Chapter 49: The End of the Dream
As the rotting giant hand that had covered the sky dissolved into black rain, the oppressive fate imposed by the Chaos god collapsed instantly.
Across the battlefield, tens of thousands of Death Guard—the bloated plague warriors encased in swollen power armor—suddenly froze.
Their movements stopped like clockwork dolls whose springs had run dry.
"Uh…"
A faint groan escaped from the half-rotted throat of one plague warrior.
Then the dream called "eternal life" shattered.
Pain returned.
Smell returned.
Vision returned—no longer filtered by the warped "blessing" that had hidden reality.
"Ah… AHH!!"
One warrior dropped his bolter and stared down in horror.
His abdomen had split open. There was no sacred blessing there—only a gaping wound filled with black-green rot, white maggots writhing inside.
He smelled himself.
Not the "fragrance of life" Nurgle had promised—only the nauseating stench of decay and filth.
"My stomach… what's wrong with my stomach?!"
He screamed in terror, trying to shove his intestines back inside. His hands met only greasy, rotting flesh.
The scream spread across the plains like another plague.
"My eyes! Something's crawling in my eyes!"
"It hurts! What is this? Why am I a pile of rotten meat?!"
"Kill me! Please kill me!!"
Moments earlier, they had been an unstoppable tide of Chaos Astartes.
Now they were broken men trapped in a nightmare.
Without Nurgle's mind-control and sensory veil, the once-proud Astartes finally saw what they had become after ten thousand years.
No longer warriors.
Just distorted souls imprisoned in rotting corpses—unable to live, unable to die.
---
Mortarion descended slowly from the sky.
His bare feet touched the muddy ground, surrounded by the writhing and wailing figures of his sons.
He said nothing. His pale face remained expressionless, but sorrow filled his gray eyes as he took in the scene.
"They… cannot be saved."
Guilliman approached slowly, clutching his Hand of Dominion. His voice was heavy with understanding.
"Their bodies are completely necrotic. Warp sorcery sustained them with illusions. Now that influence is gone… they are simply seeing the truth."
"I know."
Mortarion crouched beside a Death Guard who had crawled to him.
The warrior's original form was long gone. His rotting hand, fused with power armor, grasped Mortarion's ankle as he cried out.
"Help me… Father… it hurts…"
Mortarion placed his hand gently on the warrior's diseased helmet.
"Endure it, my son."
His voice was quiet.
"It will not hurt much longer."
Eileen walked up behind him, watching the scene. She did not feel disgust—only a heavy tightness in her chest.
[Help them.]
Old Huang's voice sounded in Mortarion's mind with a weary sigh.
[Don't let them suffer like monsters. This is the last kindness you can give them—as their gene-father.]
His gaze swept over Mortarion's psionic body, already showing cracks from the strain of the earlier battle.
[And you… this body won't last long. It's only held together by my power. Once this is over, have Robert take you to Belisarius Cawl. That grease-head can probably build you a proper body.]
Mortarion paused, then smiled faintly.
"Thank you… Father."
He stood and raised his hand. Golden psionic energy gathered in his palm.
"The Fourteenth Legion… are my sons."
His voice echoed across the battlefield, louder than the screams.
"I led you down the wrong path."
"But now… the nightmare must end."
Golden flames flowed from his hands.
The fire had no heat. It was gentle, like a warm spring wind.
It swept across the battlefield.
Every Death Guard ignited in golden light.
And a miracle occurred.
The screams stopped.
The soldiers stopped thrashing.
Pain faded from their faces, replaced by peace.
Rotting flesh turned to ash.
And from those ashes rose faint golden lights—souls finally freed from Chaos corruption.
Under Eileen's gaze, those lights drifted like fireflies toward her.
"Om—"
The ruby necklace on her chest glowed softly.
Thousands of souls flowed into the gem.
The once-crimson stone now glittered with countless lights within, like a small galaxy.
Minutes later, the battlefield was silent.
No corpses. No monsters.
Only white ash stretching across the plain.
The end of the Death Guard warhost.
And their return home, ten thousand years late.
Eileen held the warm necklace, frowning slightly.
"Old Huang… with so many souls inside… won't they squeeze you out?"
[Don't worry, little Eileen.]
His voice sounded tired but amused.
[Think of it as expanding server storage. Plenty of room.]
Then his tone shifted slightly.
[But that 'big one' earlier… that feeling… terrifying.]
[Completely rational. Emotionless. Everything treated as numbers. If someone became like that… could they still be human?]
Eileen snorted.
"You're not normal either."
[Hey! Watch how you talk to your second father!]
He laughed, then fell quiet.
[Anyway… the battle's over. But now comes the awkward part.]
"What awkward part?"
[Look over there.]
Eileen followed his gaze.
Across the field of ash stood two figures.
Roboute Guilliman—the Imperial Regent, clad in his damaged Armor of Fate.
And Mortarion—the returned Primarch, naked and faintly glowing with golden light.
They stood less than five meters apart.
Around them, Ultramarines—Calgar, Agman, Ventris—and newly arrived warriors like Sicarius stood awkwardly at a distance, unsure whether to salute or raise their weapons.
The air was painfully quiet.
Guilliman looked at Mortarion's familiar yet unfamiliar face, lips parting as if to speak—then stopping.
Mortarion looked back, equally uncertain.
After all, only hours earlier he had tried to drag this very brother into the Garden of Nurgle.
This might have been the most awkward brotherly reunion in the entire galaxy.
They stared at each other in silence.
Neither knew how to break it.