their bodies and souls are completely independent of each other?"
"Are you talking about the separation of mind and flesh?" a third sorcerer countered.
"While theoretically a soul can exist separately from the body using unique methods—like the tricks of the Aeldari, or the projections of certain high-tier psykers—that requires a profound understanding of the Warp and extremely powerful psychic ability! This group of mortals—this group of grunt soldiers who can't even use psychic powers—how could they possibly pull that off?"
"Perhaps it's some unknown xenos technology? Or a new trick from that dried-up corpse of an Emperor?"
"No, I think it's more like their souls aren't even in this realm at all..."
Seeing these sorcerers about to launch into a lengthy academic debate on the "dialectical relationship between soul and flesh" and "Warp soulology," Typhus felt a surge of irritation.
"Enough!"
He slammed the massive butt of his scythe onto the deck with a loud clang, shaking the sorcerers so violently they nearly dropped to their knees.
"I have no interest in listening to your academic seminar!" Typhus's voice rumbled like thunder. "I only want to know the root cause! Is there a solution? I want this legion for my own use, not a pile of rotten meat that only knows how to kill itself!"
Facing Typhus's overwhelming interrogation, the seven Nurgle Sorcerers looked at one another, their rotten, bloated faces filled with panic and helplessness.
Damn it, who could possibly explain this situation? This was entirely outside their understanding of the Warp and soulology.