This Is the Price, Nurgle

In the sky above Nurgle's Garden, the dark green existence shrank violently.

It no longer floats as calmly as before, like a dark cloud that has accumulated rain for countless years, calmly waiting for the opportunity to pour.

It was trembling, and the trembling was not fear, but the spasm of anger that had been restrained by some invisible shackles and had nowhere to vent.

Fine golden lines began to appear on the edge of the dark green cloud, as if something had eroded it from the outside - that was the constant pressure exerted by Black Sun of Emperor on the other side of Warp. The black star was using its endless Psionic Energy, which was as heavy as the universe itself, to squeeze Nurgle's divine realm outward little by little.

With each squeeze, a small dark green light spot peels off from the edge of the cloud. Those light spots are burned into nothingness in the golden flames, like snowflakes falling into a furnace.

Nurgle's voice came from the cloud.

The voice was no longer the kind and gentle tone before, like a grandfather recalling the past in a rocking chair, but a dull roar, like the roar of magma deep in the earth's crust.

Each syllable was dragged out for a long time, like a wounded beast panting, its trachea filled with pus and blood foam.

That's not pretentious, but he is using all his strength to resist Emperor's crushing round of Black Sun.

His voice contained an anger that was suppressed to the extreme and could explode at any time, but that anger was tightly tied by an invisible chain - the end of the chain was the black sun, Dark King, Master of Mankind.

He can't let go, because letting go means that more Garden of Nurgle will be burned, it means that more children will be killed, and it means that his domain will be completely sunk in this golden sea of fire.

"Guilliman... You are challenging my patience..."

Guilliman stood in the middle of the ruins, holding Mortarion's neck in his left hand, and holding Emperor's Sword in his right hand, with the tip of the sword facing down, stamped on the charred ground.

Mortarion's body was half a head taller than him, but at this moment, it was slightly hunched under the pressure of Guilliman's arm, like a cat with its neck pinched, its limbs hanging limply, its wings dragging on the ground.

He was quieter than before, no longer struggling, no longer roaring, or even trembling. He just let Guilliman fix himself in that arm, and let the blue-gold arm armor touch his rotten neck.

His eyes were open, those dark green, chaotic eyes that had been corrupted by Nurgle's blessing for thousands of years, looking at the garden in the distance. Among the still burning ruins were his heirs, some had fallen, some were still kneeling, and some were facing the final silence under the execution of the Imperial Army.

His breathing was slow and weak, which was a physiological reaction after Guilliman's arm pressed against his trachea, but it was more of a psychological give-up.

There was no thought of resistance in his heart - because Guilliman held the hand of Emperor's Sword, and the golden flame on the sword blade could completely erase everything in his existence from the universe with just one wave.

The golden flame of Emperor has this ability.

It's not expulsion, it's not sealing, it's not breaking it into pieces and then slowly getting back together - it's a complete, irreversible end that will burn even Warp Essence to ashes.

Dark King, the dual Divinity of despair and destruction, his power is not a curse or pollution, but a pure, unquestionable end like a mathematical axiom.

No one can question that one plus one equals two, just like no one can say "I do not accept this ending" in front of the golden flame of Emperor.

This is the last trump card that the mummy who has been sitting on Golden Throne for ten thousand years left to Milky Way - he can stay still, but whoever he wants to die must die.

Mortarion knows this.

So he stopped struggling.

But he didn't say anything like "Take me away" or "Kill me".

He just remained silent, feeling the body temperature coming from Guilliman's arm. That body temperature actually seemed a little hot on his demonic body that had been blessed and transformed by Nurgle for thousands of years.

It's like a hot water bottle stuffed into someone's arms in winter. It feels unbearably hot at first, but I can't bear to throw it away.

"Sincerity?"

Guilliman's voice was not loud, but in this burning Garden of Nurgle ruins, every word seemed to be magnified countless times, echoing in the void.

He did not raise his head to look at the dark green cloud, but lowered his head and his eyes fell on the Emperor's Sword in his hand. His own face was reflected on the blade - a tired, indifferent face with a hint of ridicule at the corner of his mouth.

The taunt was not directed at Nurgle, but at himself.

He was mocking himself for actually standing here, in this Garden of Nurgle where even the air was rotting, like a madman who broke into someone else's yard and set fire to it.

But there was no regret in his eyes, only a sense of relief that he could finally tear off all the pretense.

"Is this how sincere you are, Nurgle?"

Do you think I will obey your orders at this moment?

Is this the so-called advice of the elders?

He didn't give Nurgle any chance to answer.

This is not a dialogue, this is a verdict.