Byrne and Marco, stationed in the outer perimeter, sensed the chaos the moment the Nurgle cultist launched his assassination attempt. However, neither rushed to the scene immediately.
Byrne stood at the eastern security point. He had barely taken a few steps toward the disturbance when a sharp whistling wind cut through the air behind him. Relying on instinct, he ducked to the side, feeling a cold, glinting short blade graze his shoulder. The moment he regained his footing, Byrne drew Black Fire and fired several rounds at his assailant.
The attacker was a warrior clad in heavy black armor, a helmet completely concealing his face, wielding a short blade in each hand. Simultaneously, a near-identical scene played out on Marco's side.
On the other side of the station, the aides and guards who had retreated from the transfer station headed toward the vehicles. Before they could reach them, a dense hail of bullets tore through the air. The sharp projectiles claimed the lives of the two leading aides instantly. The remaining guards scattered, seeking cover to return fire. The convoy's position was already occupied by mysterious black-armored warriors.
Back inside the station, the Governor and his party remained closer to the Nurgle cultist and faced the threat of the mycelium. The dark green fungus spread rapidly across the ground, closing in on David and his three close guards in an instant. The three guards surrounded David Rick, struggling to maintain their energy shield against the cultist's strikes while pressing their hands to the ground to halt the fungal growth.
Unwilling to remain on the defensive as the fanatical cultist lunged again, the lead guard spoke to his two companions: "Protect the Governor. I'll deal with this assassin."
He stepped out of the defensive circle and drew a melta-blade from his waist. He hadn't used it during the initial defense because activating a melta-blade consumed massive amounts of psychic energy and caused the surrounding temperature to skyrocket.
Vroom!
The moment the melta-blade activated, a crimson flame flickered over the brilliant white edge. The surrounding air distorted instantly from the heat. The mycelium beneath the guard's feet withered and carbonized under the searing temperature.
Gripping the scorching melta-blade, the guard's psychic energy surged violently. A deep blue halo interlaced with the crimson fire of the blade, carving a path through the stench of rot. He moved with steady, forceful strides toward the crazed Nurgle cultist.
"Foolish Imperial dogs, daring to profane the Grandfather's gift," the cultist roared. He slammed his left hand onto the ground, causing the spreading mycelium to surge upward like countless dark green whips lashing at the guard.
The guard's eyes narrowed. With a flick of his wrist, the melta-blade traced a crimson arc, hacking into the oncoming fungal whips. A harsh sizzling sound erupted as the intense heat collided with the mycelium. Seizing the opening, the guard flickered forward and closed the distance. He raised the melta-blade and slashed down toward the cultist's neck. His movements were clean and efficient, marking him as an elite veteran of countless life-and-death battles.
However, the Nurgle cultist was no novice either. As the guard attacked, he lunged to the side, letting the melta-blade graze past him. Though the blade didn't hit, the rolling heat wave scorched a blackened mark onto his left shoulder. The cultist seemed oblivious to the searing heat. The fanaticism in his eyes grew even more intense as he roared and swung his scythe in a horizontal sweep toward the guard's waist.
Prepared for this, the guard pushed off the ground, leaping into the air to evade the heavy blow. Before the cultist could retract the scythe, the guard twisted mid-air. The melta-blade gathered an even more brilliant flame, diving down like a meteor toward the cultist's back.
The two became locked in combat, red flames and dark green Chaos energy clashing repeatedly. Meanwhile, the remaining two guards were focusing all their psychic power on holding back the surrounding mycelium.
The two guards paid no attention to the station manager, who had supposedly fainted earlier. His eyes suddenly snapped open. His pupils, once normal, had transformed into snake-like vertical slits. The manager rolled to his feet, ignoring the mycelium beneath him. He locked his gaze on one of the guards and whispered a single word: "Turn."
A second later, the manager collapsed into unconsciousness again. This time, the mycelium quickly crawled over his body and began to rot him away.
Simultaneously, the guard the manager had targeted stiffened. His pupils instantly shifted into vertical slits. Suddenly, he lashed out, drawing his energy pistol and firing a single shot into the head of the guard standing behind him. The other guard had no time to react before his head was pierced by the energy beam.
After eliminating his companion, the blood-stained guard turned the gun toward his own temple with an expression of excitement and pulled the trigger again. In just two seconds, two of the three close guards were dead.
The echoes of the gunshots rang through the transfer station, shattering the already chaotic situation. Hearing the shots behind him, the guard fighting the Nurgle cultist looked back and was paralyzed with shock. He couldn't comprehend why his two colleagues had suddenly died.
Taking advantage of the guard's distraction, the Nurgle cultist seized the opportunity. His left hand lunged out, his fingertips gripping the guard's wrist tightly. Dark green Chaos energy burrowed like poisonous vines through the guard's broken armor. The cultist laughed maniacally as he raised the scythe with his right hand, swinging it toward the guard's back with a foul-smelling wind.
The guard was now in a desperate situation. His wrist was pinned, and because of the invading Chaos energy, his psychic flow was blocked. The red glow of the melta-blade dimmed visibly. He gritted his teeth and poured every remaining shred of psychic energy into the blade.
"Even if I die, I'm taking you with me."
The guard released his right hand and caught the blade with his left. With a desperate twist of his wrist, he plunged the blade, still carrying the last of its crimson flame, deep into the cultist's abdomen.
Hot blood and dark green fluid mingled, dripping from their mutual wounds. The guard's body slowly stiffened. The melta-blade lost its power and fell to the ground with a clang, its red light extinguished. He turned his head with difficulty, staring at David. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he died before he could speak.
The Nurgle cultist clutched the wound in his abdomen and stumbled back a few steps, a crazed smile still on his face. "The Grandfather will grant me strength. This wound is nothing..."
Before the cultist could finish, a high-speed bullet flew from behind and precisely blew his head apart. His crazed smile froze as his massive body swayed and collapsed.
David Rick stood in place, his expression steady and devoid of panic. As the gunshot rang out, he turned his gaze toward the direction from which the bullet had come.
Marcus, clad in power armor, walked slowly toward him.
"Long time no see, old friend."