Stand Up, Don't Kneel
"Huff… huff…"
Mortarian's question echoed across the battlefield before finally dissipating into the wind.
No one answered him immediately.
Guilliman watched his brother in silence, the Hand of Domination clenching and unclenching. There was no anger in his eyes—only sorrow.
Garro leaned upon the Greatsword of Freedom. The pale flames surrounding him burned quietly, like a monument to the dead.
Only the small girl holding the blazing greatsword moved.
"Tap. Tap. Tap."
Eileen carried the Imperial Sword, its immense weight dragging across the sand and leaving a scorched trail behind her.
She walked step by step toward the kneeling, panting Demon Primarch.
As she approached, the flames along the blade changed.
The flickers of mortal rage that once tinged it orange-red faded. Under the will within her, the fire became a pure, dazzling white-gold—the very essence of the Emperor. The flame of Order, capable of burning away the filth of the Warp.
"You… want to kill me?"
Mortarian lifted his head. His ruined face showed no fear.
Looking at the sword, he even seemed relieved.
He spread his arms. His tattered moth-like wings drooped behind him.
"Come… This is the ending I've been waiting for."
"To be executed by a blade that never truly looked at me… That would fit the numbers."
Eileen raised the sword—
"Buzz—!!"
The sky darkened.
Not with clouds, but with the projection of an immense will.
The invisible marks tethering Mortarian to the Warp strained violently.
A nauseating green mist surged from his body, trying to drag him back into the depths of the Warp.
From the void came a furious whisper, ancient and swollen with possessiveness:
"No… little Mortarian… He is mine! My child! My most cherished treasure!"
Nurgle.
Though his garden burned, the so-called benevolent father would not relinquish his prized Lord of Death.
Mortarian arched backward in agony, his soul tearing under the pull of the plague god's mark.
"You wretched thief! You dare steal the child blessed by my great father?! You will not take him!"
The whisper grew enraged. Plague power surged violently, attempting to reclaim what it believed was its own.
"Dream on."
Eileen scoffed.
The sword did not descend upon Mortarian's neck.
Instead, she gripped it with both hands and aimed it at the empty air above his head—at the writhing green chains visible only to those who could perceive the immaterial.
She brought the blade down.
"Get out of here!!!"
"Riiip—!!!"
The sound was like fabric being torn apart.
A golden arc split the air.
The green chains—symbols of pact, corruption, and enslavement—shattered the instant they touched the invisible edge of the Emperor's blade.
They broke.
They burned.
They vanished.
A roar of fury and anguish echoed from the void—then cut off abruptly.
The pulling force disappeared.
Without the support of the plague god's power, Mortarian collapsed like a discarded puppet.
The glowing sores and foul runes across his body dimmed instantly.
He lay there, little more than a heap of decaying flesh.
Eileen stepped forward.
She raised her sword once more, its tip hovering over his still-beating, exposed heart.
"Old Huang," she thought coldly, "that giant moth is awful."
"He's slaughtered countless people. And most importantly, he nearly killed Robert. We already chopped down that bloated one—shouldn't we cut down this one too? To prevent future trouble?"
Her wrist lowered.
The blade began to descend.
[Wait! Eileen!]
For the first time, Old Huang's voice carried urgency—almost panic.
Her hand froze. The tip of the sword hovered mere centimeters above Mortarian's chest.
"Why?" she asked inwardly.
"Don't you hate traitors most of all? Didn't you teach me that mercy toward humanity's enemies is cruelty toward humanity?"
Silence answered her.
Then Old Huang spoke, slowly. Unevenly.
[You're right. I should remain a spectator.]
[I'm just a ghost from another world. This is a story. These are predetermined characters. I shouldn't feel anything.]
A pause.
[But… when I saw him kneeling there… pouring out all that resentment… asking why his father never loved him…]
His voice grew heavy.
[It felt real.]
[Like I pushed a stubborn child—covered in mud, desperate for a hug—into a cesspool.]
[I… couldn't bear it.]
Eileen felt the turmoil within him.
[Maybe I'm not a god. Maybe I'm just soft-hearted. Like that old scavenger who raised you in Nest City.]
He sighed.
[Please, Eileen. This is the first thing I've ever asked of you.]
"Help me… save him."
Eileen looked down at Mortarian.
At his grotesque, pain-twisted face.
She exhaled slowly.
Then she sheathed her sword.
"You really are hopeless," she muttered. "If Robert knew, he'd laugh at you for being soft."
She planted the Emperor's Sword into the sand beside her.
Then she knelt.
Placing both hands against Mortarian's rotting chest, she looked into his unfocused eyes.
"Bear with it, big guy," she said quietly.
"This will hurt more than the beating."
"Whoosh—!!!"
Blinding golden light erupted from her palms.
Not destructive.
Surgical.
Not annihilation—but removal.
Golden energy, like countless tiny scalpels, pierced into the depths of his soul.
"Aaaah—!!!"
Mortarian screamed.
The pain was beyond flesh. Beyond bone.
It was the agony of corruption being stripped away.
Black smoke and green vapor poured from his body.
The flies that symbolized plague blessings shrieked as they turned to ash.
Layer after layer of rotted flesh peeled and dissolved.
Guilliman staggered forward, stunned.
The bloated, grotesque demonic form shrank.
Moth wings withered into nothing.
The respirator fused to his face burned away.
Bones cracked and reformed. Muscles regrew beneath the cleansing light.
This was no simple purification.
It was the reversal of ascension.
A rewriting of a soul.
Time seemed to lose meaning.
At last, the golden radiance faded.
Eileen swayed and fell backward, pale as paper, gasping for breath.
And before her—
The Demon Primarch was gone.
In his place lay a naked giant.
Emaciated. Pale as marble. White-haired.
Weak, ribs visible beneath skin—but whole.
No pustules. No tentacles. No corruption.
Mortarian.
The former commander of the Fourteenth Legion.
Returned.
He coughed violently, drawing in air untainted by toxins for the first time in ten thousand years.
His trembling hand rose before his eyes.
Clean.
He touched his face.
Smooth.
"Why…"
He struggled upright, confusion and naked vulnerability written across his features.
"Why didn't you kill me?"
"Why bring me back to this… weak state?"
"Is this punishment? Another humiliation?"
Eileen did not answer at first.
She sat still, eyes closed, gathering strength.
When she opened them again—
They had changed.
Gone was the roguish street girl.
Gone was the furious sister.
In their place was something ancient.
Heavy.
As though the weight of ten thousand years rested behind that gaze.
She stood.
Though small, everyone present felt an illusion—
As if a towering figure clad in golden armor stood before them.
She looked at Mortarian.
There was no anger in her eyes.
No judgment.
Only a gaze long overdue.
The complicated look of a father regarding a wayward son.
She spoke.
Her voice carried both a child's clarity and the weariness of endless solitude.
"Because…"
"There are things I cannot say to that rotten face."
She extended her hand toward him.
Not to strike.
But to lift.
"Stand up. Don't kneel, Mortarian."
The calm words sent chills through every soul present.
"Or…"
Her gaze sharpened slightly.
"Do you wish to kneel in the mud again like you did on Barbarus—waiting for me to fight your battles for you?"