Faced with the sudden tide of Orks on his flank and the enormous gap that had opened in his once-perfect encirclement, Typhus showed neither shock nor anger beneath his decaying helmet.
If anything, he was unnaturally calm.
This was not merely the composure of Nurgle's chosen. His expectations for this war had already changed.
First, he had never expected this probing assault to kill the so-called "Living Saint" before him for good. To someone like Typhus, who had witnessed the Warp Essence, a Living Saint was, bluntly put, a "Greater Daemon" created by the Corpse Emperor sitting on his Golden Throne.
Greater Daemons could not truly be killed. That was common knowledge in the Warp. As long as the False Emperor remained, as long as faith endured, these glowing puppets would respawn after a time even if they were hacked to pieces. Killing him here would naturally be a welcome bonus, dealing a devastating blow to enemy morale, but failing to do so would hardly constitute a strategic blunder.
Second-
Typhus rolled his neck slightly, producing a series of cracks as his bones ground together.
He had grown used to it. Whenever he thought he was about to claim a glorious victory through some clever shortcut, all manner of inexplicable accidents invariably occurred.
He had long since become numb to situations where plans failed to keep pace with events. He had already abandoned the arrogant notion that a single decapitation strike would let him swiftly conquer the entire territory.
This was a war, an all-encompassing contest of will, spirit, industry, and resources. And that was precisely where the Death Guard excelled.
"First Company, take the flank."
Typhus issued the order over the vox, his voice as casual as if he were telling a servant to fetch a glass of water.