The Spark of Mortal Nature
A streak of sickly yellow-green tore across the battlefield at terrifying speed.
—Whoosh—
The air split apart before the sound ever arrived.
Typhus' massive frame moved with speed utterly disproportionate to its size. The shockwave of displaced air reached them only after he had already crossed the distance.
The colossal manreaper scythe—its long haft crawling with pale fungal growth, its blade dripping corrosive filth—came down.
This was no ordinary swing.
It was as if the very air were being cleaved.
With a shrill, tearing whistle, the scythe descended toward Eileen's head.
At the same instant, the vast swarm of daemon flies plunged downward.
A black, titanic hand formed from millions of chittering insects sought to crush the mortal who had dared mock the Herald of Nurgle.
"No!!"
Sicarius roared.
His armor's servos screamed in protest as he forced them beyond safety limits. Yet the lingering psychic aftershock from Typhus' earlier strike clung to the air like an invisible barrier, slowing him by a fatal fraction of a second.
Cole, equally worn and burdened by the oppressive plague aura saturating the plaza, hurled his guardian halberd.
The weapon blazed like a golden comet.
Typhus did not even look at it.
He shifted slightly. The halberd scraped across his corroded shoulder guard, tearing loose chunks of rotted ceramite and diseased flesh.
He did not care.
He had only one objective—
To kill the mortal who had humiliated him.
Eileen stood frozen.
The descending scythe filled her vision.
The stench was overwhelming—rust, rot, ancient mold, grave-dirt long disturbed.
Her legs felt like stone.
"Can I… survive this?"
Before the thought fully formed, the ruby necklace at her chest flared with unbearable heat.
Not merely warmth—
Voices.
Leishar.
Hans.
Countless loyal mortals whose souls had been entrusted to it in death.
[Even in death—he must not touch her!]
[Protect the Holy One!]
[Destroy the oath-breaker!]
[Those who betray shall reap no mercy!]
Their wills surged together in a torrent.
The power flowed down her arm, into the short sword gifted by Guilliman.
Old Huang roared within her consciousness.
[Make him taste it!]
From the golden sea of psychic energy, he drew forth a concentrated stream—stripping away its higher divinity, shaping it into something Eileen could wield without being consumed.
"Boom—!!"
The blade did not blaze with pure golden radiance.
Instead—
An orange-red flame burst forth.
It was not pristine.
It was not serene.
It smelled of smoke and blood and gunpowder.
It was the fire of trenches. Of last stands. Of mortals refusing extinction.
The ember of humanity.
Eileen gripped the sword with both hands and screamed, pouring every shred of defiance into her swing.
"Clang—!!!"
Blade met scythe.
The impact detonated not in metal—
But in the soul.
Orange-red flame and ghastly green plague energy collided violently.
"Sssizzle—!"
The descending swarm ignited instantly. Daemon flies combusted in droves, incinerated the moment the mortal flame touched them. Tens of thousands vanished without ash.
The air filled with the acrid scent of conceptual burning—faith and fury searing corruption.
"Aaaaaagh—!!!"
Typhus screamed.
The ancient Death Guard—who boasted immunity to suffering, who gloried in rot—now howled like any mortal cast into boiling oil.
The flames were not stopped by the scythe.
They crawled up the haft like living serpents, biting into his gauntlet.
They burned not merely armor—
But soul.
The concepts of sacrifice and defiance were poison to traitors.
"What is this?!" Typhus roared.
His corrupted flesh blistered beneath the fire. Black smoke curled from warped ceramite.
He tore one hand free, slamming at the flames with foul warp-energy, desperately suppressing them.
But the physical force of his swing had already landed.
"Bang!"
Eileen felt as though she had been struck head-on by a charging Leman Russ battle tank.
Though the flame shielded her from the blade and the swarm, the raw impact hurled her backward.
She flew several meters before crashing hard against a wall.
"Cough—!"
Blood spilled from her lips.
Her vision blurred. Her right palm split open, crimson dripping down the hilt of her sword. Her left arm throbbed with a deep, splintering pain.
"Lady Eileen!"
A blur of blue armor.
Sicarius dropped to one knee before her, storm shield raised.
Cole recalled his halberd, planting it before them like a golden barrier.
"I… I'm not dead…" Eileen gasped.
She tried to rise—failed—and slumped back down, breath ragged and sharp.
But her grip never loosened.
The orange-red flame still burned, dim but stubborn.
"Good… very good… little insect."
Typhus' voice had lost all false benevolence.
He finally smothered the flames with concentrated Nurgle corruption.
His gauntlet was charred and warped. Beneath it, blackened flesh writhed sluggishly. A visible melt-line marred the edge of his prized manreaper.
"You made me feel pain," he said coldly. "Me—the Herald of the Father. The Traveler of the Plague."
Gone was the arrogance.
In its place—
Venom.
"A mortal… wielding the dying embers of the dead."
He tightened his grip once more. The exhaust vents on his armor belched thick yellow fumes. The remaining daemon flies regrouped—fewer now, but still deadly.
"This ends now. That toothpick will not save you twice."
He advanced.
Each step crushed rusted metal beneath his boots.
"Once I take you," he hissed, "I will heat that blade until it glows—and force it down your throat."
Sicarius ignited his power sword again without hesitation.
Cole's halberd field generator whined at maximum output.
Then—
[Don't lie there, Eileen.]
Old Huang's voice cut through the ringing in her ears.
No panic.
Only a sharp, calculating tone.
[That block was beautiful.]
A faint, dangerous smile colored his words.
[Now it's our turn.]
[I've prepared a gift for this traitor.]