Filthy, murky green raindrops fell without end, hammering down on the ruined plaza at the heart of Hekaton. Rainwater pooled atop scorched gravel and rusted metal, running off in sluggish, viscous streams.
The air was choked with the stench of chemical toxins and rotting corpses.
This was where the Death Guard had established their headquarters.
A colossal platform rose high above the ground, formed from three gigantic, interlocked rings. It was not cast with any craftsman's precision; instead, it had been cobbled together from corroded ship decks, shattered architectural remains, and twisted, half-melted slabs of metal. Sorcery and clotted, foul loam had been used to forcibly weld these parts together, and its surface was carpeted in nodules, pustules, and lichen-like lifeforms that wriggled slowly.
Just looking at it filled one's heart with a suffocating sense of corruption and malice.
At this very moment, several hundred sorcerers in tattered robes were busily at work upon the three-tiered dais. Their bodies were riddled with suppurating wounds and grotesque, parasitic creatures.
They were members of the Cult of Endless Proliferation, a prophetic cult that served Nurgle and held as its highest doctrine the spreading of limitless plagues and corruption.
Their low, blasphemous chants rang out through the rain like the overlapping groans of terminal patients.
Columns of surviving civilians and Imperial soldiers who had been taken prisoner were being driven forward by cultists and mutants, then forced to kneel, blank-eyed, on the filth-smeared ground. All of them were terribly emaciated, their gazes dull and lifeless. Prolonged torment, hunger, and despair had hollowed them out, leaving behind nothing but mechanical husks.
They no longer had the strength to fear their oncoming fate—much less to resist it.
The cultists guarding them, on the other hand, radiated fanatical zeal. They truly believed that by dedicating their lives to the Deathless God of Plagues, they would attain supreme glory and enter the garden of their Father-God.
On the far side of the ruined square loomed a terrifying, grotesque throne.
It was fashioned from thousands of greenish bones, exuding an aura of malignant wickedness.
Mortarion, the Primarch, sat upon this throne, his tattered wings folded behind him. One armored hand rested lightly upon an armrest made from fused, inverted skulls as he watched the sorcerers at their work.
Seven Deathshroud Terminators, hulking in their Cataphractii plate, stood guard around the throne like the most loyal of hounds. They were swollen, towering, and each one brandished an immense plague scythe. Yet even these colossal warriors appeared small beside their gene-sire's original, towering frame.
A wet dragging sound, accompanied by ragged, labored breathing, echoed across the dais.
The High Magister of the Cult of Endless Proliferation staggered toward the throne.
He had been blessed lavishly by Nurgle. His body had swelled to monstrous proportions, like a shambling hill of rotting meat. His scab-crusted, pus-leaking head was topped by a tall, pointed hat adorned with brazen flies, leaving only a scabbed-over mouth—drooling constantly—visible beneath its brim.
His lower body was wrapped in a long, pleated skirt crudely sewn together from dozens of dried human skins. His upper body was naked, revealing flabby, putrefying flesh.
A much smaller but equally twisted attendant followed hard behind him, struggling to carry a slime-soaked banner.
"Everything is ready, my lord," the High Magister wheezed, his voice like a broken bellows.
"Then we begin. Bring Ku'Gath and his Plague Guard through," Mortarion said.
"At once, my lord." The High Magister bowed deeply, then turned back toward the assembled sorcerers and issued the order.
"In the name of our benevolent Father, begin the sacred rite!"
At his command, the sorcerers quickly rearranged themselves into formations that all conformed to the number seven. They took their positions with exact precision atop the three concentric rings of the platform, spaced evenly to form a crude yet orderly geometric pattern.
It was a symbol of Nurgle's three aspects: birth, stagnation, and decay.
At the same time, the cultists began their own bloody preparations.
They dragged the captives out one by one and slit their throats with rusted, pitted plague-knives.
The red blood that spurted forth thickened and blackened almost instantly, merging into the filth that coated the ground.
Most of the victims convulsed and collapsed before they could even scream, their lives swiftly sucked away into the chaotic runes scrawled upon the earth in their own blood.
"Praise be to great Nurgle, for your boundless generosity! We offer you these humble sacrifices and beg that you heed our fervent plea…"
The sorcerers chanted in unison, leaping and spinning in strange, disjointed postures, as though their bodies were slightly misaligned with reality.
From within their ranks, seven sorcerers emerged—each hideously warped and blessed by Nurgle. They each pressed a rusted ritual dagger against their own throats.
These seven had shed nearly all human semblance. Some of their skin was covered in pustules that endlessly burst and reformed, while others had skulls swollen into sacs of pus that dripped without end.
They were, in short, nothing like men.
Boom!
Seven enormous bolts of lightning split the thick green clouds, tearing open the sky.
The entire ruin of Hecate was bathed in a ghastly, emerald radiance. At the same time, the toxic rain, already falling in sheets, grew even more violent.
"Merciful Father, lead us to you! Let our humble souls enter your eternal and wondrous garden…"
The seven sorcerers sang as one, their voices burning with fanatical fervor. A heartbeat later, they coolly slit their own throats with their plague-knives, sacrificing their lives to fuel the rite.
"In the name of the God of Plagues, thrice and thrice again, in the name of all that is unclean!"
The High Magister flung his arms wide and roared.
In the next instant, the sky seemed to catch fire. Snarled webs of violent green lightning lashed downward in a continuous barrage. All across the square, freshly sacrificed corpses and long-rotting bodies alike began to convulse.
Flesh ballooned and bulged; bones twisted; slick, mucous-coated tentacles burst forth from the dead. These tendrils intertwined, knotted together, and forcibly gathered hundreds of corpses into a single, writhing mass.
The air was filled with the sound of flesh being squeezed, bones being pulverized, and viscous fluids splattering—noises so grating they made one's teeth ache.
Within mere tens of seconds, a grotesque, irregular arch more than thirty meters tall had risen from the ground, dripping blood, pus, and gobbets of meat.
On the surface of this living archway, countless agonized, distorted faces appeared and vanished. Their hollow eye sockets burned with sickly green light.
"Glory! Glory! Glory!"
The surviving sorcerers and cultists howled, driven into a state of absolute religious frenzy. Their unified roars drowned out even the thunder above.
Beyond the arch of living flesh, space itself began to warp and swell, as if some vast presence behind a door were hurling itself again and again against the walls of reality.
Green flame blazed in the eyes of the sorcerers and cultists alike. Verdant light streamed ceaselessly from their bodies, all of it converging into the center of the arch.
The arch twisted to its utmost limit, emitting a shrill, glassy shriek, as though about to shatter under unbearable strain.
Bang!
With a soul-numbing, deafening detonation, the interior of the arch was torn open completely. A stable passage into the Warp's abyss yawned wide, an oily green vortex swirling within.
The moment the passage opened, a torrent of wild Warp energy surged out like an invisible scythe. In a heartbeat, more than two-thirds of the sorcerers and cultists near the arch were killed outright.
Their bodies exploded into clotted masses of thick, green fluid before they could even scream, dying in grotesque agony.
The survivors, however, did not panic. On the contrary, they cheered even more fanatically. In their minds, the dead had merely been guided by their loving Father to the verdant garden of their dreams.
Through the green light spilling from the archway, one could glimpse the world beyond—a world of Ax, more depraved than Parmenio by far.
It was Mortarion's most recent masterpiece. He had captured the garden world of Ax and remade it into a realm of pestilence.
A moment later, a titanic silhouette appeared at the far end of the passage—a moving mountain of quivering flesh.
Ku'Gath, Great Unclean One and Nurgle's favored child, emerged, borne aloft upon a slick palanquin carried by tens of thousands of Nurgling spirits. He passed beneath the arch and set foot upon the soil of Parmenio.
Ku'Gath's form was even more swollen and vast than Mortarion's, made entirely of layers upon layers of rotting fat, proliferating tumors, and wounds that oozed pus without cease.
"Welcome to Parmenio, rotting Ku'Gath."
Mortarion rose slowly from his throne of horror, spreading the great moth-like wings at his back.
"Thanks be to our kind Father. You've done well, Mortarion," Ku'Gath rumbled, nodding. "In truth… I bring you very good news."
"Oh?" Mortarion regarded him closely.
"The gods have allied once more," Ku'Gath said. A terrible smile split his decaying, obese face. "Our loving Father and his brothers and sisters have signed a new peace accord."
"Father has decided to fully support our campaign, and the other gods have agreed. We can no longer allow your brother Guilliman and that Nameless One to continue as they have."
"A treaty?" Mortarion's tone dripped with irony. "How many times has that been signed already? The wars of the gods never end."
"No. This time is different." Ku'Gath shook his head, making his rotten flesh quiver. "The threat posed by the Nameless One has exceeded what the gods are willing to tolerate."
"His actions are shaking the very foundations of the Warp. If the gods do not unite and resolve this…"
"Then the war of the gods will end in a way none of them desire."
"To this end, Father's brothers and sisters have agreed to let him claim Ultramar and a Primarch as spoils."
Mortarion was silent for a long moment before speaking again.
"I see. Then this truly is good news."
"For my beloved Father, and for ourselves, I will seize this victory," he said. "I swear it."
"See that you do," Ku'Gath replied with a satisfied grin. "If we can defeat Guilliman here and capture or annihilate the Nameless One, we shall gladden Father's heart and delight him beyond measure."
"The daemon legions are assembled. Let us proceed according to plan."
"My brother and that Nameless One have already set foot on Parmenio," Mortarion said, glancing toward Tiros. "Soon, they will strike at us. Once we have their blood, the final design can be completed."
"Do as you like," Ku'Gath said, drawing forth a colossal plague censer. He swung it lightly, scattering clouds of pestilent incense-smoke.
"So long as we keep winning, the gods will compose hymns in our honor, and the highest heavens will remember our deeds."
…
On the far shore facing the city of Delos, the port district had been retaken by the Imperium, which had concentrated vast military forces there.
The largest contingent of the Astra Militarum was assembled: columns of Leman Russ battle tanks, Chimera transports, Manticore self-propelled rocket artillery, and more, drawn from countless worlds.
Three Titan Legions—Oberon, Holy Fire, and Mighty Valor—stood upon the earth like hunched steel colossi, engines of war towering over the landscape. They were armed with volcano cannons, hellstorm cannons, ion annihilators, turbo-lasers, and other weapons of devastating power, each capable of annihilating hordes of foes or smashing magnificent fortresses in a single volley.
Around the Titans stood the knightly engines of various Knight Houses, lined up like loyal squires mustered before their lords. Smaller than the Titans but far more agile, they bristled with chainswords, meltaguns, and heavy battle cannons.
The Battle Sisters, armed priests, and other members of the Ecclesiarchy had also gathered, rallying the faithful to take up arms and join the fight.
Here, steel, faith, and destruction had converged into a single tide, ready to crash upon the enemy at the first clarion command.
"…Today, we do more than reclaim Parmenio. We declare to the forces that spread rot and despair that mankind will never submit."
"This battle is for the Emperor, for the Nameless One, for Ultramar, for the living, and for the dead…"
Guilliman stood upon a raised rostrum, delivering a fervent pre-battle oration that stirred hearts across the world. The moment he finished, countless voices rose in an earthshaking cheer.
"For the Emperor, for the Nameless One, for Ultramar!"
The battle roar surged like collapsing mountains and towering tsunamis, shaking heaven and earth and sending terror and shivers through all who heard it.
"Advance," Guilliman ordered.
The Titan Legions, spearheading the offensive, were the first to move, striding toward the Hekaton stronghold. Their duty was to engage and destroy the traitors' Chaos Titans head-on, clearing away the greatest barrier to the forces that followed.
The Warhound-class Titans dispatched for reconnaissance soon detected abnormal energy signatures. The three Titan Legions immediately shifted to full alert.
Moments later, the Chaos behemoths shrouded in mist emerged—giants plated in rust and living flesh—advancing to meet the Imperial engines.
Caleb Dunkel, a Princeps of a Reaver-class Titan, recognized the nature of these loathsome foes. The Chaos Titan Legion that opposed them was the Death Skulls—traitors who had betrayed them ten thousand years ago.
Data flowed into his mind-impulse interface, listing the names of the enemy engines, each one a legend of terror and atrocity.
"Fire! Wipe them out! Avenge the dead!"
High Command's orders crackled through the vox.
The Imperial Titans and Knights unleashed a storm of fire on the Death Skulls' Chaos engines. The traitors responded in kind, their counterattack swift and merciless.
Within mere seconds, the space between the titanic war machines became a killing ground. Their weapons were rivaled only by the main guns of the mightiest voidships.
Thunderous explosions boomed without pause, and searing blasts of light illuminated the battlefield. The towering engines closed as they continued firing, then waded into brutal melee with the colossal power-weapons mounted on their steel limbs.
Riding a cybernetic war-steed and casually crushing enemy tanks under its hooves, Datch watched the clash of giants with growing excitement.
"Whoa, giant robot vs. giant robot. Now this is my kind of fight."
Datch pulled a Mechagodzilla Summon Card from his game vault and flicked it into the air.
"Come on out, Mechagodzilla."
No sooner had he spoken than countless strands of light burst from the card, weaving together at blinding speed to form Mechagodzilla's skeletal frame. A moment later, composite armor plates, alloy joints, hydraulic systems, and dorsal fins materialized from virtual space into reality, snapping into place in an instant.
When Mechagodzilla slammed down onto the battlefield, the impact shook the ground, sending rubble and debris flying. Thick, dark-blue energy conduits ran like veins across its massive frame. Its dorsal fins, arrayed from tail to head, glowed segment by segment with electric light.
The mechanical titan turned its head, its crimson eyes sweeping across the battlefield, until at last it locked its sights onto a charging Warhound-class Titan.
"By the Emperor… what in the Throne's name is that?" Caleb Dunkel blurted, staring at Mechagodzilla through his external auspex feeds.
"Did you see that huge machine?"
"I did… Where did it come from?"
"That thing's not Imperial, is it?"
The other Titan Princeps opened encrypted command channels, hurriedly exchanging data, all equally shocked and bewildered.
"Maintain formation and focus on the enemy. That construct is a creation of the Nameless One. Treat it as a friendly asset, but do not attempt to coordinate with it."
Guilliman had noticed the anomaly at once, and promptly ordered the Titan crews to ignore the Nameless One and let him fend for himself.
The Chaos Princeps had also spotted Datch's Mechagodzilla, and their machine-spirit interfaces flared with ontological disbelief.
Since when did the Imperium of Man conjure abstractions like this?
Roar—
Now fully merged with Mechagodzilla, Datch threw back his head and unleashed a powerful, domineering roar. At that instant, the light coursing along its dorsal fins blazed to blinding intensity.
In the next heartbeat, Mechagodzilla opened its jaws and spat a stream of impossibly hot atomic breath, which slammed into a Chaos Warhound-class Titan.
The traitor engine's void shield flared into being and flickered violently, then overloaded and collapsed. Its thick frontal armor sagged and ran under the atomic fire, and a split-second later, beams of searing light speared out through its frame from within.
The Warhound staggered, froze, then detonated from the inside, collapsing into a blazing heap of molten scrap.
One shot. One kill. Absolutely glorious.
Datch nearly jumped for joy inside the cockpit, ready to shout, "Hell yes!"
Just then, a Warlord-class Titan named Lord of Venom swung its guns toward Mechagodzilla. The enemy's response was swift, ruthless, and precise. Its hellstorm cannon, missile pods, and hellcannons all fired at once.
In an instant, a storm of shells and lances of energy fell on Mechagodzilla, forming a solid curtain of annihilation.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Explosions blossomed one after another against Mechagodzilla's shield. Under the relentless bombardment, the machine staggered, its heavy metal feet gouging deep furrows into the earth.
Only Mechagodzilla's incredibly tough composite armor and hyper-efficient energy shield system allowed Datch to survive the initial volley. Even so, the glow of the shields dimmed visibly, and dents and scorch marks marred the armor plating.
"Damn, these traitors are seriously vicious!"
Gritting his teeth, Datch fought to stabilize his footing. He whipped his massive tail around, batting incoming missiles out of the sky, then opened his jaws again to spew radioactive flame at the enemy.
But his blazing atomic breath met the Warlord's void shields and only stirred up rippling waves of oily green light. Rage boiled in Datch's chest—the attack couldn't punch through.
The void shields of a Warlord-class Titan were vastly stronger and more potent than those of a mere Warhound.
"Seriously?! This is busted difficulty!"
As Datch vented his frustration in a long, incoherent rant, Lord of Venom unleashed another salvo of dozens of missiles. They slammed into Mechagodzilla's shoulders in a series of fiery impacts, staggering the metal titan and nearly forcing it down onto one knee.
Pushed hard on the back foot, Datch's face flushed red with fury inside the cockpit.
NPCs trying to suppress the Player? That's a death wish.
Even if the four Chaos Gods themselves showed up, they wouldn't be able to save you. I guarantee it.
"Activate Crimson Form! I'm done playing nice. Time to steamroll everything and go full invincible!"
The instant he gave the command, the corresponding censorship field conveniently "redacted" itself.
Mechagodzilla transformed. Its blue energy conduits flared, then turned to molten crimson, flooding across its chassis. Its body stretched, growing taller—now a full head higher than the Warlord.
The blue glow of its dorsal fins shifted into a blazing, gold-tinged red.
The temperature in the surrounding air spiked sharply, warping the atmosphere.
"Take this—Crimson Eruption Beam!"
Datch roared and unleashed a lance of light that carved straight across the battlefield toward the Warlord-class Titan, his counterattack blazing like the wrath of a dying star.
…
Deep in the rear of the Imperial lines, a colossal mobile command vehicle rumbled at the heart of the formations.
Guilliman had stationed himself there to oversee the overall situation, making fine adjustments to each formation to ensure victory. Yet as the battle escalated, the true mastermind behind it all—Mortarion—still had not shown himself.
Anxiety stirred in Guilliman's chest, and at last he decided to alter his strategy.
"I will lead the assault in person, draw Mortarion out, utterly defeat him, end this war, and bring it all to a close."
"Regent, that is far too dangerous," Tribune Carken, standing at his side, protested at once. "As supreme commander of all forces, you cannot act rashly. Remaining here to direct the battle is the wiser course."
"This is Mortarion's home ground," he continued. "We all know the kinds of ploys he favors."
"The Nameless One and his comrades are all fighting with everything they have," Guilliman replied. "How can I justify hiding in safety while they bleed?"
At that, Carken's eyes flew wide. Internally, he began cursing the Primarch.
Do you even understand what tier that Nameless One is on? And what tier you're on? You don't even know the difference between a king and a pawn?
"I still believe—"
"My decision is made, Carken." Guilliman cut him off, his tone brooking no argument—more decree than debate.
"I will lead the assault, draw out Mortarion, and claim this victory with my own hands."
…
Guilliman stepped down from the command vehicle and thumbed the activation rune of the Emperor's Sword. The blade flared to brilliant life as he strode onto the battlefield and charged toward the reeking hordes of monstrosities ahead.
Carken had no choice but to order the Imperial Custodians and the Sisters of Silence to remain close to the Primarch and ensure his safety.
Sicarius and the Honor Guard followed in Guilliman's wake, plunging into the fray at his side. After cutting down wave after wave of daemons and traitors, Guilliman stormed across the battlefield, his voice booming like a challenge to the heavens.
"Mortarion! I am your brother, the Emperor's loyal son. Come out and face me!"
"Mortarion, do not skulk like a coward. Show yourself and stand before me!"
After several such shouts, a terrifying figure dropped from the sky and struck the ground like a meteor, sending out a shockwave that rippled across the churned earth.
The newcomer was Mortarion himself, scythe in hand.
Well met, brother.
...
PS: Read at least 40 advanced chapters at patreon.com/AbsoluteCode