Far Too Naive

He continued speaking, not very fast, but every word was like a nail, driven into the dark green existence one by one.

The nails are not thick or sharp, but each nail is driven very deep into Nurgle's thick layer of Psionic Energy shield like rotting cotton wool, leaving small, smoking holes.

"It's simply too naive and too fragile."

I've had enough of playing these games with you.

Especially hanging out with you four guys.

In the past ten thousand years, how many worlds have you slaughtered with plague?

How many civilizations have been burned by war?

How many rebellions have been provoked by subterfuge?

How many souls have you corrupted with desire?

You regard Milky Way as a chessboard, and all creatures as chess pieces. You sit in the depths of Warp and watch all this leisurely.

If you win, you will laugh; if you lose, you will say that this is part of Destiny and that this is the destination of all life.

I don't want to play your game anymore.

Guilliman's left arm was clamped tighter.

It's not deliberate, but a conditioned reflex, as if to confirm that you still have chips in your hand.

Mortarion's breathing made a slight "whooshing" sound. There was no pain in the sound, it was just a simple, physiological wheezing.

He could feel the power contained in Guilliman's arms - that power was not just Primarch level muscle power, but the triple superposition of Law of Eternity amplification, Atomic Law feedback, and Emperor Psionic Energy infusion.

This power was enough to crush his demonic body, which had been blessed by Nurgle for thousands of years, like paper. It didn't require Emperor's Sword or golden flames. Just the blue-gold arm armor was enough to make his cervical spine sing the last note in this arm.

"Now, I have complete reasons and sufficient power to bring Mortarion back to Imperium."

Guilliman raised his head, and his blue-gold eyes finally looked straight at the dark green cloud.

There was no fear, no hesitation, or even anger in that look.

There is only a cold calm, like Inquisitor reading out the verdict in court.

Why should I look at your face?

Because you are an elder?

Because you are one of Four Chaos Gods?

Because you have lived in Warp for tens of millions of years?

Because I should be in awe of you?

The arc at the corner of Guilliman's mouth changed from mockery to a sneer.

He shook his head, the movement was very slow, as if he was deliberately provoking.

"In my eyes, you are just an old fat man hiding in a cesspit."

Besides making soup and growing mushrooms, what else do you do?

Nurgle's cloud suddenly expanded.

The swelling is not an outburst of anger, but a conditioned reflex after being choked, like a person who has a ball of cotton stuffed in his throat and wants to swallow it, but can't spit it out.

The edge of the cloud peeled off a large area of light during the expansion, like a wound that was losing blood. Dark green Chaos energy poured out from the wound, burning, evaporating, and dissipating in the golden flame.

He wanted to say something - maybe a threat, maybe a curse, maybe his signature exhortation with fatherly care - he wanted to tell Guilliman that you will not end well if you offend Four Chaos Gods, he wanted to tell him that your Imperium will eventually decay and your children will eventually fall, and he wanted to tell him that your current victory is just a flash in the pan.

But Guilliman's words were like a wall, blocking all the words in his throat.

He found that no matter what he said, in the face of Guilliman's current state, he looked like an old man who had lost the game and was still talking arrogantly.

"Venting your so-called anger and venting your so-called majesty as an elder are all meaningless."

Guilliman's smile went away, and his expression became calm again. That calm was not the calm before the storm, but the calm after the storm had passed and the sky cleared again.

You know very well that as long as I take Mortarion back to Terra and throw it under Golden Throne, you will never touch him again.

Your blessings will be peeled off layer by layer by the golden flame of Emperor, your mark will be completely erased by the original power of Dark King, your Daemon Primarch will kneel under Golden Throne, being burned by the light of Emperor every day, and being eroded by human faith every day.

Until the last trace of Chaos energy in his body is purified, until his demonic core that has been soaked by you for thousands of years becomes a human heart again.

Maybe it will take a hundred, a thousand, or ten thousand years.

But Emperor has a lot of patience.

Human beings have a lot of patience.

He paused, and his eyes became sharper, like two blue spears thrust into the Nurgle clouds.

"That's why you stand there afraid to move - not because you're patient, but because you're at your wits' end."

The dark green clouds in the sky were silent.

That kind of silence is not acquiescence, but a kind of hollowness after anger reaches the extreme.

Nurgle has lived for so long. From the moment his first spore fell into Warp, he has witnessed the rise and fall of countless civilizations and experienced the kind of meat grinder that War in Heaven uses as cannon fodder for even gods.