Two-Front Campaign
Location: Extreme Starfield, High Orbit of Plenty III
Time: Three hours after the expeditionary fleet's arrival
When the Radiance of Macragge tore free from the Warp and re-entered realspace, the bridge's holographic displays flooded crimson with cascading data.
Irene stood before the vast observation window, half a compressed biscuit frozen in her hand.
This was not what she had imagined.
A world called "Plenty" should have been lush—like the royal gardens of Macragge—overflowing with green fields and ripe harvests.
Instead, the planet below resembled a colossal, rotting fruit abandoned to decay.
Thick yellow-green clouds wrapped the globe like infected gauze. Through brief breaks in the smog, no oceans or continents were visible—only dark red lesions across the surface and churning plumes of toxic vapor.
In high orbit drifted several grotesque warships—hulls twisted, armor swollen with tumor-like growths, tentacles pulsing slowly in vacuum.
The Death Guard's plague fleet.
"This is… where we're going?" Irene's voice rasped. "It looks worse than the Hive's sewage pits."
"The surface corruption is merely cosmetic," said Roboute Guilliman from behind her, voice calm and cold. "The internal corruption is the fatal wound."
He turned sharply, cloak snapping.
"Agman, Ventris, Tigurius, Sicarius. Strategy chamber. Now."
---
Strategic Briefing Room
The air inside felt heavier than void pressure.
A distorted hologram of Plenty III hovered above the table, interference flickering where Nurgle's warp saturation disrupted augur clarity.
Guilliman stood rather than sat, finger tracing the southern hemisphere.
"The situation has degraded since our Warp translation. Auspex scans and Librarian Tigurius' psychic reconnaissance indicate a dual-core corruption pattern."
The projection zoomed into the southern Great Plains—once a major industrial and port region.
Now it was a fortress.
Blurry outlines revealed layered defenses and massive war engines belching smoke like mountains in motion.
"The Death Guard's main force is entrenched here," Guilliman said. "Elite companies. Corrupted Titan engines. Nurgle daemon-machines. An impenetrable wall."
First Company Captain Agman folded his arms. "They're baiting atmospheric assault. Any landing force will be shredded by anti-air."
"Correct."
Guilliman's finger moved north.
A mountainous basin pulsed faintly on the display—subspace readings spiking in rhythmic surges.
"This is the Granary Basin. The planet's largest freshwater nexus."
His voice sharpened.
"The ritual core."
Librarian Tigurius inclined his head, force staff humming faintly. "The warp resonance is immense. A planetary-scale contagion rite. They are converting the hydrological cycle itself."
"If we do not sever that source," Guilliman said, "every daemon slain in the south will simply regenerate."
Captain Ventris spoke evenly. "If we strike north with full force, the southern army flanks us. If we strike south, the ritual completes."
All eyes settled on Guilliman.
He looked at the projection.
Then at Irene beside him, concentrating fiercely.
"We take both."
His hand struck the southern hemisphere.
"I will lead the First Company, elements of the Second and Fourth, and the full heavy armor complement. Orbital bombardment will precede mass landing. Titans will deploy. I will advance at the vanguard."
His eyes burned with controlled wrath.
"I will be the banner. The provocation."
"The lords of the Death Guard and their daemonic patrons will not resist the chance to slay a Primarch. They will commit everything to my front."
He turned to Irene.
"And you will be the scalpel."
He indicated the northern basin.
"When the south erupts into full engagement, you will deploy via precision orbital drop. Escort detail: Captain Cato Sicarius, Shield-Captain Maldovar Colquan, Sergeant Varo's First Tactical Squad, and selected veteran elements."
Varo stood straighter despite the bruising still marking his face.
"Your objective is not extermination," Guilliman continued. "You will purge the ritual nexus. Destroy the totems. Purify the water source."
"Once severed, the southern corruption collapses. The warp support fails. Their undead ranks decay into inert rot."
Irene blinked.
"So… you pull aggro. I backstab their base?"
A few coughs echoed around the table.
Guilliman smiled faintly.
"Concise and accurate."
He knelt before her, gaze steady.
"This is dangerous. Even without their main force, the north will be defended. You may witness horrors."
She touched her upgraded short blade.
"And I've got this. And my necklace. And Uncle Sicarius. And Uncle Cole."
She inhaled.
"I'm not scared."
Guilliman rose.
"Then we begin. All forces—Combat Readiness Level One."
"For Macragge! For the Emperor!"
The Astartes' roar shook the chamber walls.
---
One Hour Later
Lower Launch Deck – Drop Pod Bay
Irene sat strapped into a specially modified drop pod. Additional padding lined the interior; even motion sickness bags had been thoughtfully included.
Across from her stood Sicarius in full war panoply, helm crested, power sword active and humming.
Colquan stood immobile as a golden statue.
Varo, face bandaged, eyes bruised but fierce, secured his weapon.
"Nervous, ma'am?" Varo's voice crackled over vox.
"A little," Irene admitted, gripping the harness. "This won't explode, right?"
"Trust the machine spirit," Sicarius replied. "Atmospheric insertion in three… two… one."
BOOM.
Acceleration slammed her into the seat. Weightlessness and crushing G-force collided inside her body.
Then they hit atmosphere.
There was no whistling wind.
Instead—
A relentless drumming.
Thud-thud-thud-thud.
Irene twisted toward the small reinforced viewport.
Her pupils shrank.
Not clouds.
Flies.
Billions of bloated green flies formed the planet's "atmosphere." They smashed into the pod in suicidal swarms, bursting against its hull in sprays of yellow-green ichor.
The pod became a meteor plunging through a living storm.
Warning runes flashed.
[Filtration Efficiency: 78%… 65%…]
"By the Throne…" Varo muttered. "I need a flamethrower bath."
"Maintain composure," Colquan said evenly. "This is merely a warp greeting."
Heat intensified as altitude dropped.
"Landing thrusters—ignite!" Sicarius roared.
BOOM—
Retro-burns detonated. Impact hammered Irene's spine.
"Landing confirmed!"
Explosive bolts fired. The pod's doors blasted outward.
"Perimeter! For Ultramar!"
Sicarius and Varo burst out first, bolters sweeping.
"Area secure! No immediate contact!"
Irene unbuckled shakily and stumbled to the hatch.
The smell hit her like a physical blow.
Rotten meat. Ancient sewage. Fermented bile. Sickly sweet decay.
"Ugh—!"
She doubled over and vomited.
Tears stung her eyes.
When she looked up—
This was Plenty III.
The ground wasn't soil. It was dark red, yielding flesh that oozed yellow fluid underfoot.
It felt like standing on the tongue of some colossal corpse.
What should have been wheat fields were now twisted, tentacled growths.
Trees bore swollen eyeball-like tumors that blinked wetly.
The air was thick with visible spores.
Each breath felt like inhaling mold.
"This place…" she whispered, face pale. "It smells worse than Old Joe's laundry."
Don't waste energy, Old Huang's voice echoed in her mind—grim now.
The warp barrier here is paper-thin.
And those fields? They aren't sleeping anymore.
A wet, gurgling chorus rose from the vegetation.
Shapes dragged themselves from the muck.
Green eyes ignited across the rotting fields.
"Contact!" Varo roared.
His bolt pistol barked.
A corpse in tattered clothing erupted as its skull detonated.
But more came.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
They surged forward in a tide of decay, surrounding the drop pod.
The operation had begun.
And so had the battle.