Shameless Person
The air curdled into something foul and tangible the moment Typhus landed.
The steel beneath his boots blackened instantly, rust spreading outward in jagged veins. What had once been solid metal dulled and decayed, as though centuries passed in seconds.
The already polluted air grew heavier still. Every breath tasted of rot, corpse-gas, and spore-laden dust.
He wore no visible helmet.
Or rather—the helm had fused with his flesh. Ceramite and diseased tissue had become one.
Even Cole tightened his grip on his guardian halberd.
He had faced warp horrors before.
But this—
This was no ordinary traitor.
This was a survivor of the Great Crusade. A being who had once stood beside a Primarch—and had dragged that same Primarch into damnation.
The previous plague sorcerer had been a pest.
This was a catastrophe given form.
"Step back," Sicarius said quietly, blade held horizontal before Eileen. "Do not meet his gaze. Guard your thoughts."
Typhus did not strike.
He advanced slowly instead, manreaper scythe resting easily in his grip, as though strolling through his own garden.
The vast swarms of daemon flies hovering above fell into reverent silence, their low drone resembling a grotesque hymn.
"So," Typhus rumbled, his voice like insects grinding inside a coffin, "this is the little spark that frightened that sniveling coward into retreat."
His yellowed lenses settled on Eileen.
His tone became almost… pastoral.
"How tragic. Why cling to futile resistance? Why shed blood for a rotting corpse enthroned upon Terra?"
He spread his arms, displaying his swollen, diseased bulk as if presenting perfection.
"Decay is not death. It is the eternal cycle. Birth. Rot. Rebirth. The loving embrace of the Father."
Each step carried crushing psychic weight.
"Why endure pain? Why resist wounds, aging, despair? The Father's love is equal. He welcomes all broken souls."
His finger—bloated, cracked, fungus-ridged—pointed at Varo's injured side.
"You feel it, don't you? The pain in your wound. Nod—and it will vanish. You will gain eternity. Your flesh will bloom with blessing."
"Silence, heretic!" Varo fired.
The bolts decayed mid-flight.
One meter from Typhus, they rusted, fragmented, and collapsed into iron dust.
"Such hostility," Typhus sighed.
Then his gaze returned to Eileen.
"Especially you, little one. That stolen light within you… it will consume you. Drain you dry."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Come. I will plant you in the finest garden. You will bloom forever beneath the Father's gaze."
Psychic pressure rolled outward like a tidal wave.
Sicarius tried to speak—found he could not.
Even breathing grew labored.
The plaza fell silent under the weight of Typhus' presence.
Behind Cole's cloak, Eileen trembled.
This was terror beyond monsters.
He did not need to move.
His words alone pressed one toward kneeling.
"Old… Old Huang…" she whispered inwardly. "What do we do…?"
A dismissive snort echoed in her thoughts.
"Tch. Look at him, putting on airs. It's just that traitor Typhon."
"Don't be fooled. He's loud, yes—but he's a stray dog nobody truly respects."
Eileen blinked.
"He… looks terrifying."
"He betrayed his own gene-father. Even his patron tolerates him, not honors him. Peel away the theatrics and he's a bitter climber who clawed his way upward by treachery."
Old Huang's tone sharpened.
"Hit him where it hurts."
"I—I can't…"
"You can. Either you curse him—or he turns you into garden décor. Choose."
The mental image of herself planted as a plague-flower ignited something reckless in her chest.
If she was going to die—
She would die loudly.
Eileen stepped out from behind Cole.
"Hey! You bloated sack of rot!"
The plaza froze.
Typhus' sermon halted mid-breath.
He lowered his gaze slowly toward the tiny mortal who barely reached his thigh.
"Have you reconsidered?" he asked softly. "Do you accept the Father's—"
"Shut up!"
She planted one hand on her hip and pointed directly at his horned helm.
"I thought a Death Guard from the Great Crusade would at least have dignity! Ancient, tragic, impressive!"
Her voice rose, familiar street-born cadence bleeding through.
"But it's you! Typhon! The twice-born traitor who couldn't even keep his own name!"
Silence.
Even the flies paused.
Typhon.
The name from before damnation.
"You… dare…" His voice cracked faintly.
"Dare? I'll do more than dare!"
"You betrayed your oath at Isstvan! You sabotaged your own Legion's fleet in the warp on the way to Terra!"
Sicarius' head snapped toward her.
Cole's visor flickered.
"How do you—" Typhus began.
"For power! For your own ambition! You sold your gene-father Mortarion into Nurgle's embrace!"
The words struck like detonations.
"You betrayed your Legion! Betrayed your father! And now you preach to me about love?"
The psychic air trembled.
Typhus' armor began to shake—not from fear, but rage.
"You unfilial maggot!" she pressed on. "You couldn't outshine your Primarch, so you dragged him down instead!"
The Death Guard around them had fallen silent long ago.
Now only Typhus' ragged breathing filled the plaza.
"You call yourself a herald? A pioneer?" Eileen sneered. "Your Primarch is a Daemon Prince now—favored, powerful! And you?"
"You're still wandering! Still second place!"
The flies began buzzing erratically.
"You think he'd welcome you home? Mortarion would flay you for what you did!"
Typhus roared, but she overrode him.
"You've lived ten thousand years and accomplished what? You're a lackey with a scythe!"
Finally, she delivered the last blow.
"If I were you, I'd have smashed my own head against that rusty blade out of shame!"
"I, Eileen, may be nothing special—but I've never seen a more shameless traitor!"
For a heartbeat—
Nothing moved.
Then—
Typhus screamed.
A raw, animal sound.
"Silence!" he roared. "Silence, you wretched spark!"
His composure shattered completely.
The serene missionary facade vanished.
"I am chosen! I am the Father's herald!"
The swarms reacted instantly, descending into frenzy. Order collapsed into chaos. The black cloud twisted violently.
"Destruction Swarm—devour!"
The flies condensed into a colossal black mass, crashing downward like a demonic hand.
Typhus charged.
His immense frame moved with terrifying speed, manreaper scythe raised high.
"Protect her!" Sicarius and Cole lunged forward—
A single psychic shockwave blasted them backward, boots skidding across rusted steel.
The scythe descended.
The swarm closed in.
Eileen stood frozen—face pale—but her hand tightened around the short sword at her waist.
The blade gifted by Guilliman.
Enhanced by Hakus.
[Good.] Old Huang's voice was calm. [He's enraged. His control is fractured. That shell of his—cracked.]
[Draw it. Use everything you've gathered.]
Her pupils contracted.
Within the scabbard, golden light surged violently.
She inhaled sharply.
"You fat bastard," she shouted, yanking the blade free in a blaze of radiant light, "let's see whose sword is sharper!"