Shut Up!

The last line of defense outside the Imperial Palace has become a bloodbath.

Trajann knelt on one knee not out of etiquette, but because of pure, physiological exhaustion.

His Castellan Axe was deeply embedded in the scorched and cracked ground, becoming the only support that allowed him to remain upright.

That once dazzling Emperor golden armor is now covered with scratches, dents, and corrosion stains, stained with various blasphemous colors such as scarlet, emerald green, and dirty yellow.

It resembles a work of art that has been wantonly splattered with filth.

His mask had already been half-shattered in the previous fierce battle, revealing his angular but pale face.

Sweat mixed with blood dripped from his forehead, falling into the ominous, bubbling pus pooling at his feet.

His breathing was heavy, like a bellows, and with each breath, his lungs felt a burning pain.

The gifts of Nurgle's benevolent father are attempting to breach the last line of defense of his perfect body.

Dark spots and eerie, whimsical, dancing spore phantoms began to appear at the edges of my vision.

The web between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, which was gripping the halberd, was already torn open, and blood stained the handle. The muscles in his arm trembled slightly uncontrollably.

Ten meters in front of him was the source of this desperate standoff— the Great Unclean One Grom Faser, "The Festering Feaster."

It resembles a moving, living, decaying hill, nearly five meters high, its obese and bloated body composed of countless growths, festering wounds, and stitched-together corpse parts.

Seven arms of varying lengths, infested with maggots, slowly danced in the air, each holding a rusty greatsword, a water clock, a plague incense burner, and a harvesting sickle.

On its face, which resembled a melting wax figure, a wide, "benevolent" smile stretched from ear to ear, with yellowish-green pus constantly dripping from the corners of its mouth.

"Huff... huff... keep going, little golden man."

Grom Faser's voice was like the buzzing of a thousand flies, mixed with the bubbling of a swamp, "Your persistence breaks my heart, yet also brings me so much comfort."

Look at you, such a perfect creation... yet you slowly rust and wear down in weariness and despair.

Why bother?

Join us, and embrace the loving father.

It stretched out a gigantic hand covered in festering sores, from which a warm, ever-changing halo of light emanated, radiating an alluring, rotten, and sweet scent.

Here, there is no pain, only acceptance; no weariness, only eternal, slow rest.

Your loyalty, your perseverance, your 'perfection' will all find a new and more 'vital' form in the Garden of Nurgle.

You will become my most beautiful Plaguebearer, or a handsome Plaguebearer... Come, lay down that cold metal, and feel the true warmth and abundance of life."

Trajann raised his head, a scorching golden light bursting from his remaining left eye.

He mustered all his strength, using his halberd to support himself on the ground, and slowly straightened up again.

Despite its precarious state, its spine remained ramrod straight.

"Your ' Garden of Nurgle '..."

His voice was hoarse and strained, yet every word was as firm as iron. "... nothing more than a stagnant cesspool."

Your 'compassion'... is a poison that deceives the weak.

He spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, which fell into the pus at his feet, making a hissing, corrosive sound. "And I am the Emperor's Adeptus Custodes."

My only destiny is battle or death.

But there is absolutely no... depravity."

"Stubborn!

"Pathetic stubbornness!"

Grom Faser wasn't angry; instead, his smile became even more "benevolent," and several pustules on his body burst open merrily. "What do you think you're defending?"

A zombie who's been sitting on cold, mechanical floor for millennia, barely able to take care of itself?

Or is it a 'god' who can't even protect his own offspring?

Its massive body took a step forward, causing the earth to tremble, and more foul liquid seeped from beneath its feet:

Do you know?

I sensed something interesting.

The presence of a 'Returner' lingered in the Warp like a pungent peppercorn.

Robert Guilliman... Hah, the 'King' of Ultramar, the 'Good Son' of the Cursed One."

The Greater Daemon's voice was filled with malicious pleasure, "Even his father, cursed by Destiny and marked by the gods, cannot save you."

Do you expect a 'bureaucratic Primarch ' that has been asleep for millennia and only knows how to draw up laws on paper when it wakes up?

Trajann's pupils contracted slightly, but he clenched his teeth and did not respond.

"He'll come; I can smell it."

Grom Faser moved closer, the stench of decay almost suffocating Trajann, "With his blue, self-important warriors."

Then what?

What will he see?

A dying Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes? A burning imperial palace?

Or is it...?

The Greater Daemon's smile turned eerie and expectant.

"We will corrupt him. The loving father has already prepared a great gift for him—not swords, but understanding; not destruction, but 'acceptance'."

Imagine, a Primarch has grasped the true meaning of the cycle of life, decay and rebirth, and willingly embraces the Eternal Garden... Mortarion would welcome this new 'brother' very much.

Isn't this more meaningful than dying in vain?

"What will you and everything you swore to defend to the death be then? A joke?"

"Shut up!!!"

Trajann unleashed a final roar, attempting to raise his halberd.

But his arm only managed to lift a few inches in vain before falling limply to the ground.

Extreme exhaustion and the plague toxins that had invaded his body finally overwhelmed the last line of his will.

His vision began to blur, his ears rang, and Grom Faser's vicious whispers seemed to come from a great distance.

He's about to collapse.

One of the Emperor's finest creations, the commander of the Adeptus Custodes, is about to fall in humiliation before the filth of Nurgle.

Grom Faser watched all this with satisfaction, raising its largest, rusty harvesting sickle.

They prepared to give this "stubborn child" a final "loving release," offering his soul and body as a precious sacrifice to his loving father.

"Then, farewell, golden..."

The Greater Daemon had not yet finished reciting his execution instructions.

Time seemed to be forcibly cut off at that moment.

Trajann's blurred vision froze as he saw Grom Faser's enormous, repulsive body.

It's not stillness, but a more eerie state, as if it's being held up from within by an invisible force.

Then--

Bang!

A muffled thud came from the largest abscess at the center of the Greater Daemon's torso.

Puff!

Pfft!

Immediately following, the three growths on its left shoulder burst open in succession, the thick yellow-green fluid not splattering out, but exploding outwards in a radial pattern as if squeezed.

Boom!

Click!

At the right knee, the joint, entangled with decaying bone and tendons, snapped in the opposite direction without warning, the fracture surface eerily smooth.

This is just the beginning.

In the next moment, less than one-hundredth of a heartbeat, the Great Unclean One Grom Faser the Festering Feaster...

It has undergone a literal, thorough, and structurally-driven forced demolition, from the micro to the macro level.