Look Closely

The whole Nurgle's Garden was shaking.

In those areas that had not yet been affected by the golden flames, trees began to grow wildly, vines began to twist and twist, and pus began to boil.

Plaguebearer all let out ear-piercing screams at the same time, and the screams merged into a torrent that echoed over Garden of Nurgle.

They are crying.

Not because of sadness, but because they feel the anger of their master - the kind of uncontrollable anger that is squeezed to the extreme and is about to erupt.

Nurgle has never been so angry.

In 60 million years, he lost his children, his followers, and Garden of Nurgle.

He doesn't care about any of that.

Chaos Gods doesn't care about that.

But he has never lost a child like Ku'gath - not sealed, not broken, but completely erased. Even the essence of Warp was burned to ashes, and there was no chance of reincarnation.

It was Plaguebearer that he fished out from the abyss of corruption with his own hands. It was he who used a part of his own body to create this child. It was he who watched this child grow from a little Plaguebearer who only knew how to drink thick soup to the most trusted Greater Daemon among Garden of Nurgle.

He is Nurgle, he is Lord of Pestilence, he is the embodiment of decay and the cycle of life.

His essence is slow and unstoppable.

But at this moment, his anger was astonishingly fast, so fast that even he felt unfamiliar.

A dark green Psionic Energy impact spurted out from his core and struck hard in the direction of Guilliman.

That was not a temptation, not a warning, but a killing move, the ultimate plague wrath that could corrode the core of a planet into pus.

The impact stopped in mid-air.

It wasn't that it was blocked, but Black Sun in the sky above Guilliman flashed.

The flash was like a blink of an eye. In one flash, most of the shock wave disappeared.

After another flash, the shock wave shattered into countless tiny light spots.

In another flash, those light spots were swallowed up by the golden flames, and not even the slag was left.

Nurgle's anger was like a mad dog tied by an iron chain in front of that round of Black Sun.

It roared, it struggled, its fangs dripping with venom.

But the chain tightened suddenly just before it bit the target, suffocating it.

Isha stood on the edge of her Garden of Nurgle, holding the hem of her skirt tightly with both hands.

Her eyes were wide open, and her gentle, lake-like blue eyes were full of shock at this moment.

Guilliman really killed a Great Unclean One.

It's not expulsion, it's not smashing, it's not expulsion and then slowly resurrected.

It was completely killed, even Warp Essence was burned to ashes.

She knows how difficult it is to kill Great Unclean One. She herself is a prisoner imprisoned by Nurgle in this Garden of Nurgle. She knows better than anyone else how stubborn and difficult to eradicate Nurgle's blessing.

But that man, the dark-haired young man wearing a black tuxedo and a gold monocle, just raised his hand, and that stubbornness was completely destroyed.

She looked at him standing in the golden sea of fire, the hem of his black tuxedo flying in the heat wave, and there was no emotion in his blue-gold eyes.

There was no sweat, no scars, or even fatigue on his face.

He watched Nurgle's anger being eliminated by Emperor's light in front of him, and the corners of his mouth rose slightly.

Isha's heart beats very fast.

It's not fear, it's something called "hope" that she hasn't experienced in a long, long time.

She lowered her head and looked at her hands.

Those hands were shaking.

Guilliman raised his head, his blue-gold eyes looking directly at the dark green existence in the void.

He slowly raised his right arm, spread his fingers, and pointed his index finger in the direction of Nurgle.

The movement was neither urgent nor slow, just like a general raising his sword during a military parade, like a referee declaring victory or defeat in a boxing ring, and like a king giving orders to his subordinates.

His voice was calm and powerful, and every word was as clear as if it were engraved on a stone tablet.

"Watch carefully, Nurgle.

Watch how your Garden of Nurgle was burned."

He paused, and the finger pointing at Nurgle didn't move at all.

"Just like when I watched my people being tortured by your plague.

They're breathing in the virus you created, and their lungs are melting, their skin is blistering, and their blood is turning to pus.

They fell in front of me and stretched out their hands, wanting to grab me and want me to save them.

I can't save it.

I could only watch them die, watch their eyes turn from blue to gray, and from gray to death."

There was no tremor in his voice, no anger, he was just stating a fact calmly.

That calmness is more chilling than any roar.

"Now it's your turn.

You have to watch this happen.

Your children will wail, your Garden of Nurgle will turn to ashes, your pus will be dried by the golden flames, and your mold will be disinfected by the light of Emperor.

Not because you deserve to die, but because you owe me and my people."

The corners of his mouth raised slightly.

"I will leave here with the goddess of life.

I will send her back to the divine realm of Eldar.

She will use her authority to divide your domain, so that every corner of the universe has the power to resist the plague.

From now on, your plague is no longer incurable.

Your toxins are no longer impure.

Your Garden of Nurgle is no longer indestructible."

He put down his hands and turned around, his black tuxedo creating a slender reflection in the firelight.

"This is the punishment I give you."

As soon as he finished speaking, the Black Sun in the sky suddenly lit up.

It's not expanding or shrinking, but it's like being ignited by someone's will, bursting out with a golden light that's a hundred times stronger than before.

That light shines on every inch of Nurgle's Garden, on every corner that is still burning, and on the back of Guilliman, like a silent cheer.

Emperor is cheering for him.

Mortarion's eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

Those eyes were no longer Daemon Primarch's turbid, dark green, rotten swamp-like luster, but almost transparent, bloodshot, human eyes.

The whites of the eyes were covered with fine red threads, and the pupils shrank violently, like cat eyes illuminated by strong light.

He stared hard at Guilliman, at the smiling face, and at himself reflected in those blue-gold eyes.

I am embarrassed, kneeling on the ground, trapped by nine golden dragons, unable to even commit suicide.