What Are They Doing?

No.

Nothing.

There is only the endless void, only the occasional demonic remains floating by, and only those Chaos entities that were frightened by the power of Emperor and fled in all directions.

There are no organized legions, no neatly arranged battleships, and not even a decent combat unit that can fight.

Nurgle's brows furrowed even deeper.

He couldn't help but lament that the number of Imperium of Man and Space Marines nowadays has dropped sharply.

In the past, Milky Ways could be seen everywhere Astartess wearing various colors of Power Armours fighting everywhere. But now, looking around, apart from the overwhelming blue figure of Ultramariness, the shadows of other Chapters can hardly be found.

Of course, there are still a lot of Smurfs.

There are so many that Nurgle are too lazy to count—no, countless.

Ten thousand years ago, Imperium of Man had the so-called "Astartes Codex" restriction. One Chapter could only have a maximum of one thousand Space Marines, and one Primarch could only command a maximum of 250,000 troops.

Whoever dares to overwrite the code, Inquisition will come uninvited, charge you with "ambition and conspiracy to commit rebellion", and then weld your door shut.

What now?

Since Guilliman took over Lord Regent, no department has dared to find trouble with Macragge.

No one dares to check the census data of Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, no one dares to audit the logistics of Ultramarines, and no one dares to ask "How many Smurfs did you create?"

Because the answer might give them a myocardial infarction on the spot.

Make it, make it.

Nurgle sighed in his heart.

Let the overwhelming Smurfs wipe out Milky Way, and let all races in the universe experience the blue despair.

It's best to let those bugs experience what it means to "fly all over the sky" - don't you Tyranids win by numbers? Come on, let's compete with Ultramarines to see who has more soldiers.

But, then again.

Nurgle's eyes rolled.

Imperium of Man What are you busy with now?

I always feel that their current defense is very weak, and it seems that it can only be comparable to the level of vigilance during the Great Crusade period.

The patrol fleets that used to be all over Milky Way are gone, and the fortress groups guarding key waterways are also gone. Many sectors that were originally heavily guarded now look like little girls without clothes.

Nurgle's heartbeat skipped a beat.

How about... taking advantage of the moment... to make a big one?

He can understand why Tzeentch is always so keen on the feeling of "change".

Faced with this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, even if he is as gentle as he is, as lazy as he is, and only wants to drink soup and grow mushrooms in Garden of Nurgle, he can't help but want to take advantage of the opportunity to make a big deal.

A super plague that can last for Milky Way 777 days causes every human colonized planet to break out with the same incurable virus on the same day, turning Emperor's golden Psionic Energy into dark green in the wailing of despair.

Nurgle's mouth corners began to rise.

That arc struggled for a long time among the layers of fat, and finally squeezed out an arc that was not obvious but existed.

He was somewhat eager to give it a try, and had even begun to conceive of the prototype of the plague.

Should it be mainly transmitted through the respiratory tract, or through insect vectors?

Should we choose a high fatality rate, or should we allow infected people to become a new source of infection?

Nurgle glanced again at the Black Sun that was expanding and contracting crazily, and the curvature of the corners of his mouth shrank back again.

Emperor wouldn't hide so many Space Marines for no reason.

That guy must be holding back some big move.

He hid most of his troops in an unknown corner, sharpening his sword, just waiting for some unlucky guy to hit him.

"So," Nurgle murmured to himself, his voice as low as the cold air seeping from the graveyard, "Who is Cursed One trying to target? Is he trying to invade Slaanesh's palace, or is Tzeentch's Crystal Labyrinth?"

His brain began to work rapidly.

The intrigue between Four Chaos Gods does not require words, only instinct.

Nurgle instinctively ruled out some options - Khorne's God's Domain, Emperor would not fight it.

Not because it can't be beaten, but because it's too uneconomical to win.

No matter how crazy Emperor is, he will not take all his Space Marines to play wrestling with Khorne.

The war that broke out in Material Universe was too far away from the source of Psionic Energy - the emotions and concepts that gave birth to the four gods. There will always be losses in the transmission of Psionic Energy no matter what.

But if we start a war directly in the divine domain of Khorne, it will be a hornet's nest at the doorstep of the God of War.

There's no guarantee that Khorne that old boy can absorb all the war energy, regain all his strength, and stand up from that Brass Throne.

At the same time, the other three gods do not want Khorne to stand up.

Just as they don't want Emperor to stand up from Golden Throne.

One Chaos Gods that can move freely is trouble enough, but two Chaos Gods that can move freely?

Then Warp must explode.

Nurgle lay back again.

Those Plaguebearer in Garden of Nurgle that were exploded by the thick soup were almost dead. The remaining little things stepped on the juice of their companions and jumped towards the direction of Nurgle.

Their sticky little feet stepped on the humus, making a "chirp, chirp, chirp" sound, waving their short hands as they ran, and making inarticulate cheers from their mouths.

They climbed up Nurgle's insteps - his fat insteps were like a raised ground, covered with dark green moss and tiny mushrooms - and then continued to climb up, crawling over his calves, across his knees, and across his undulating belly like a hill.

They ran, rolled, and somersaulted on his belly, like a party on a giant trampoline.

Nurgle looked at these little guys gently.

They are so cute, each one is a replica of him.

A round belly, smiling mung bean eyes, and a big mouth that stretches from ear to ear.

They have no fear or worries. They sleep when they are full and make noises when they wake up. When they are tired, they lie on his belly and purr.

This is the happiest little thing in the whole Warp.

Nurgle stretched out his hand, a big chubby hand with fingers like five rotten sausages.

He gently poked the Plaguebearer closest to him with his index finger.

The little thing was poked so hard that it turned over and rolled several times on its belly. After getting up, it ran back with a smile on its face.

"What a pity," Nurgle sighed, his voice full of regret, "Mortarion's children don't want to play with you."

He remembered Death Guard.

Those silent, gloomy guys who always wear gas masks are all social terrorists.

They never attend Plaguebearer's parties, never drink Ku'gath's soup, and never interact with the slugs, flies, and giant snails in Garden of Nurgle.

They locked themselves up in the rusty fortress, wiping their weapons over and over again, muttering the name Mortarion.

It seems that we have to find a way to capture another Primarch to keep Mortarion as a companion.