High above the world of Kalides, the sky glimmered with a nauseating, oily, greenish sheen. A constant downpour of foul, bacteria-laden rain covered the land, turning the earth into a bog of sticky muck. Upon a crumbling hill outside the range of Imperial artillery, the Death Guard's Chaos Lord, Gurloch, was addressing his subordinates. His voice slithered thickly, low and viscous as sludge wriggling through pipes—perfectly matching the foul-smelling pus that constantly seeped from the seams of his armor. Plump flies swarmed him, like a living halo buzzing in the gloom.
"Generosity…" Gurloch made a repulsive gesture of blessing over his chest with swollen, diseased fingers. "The edict of our Father, who accepts all corruption—his first and holiest principle. And we, faithful gardeners of God, are bound to uphold this supreme teaching."
The Plague Marines stood on the dirty, clay earth, like a rotten forest, listening intently. Fetid pus dripped from the seams of their power armor.
"Look at those ignorant wretches beyond the high walls!" Gurloch stretched his hand and pointed through the rain to the shimmering void shield in the far distance. "Led astray by the Corpse Emperor's lies—greedy, closed-hearted, utterly without generosity!"
"We offered them abundant gifts, yet they refused to accept them, returning nothing. So, their fate is to rot away in narrow-minded torment." His voice swelled, ringing with religious fervor, summoning even more flies.
"They resist the truth of the gods, recoil from their loving father's embrace, and cling to childish, foolish fantasies. They are greedy, selfish, and truly, utterly foolish! Now is the time to end this farce—smash their walls and overwhelm every inch with Father's boundless generosity!"
"Cough! Cough! Cough!"
A fit of violent coughing cut short the Chaos Lord's sermon, the sound coming from a nearby rusted rack. There, an Imperial Primaris Space Marine was pinned by corroded spikes. Maggots wriggled, seeking to make a home in his resilient flesh. He spat up black, flesh-laden blood, his helm long gone—his agonized face still burning with contempt in his eyes.
"...You, your master… both will fail..."
"Fool." Gurloch stomped over, corrosive ichor dripping from the blade of his massive plague scythe. "Withdraw your words and swear allegiance to the Father—you may yet live."
"My loyalty is for one alone," the primal warrior enunciated every word: "The one enthroned upon Terra."
Hostility flared in Gurloch's eyes. "Fools, ignorant, you might have become the cradles of new life, finding another eternity as you rotted away. But now… now you'll serve as nothing but a transient snack for my children."
"I'll see you in hell," said the Space Marine without fear. "Traitor."
Gurloch's huge scythe descended, and the primal warrior's head rolled onto the muddy ground. Instantly, a swarm of black flies blanketed the headless form, and soon, the corpse was teeming with maggots.
Satisfied, Gurloch turned back and fixed his gaze on the fortress rising like an island in the plague mists. His thickened voice issued the attack command.
"Release the walkers. Let our Father's generosity spill over the walls. This time, all resistance must be utterly crushed!"
…
Outside the walls of the Imperial fortress, the last forward trenches had become a vision of hell. Effluent, ankle-deep and oddly colored, clotted the air with acrid stench. Soldiers, lips blue with terror and nausea, huddled into the mud. They tried to wave away the ever-present buzzing swarms of flies, but it was futile. In front of them, a thick yellow-green mist blocked all sight. Except for the hiss of rain and the drone of flies, there was absolute, dead silence.
Then, from within the shroud, a strange horn call split the rain—a low, hoarse sound, like the mournful cry of a dying beast.
The mist began to swirl.
They emerged.
At first, mere shifting shadows—then their horrid forms resolved. Once men, now animated by the evil forces of the warp, walking corpses. Their shredded uniforms clung to rotting bodies. Exposed viscera and greenish muscle writhed under the rain. Some limbs had mutated—tentacles were swollen, bones grotesquely overgrown.
They advanced soundlessly, lurching but never stopping, forming a tide of decay.
Colonel Tiansku gripped his rangefinder, eyes bloodshot, nails digging into his palms. He heard the suppressed sobs and grinding teeth of the young soldiers around him. The wave of zombies drew near.
"For the Emperor!" He swallowed his nausea, shouting hoarsely. "Fire!"
In a split second, grenades, heavy bolters, and flamethrowers roared through the rain. Incendiary shells swept over the zombie horde, tearing and burning the first ranks to bits. Rotting limbs flew in every direction; burning torsos dropped and sizzled, fouling the air.
But the surge didn't stop. More walkers pressed forward over their fallen, feeling neither pain nor fear. Explosions tore huge holes in their bodies, but nothing stemmed their advance. Flames would rise, but were quickly extinguished in the wet and pus-filled corpses. The gaps in the fireline were soon filled by more bodies.
"Grenades! All grenades!" Tiansku shouted.
Amid the throng, a volley of explosions cleared part of the ground, but was just as quickly swallowed up. The first line of zombies lurched and fell into the trenches. Mud and water splashed everywhere—the melee began.
The soldiers fought with bayonets, entrenching tools, even fists. They battled the reeking monsters, a symphony of screams and shouts ringing out. Behind the zombie waves, the mist churned again. Blurred forms massive and slow—mobile plague fortresses—Death Guard Plague Marines, strode onto the battlefield.
How could mere human flesh fight these terrifying warriors, cursed by the Emperor, blessed by the dark gods? The moment contact was made, the defenders were butchered.
With the addition of these abominations, the Imperial defense threatened to collapse in moments.
"For Macragge! For the Golden Throne!" Lieutenant Cassian and his Ultramarines descended from the sky, jetpacks roaring, into the fray. Grenades rained from their hands, blasting apart the rotten dead. Plasma overloads hissed, brilliant white light scouring away the nauseating mist—even if only briefly.
Their targets: the Death Guard Plague Marines, to halt the butchery of the common soldiers.
But Nurgle's bounty was even greater.
The ground shook as Hellbeasts—grotesque creatures of warped flesh, corroded metal, and seething warp energy—entered the battlefield. One overturned a Chimera transport with ease, flipping a Leman Russ tank like a toy. Their blasphemous weapons poured heavy fire onto the defenders, sweeping vast areas clean in an instant. Even the SS security team surrounding Tiansku suffered massive casualties.
"Heat guns! Target the monster!"
Colonel Tiansku bellowed.
The last remaining Leman Russ rotated its turret and fired. The shell exploded in the Hellbeast's swollen torso, sending fountains of foul pus spraying skyward. Roaring with rage, the beast fired a filthy ray from its blasphemous arm-mounted cannon. The last tank exploded, showering the field with burning wreckage.
The blast wave engulfed the guardsmen near Tiansku; he himself was flung aloft. Agonizing pain flared in his left leg, warm blood quickly soaking his pants. Struggling up, he met the baleful, compound eyes of the Hellbeast.
Instinct made him roll aside and, with bloody hands, grab a still-hot melted gun from nearby debris.
"O Weapon Spirit, forgive this clumsy invocation! Wake from my irreverence…but for the Emperor, ignite your fury, and purify this filth!"
He prayed and pulled the trigger.
The weapon spirit answered—meltagun's wail became a deafening roar. A beam of burning white energy lanced through the Hellbeast's chest. Inside, the Death Guard warrior and its animating warp core were reduced to cinders. The beast froze, then collapsed like boneless, rotten meat, sending mud flying.
Crushed by pain and exhaustion, Tiansku collapsed. Clambering from the trench, gasping, he looked across the battlefield—and despaired.
The position had fallen; the swelling plague zombies and ever-growing Death Guard stomped Imperial corpses, marching for the fortress.
Not far away, a last-stand battle unfolded. Lieutenant Cassian faced Gurloch in a hopeless duel.
Gurloch's huge form was like a mobile fortress—his decaying, rusted power armor held terrible power. Each mighty swing of his plague scythe sent out waves of corrosive force.
"Poor soul, have you heard the triple song?"
Gurloch's sticky voice echoed through Cassian's mask, drowning out the clash of weapons. "Death is not the end—it is only a prelude to our loving Father's garden. Your resistance will only enrich its melody."
Cassian, a master swordsman, dodged deadly swings, aiming for weak points in the thick armor. Yet each strike left only shallow wounds, quickly filled with fresh rot and pus. Gurloch's attacks came heavy and unrelenting; every block made Cassian's bracers groan under the strain.
Clang!
Cassian managed to block a full-force vertical slash, but its might drove him to his knees, mud splattering his greaves. Gurloch twisted the blade, slashing Cassian's hand, sending the power sword flying—spinning away to stick in the distant mud.
Gurloch growled in satisfaction, lifting his scythe for the final harvest.
"Your soul, our loving Father will gladly accept!"
But at that instant—
A weird, ethereal panpipe sound, starkly out of place, suddenly filled the field.
Gurloch froze, his mind dazed—his body almost completely unresponsive.
"Oh, looks like I nearly failed the mission."
Datch barreled into the battlefield, playing a Hypno Panpipe with all his might, halting Gurloch's movement. Having just teleported in, he saw the man in blue armor with a golden exclamation on his head, who was Datch's mission target: Lieutenant Cassian. If he was beheaded, the mission would likely be counted as failed.
A player who can't even protect an NPC story character hardly qualifies to be called a Player.
…