Chapter 120: The Shadow of the Plaguefather
Kian Voss turned to the Canon-Preceptor, his voice losing its mocking edge and becoming strictly professional.
"Since Theresa has made her own choice, I will stand by it. But Lord Canon, regardless of what 'Saintly Curriculum' you have planned for her, I want you to remember one thing: she is a sixteen-year-old girl. If she breaks under the pressure, the 'Gilded Path' you've built for her becomes a highway to the Warp."
The Canon nodded solemnly.
"Rest assured, Master Voss. My arrangement for her is structured for maximum stability. She will remain under my direct tutelage until she reaches the age of thirty—establishing a foundation of dogma and culture that no daemon can crack. Then, she will oversee this Cathedral for a decade to master the gospel and gain the loyalty of the flock.
"Only then will I present her to the High Synod to debate the other factions and secure her title. It is the time-honored tradition of 'Sanctification.' When she is ready, her power will erupt naturally, and the Emperor's light will be undeniable."
Kian mused that the old man was actually quite pragmatic. A forty-year project to manufacture a Living Saint was standard Ecclesiarchy bureaucracy. By the time Theresa was forty, her mind would be mature enough to handle the burden of leadership.
"Fine," Kian said. "She's in your hands. But I expect her home once a month for 'Spiritual Reflection.' Her family is waiting for her in my sector."
The Canon offered a gracious bow. "Of course. We do not seek to steal daughters from their parents; we merely invite them to hear the Master of Mankind's whispers more clearly."
The priest then paused, his eyes scanning Kian's PDF Corporal uniform. "Soldier of the Throne... forgive a curious old man. Which front are you currently assigned to?"
The sudden shift in topic put Kian on alert. "Northern Sector. Perimeter defense. Why do you ask?"
The Canon's expression shifted, the saintly smile replaced by a look of profound, localized dread.
"Warrior of the light, during your skirmishes in the north... have you encountered any Corrupted Elements among the heretics?"
Kian's focus sharpened. In the Imperium, "Corrupted" meant only one thing: Warp-taint. If the fingers of the Chaos Gods were reaching for Secundus-496b, the "Extraction Game" was about to hit its Apocalypse phase.
"Why the concern, Lord Canon? I've seen rebels, I've seen traitors, and I've seen hungry peasants. But they were all human. Misguided, but made of meat and bone. No tentacles, no horns."
The Canon leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Are you certain? Think carefully. Have you seen men with distorted limbs? Have you heard chanting that made your teeth ache? Have you seen runes on the walls that seemed to bleed?"
Kian instinctively thought of Silentium. The freak loved his Warp-graffiti. But aside from his resident neighbor, Kian hadn't seen any evidence of the Ruinous Powers on the surface.
As Kian shook his head, a violent green notification flickered across his vision.
[DING! CONTACT UNLOCKED: PIOUS CANON-PRECEPTOR]
[REPUTATION RANK: 0 (INITIATE)]
[MISSION TRIGGERED: THE ROT IN THE ROOTS]
Context: The Canon-Preceptor senses a growing darkness in the northern wastes. He fears a Chaos infestation has taken root within the rebel cells.
Objective: Investigate the deep rebel territories for signs of Warp-taint.
Reward: Canon-Preceptor Reputation | Unlocks "Holy Ordinance" Requisition.
Kian clicked 'Accept' internally. A quest from the Church was a direct line to high-end loot. "Lord Canon, my battalion moves deep into rebel territory for reconnaissance. If there is a rot in the woods, I will find it. Tell me... what makes you so certain the enemy has changed?"
The Canon lowered his head, his hands trembling as he clutched a deck of ornate, silver-edged cards.
"I have spent my nights in communion with the Emperor's Tarot. I am no specialized Diviner, but even a humble servant can feel the ripples in the Empyrean when a storm is coming. The cards have been... consistent."
Kian knew of the Tarot. It was an Imperial deck of cards used by Psykers and high-ranking priests to receive "clues" from the Emperor's shattered mind. In the right hands, it was the most accurate radar in the galaxy.
"What did you see?" Kian asked.
"I saw a happy child holding a fresh, red apple," the Canon whispered, his eyes distant. "But when the child bit into the fruit, it was hollow—filled with writhing white maggots. When I flipped the final card... the apple had rotted into a black sludge, and the child had become a walking corpse, its skin sloughing off in wet sheets."
Kian felt a cold spike of adrenaline.
Apple. Maggots. The Living Corpse.
In the lore of the 41st Millennium, those symbols pointed to one entity: Nurgle. The Plaguefather. The God of Disease, Decay, and "Love."
Of all the Ruinous Powers, Nurgle was the one Kian feared most. Khorne wanted your head; Slaanesh wanted your soul; Tzeentch wanted your mind. But Nurgle wanted to hug you. He wanted to infect you with a virus that would keep you "alive" in a state of eternal, agonizing rot.
A Khorne invasion could be fought with tanks. A Nurgle infestation was a biological war that could liquefy a planet's population before a single shot was fired.
"I'll look into it," Kian said, his voice flat. "But if I find what I think I'm going to find... you'd better start praying the Black Ships are nearby. Because once the 'Grandfather' starts gardening, nobody gets out clean."
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