Breathing Space

The dark green cloud above Nurgle's Garden remained silent for a long time.

So long that Guilliman thought the old fat man had fainted from anger, so long that Mortarion was almost asleep in his arms, so long that the sounds of the Adeptus Custodes slaying Plaguebearer in the distance gradually faded away.

That silence was not an accumulation of anger, but a helpless sigh, tinged with resignation.

Like an old father who has been tormented by his children his whole life, finally sitting alone in the dimly lit living room late at night, admitting that he can't control them anymore.

Guilliman did not urge him.

He simply stood there, Mortarion tucked under one arm and the Emperor's Sword in the other, its tip planted in the scorched earth, golden flames burning quietly on its blade.

The heat wave lifted the hem of his black tuxedo, revealing a layer of blue-gold Power Armour underneath.

His monocle was still hanging over his right eye, the lens covered in dust, but he didn't wipe it off.

He slightly raised his head, his blue-gold eyes piercing through layers of golden flames and through the still-smoking ruins.

Passing through the slowly shrinking dark green cloud, I looked straight ahead at the Plague Throne, which was faintly visible behind it.

There was no smugness or mockery in those eyes, only a bored patience as one waits for the cashier to give change.

"Very good."

The voice of Nurgle finally came from the cloud.

The voice was extremely tired, like a patient who had just come out of the operating room, still under anesthesia, only able to utter a few syllables incoherently.

But beneath the exhaustion lay something Guilliman hadn't anticipated—compromise.

It wasn't the kind of forced, gritted-teeth compromise.

Rather, it is a calm, calculated compromise, like a negotiation in which both sides realize that continuing the fight will only result in mutual destruction, and they voluntarily lay down their weapons.

"It seems we've reached an agreement."

Guilliman's lips curled into a slight smile.

The smile was neither ostentatious nor dazzling; it was just a thin curve at the corner of his mouth, paired with the deep lines at the corners of his eyes caused by fatigue, making him look like a father who had finally coaxed his disobedient child to bed.

He released his grip on Mortarion, allowing the Daemon Primarch to stand beside him, then opened his arms as if welcoming an old friend.

"Although I hate to say it, you are the most sensible and benevolent father among all the Chaos gods I have ever met."

His tone was so sincere that it didn't sound sarcastic.

This sincerity left Nurgle speechless for a moment, unsure whether to take it as a compliment or an insult.

He lived so long and was hailed as the "Father" by countless believers.

But to hear this word from an enemy who had just killed his most beloved Greater Daemon, burned his Garden of Nurgle, and abducted his Daemon Primarch.

It felt like someone rubbed salt into a wound, and then asked, "Does it hurt?"

The voice of the Nurgle suddenly rose in pitch.

His thick, festering index finger suddenly pierced out from the dark green cloud.

The index finger was as thick as a frigate, the nail was black, and the cracks were filled with dried pus.

The finger pointed straight at Guilliman, its nail reflecting golden firelight like a red-hot iron pillar.

"Humans! Stop provoking me! Extinguish the flames in my Garden of Nurgle! That's the price you pay for taking Mortarion and killing Ku'gath!"

His voice carried the last vestige of authority, like an old king about to be overthrown shouting "Step down!" to the rebels from the steps.

Much of its majesty has faded, but it still remains.

Because Nurgle is still one of the Four Chaos Gods, still the ruler of a Warp realm, and still a Chaos Gods god who can crush planets with a flick of his wrist.

Even if his Garden of Nurgle is burning, even if his children are being slaughtered, he is still Nurgle.

Guilliman's smile remained unchanged.

He lowered his outstretched arms and spoke in a casual tone, as if replying to "The weather is nice today."

"Ah, extinguishing the flames here, I really can't do that."

But my father should be able to do it.

Right now, right after I made the request to him, it is absolutely possible.

Your Garden of Nurgle will go out and turn into scorched earth.

Then, by expending most of your energy, you can make the rotten trees and flowers grow back."

He paused, looked down at the scorched earth at his feet, and kicked a clump of ash that was still smoking with his toe.

Ashes rose, shimmering like fine black snowflakes in the golden firelight.

"Although I feel sorry about this."

"This Garden of Nurgle will slowly accumulate a putrid stench over a long period of time, instead of being as fresh as it is now."

As Guilliman spoke, he began to walk across the scorched earth.

His steps were casual and natural, each step landing on the still-burning ashes, the soles of his boots sinking into the scalding ash with a hissing sound.

As he passed a clump of still-burning, decaying wood, he stretched out his right hand, fingers spread, and gently patted the golden flames.

The flames danced in his palm, like a child tickled, shrinking back for a moment before bursting into flames again.

The flames felt as warm to him as hot spring water.

The Emperor was watching him.

That black sun hung at the far end of Warp, silent, profound, and indescribable.

But Guilliman could feel the weight of that gaze, that gaze fixed on him.

Maintain his body temperature at the most comfortable level, keep his physical strength at an inexhaustible threshold, and keep his will as firm as steel.

All the Emperor's mercy was given at this moment to the Son of Hope, to his thirteenth son.

It's not favoritism, but trust.

This child knows how to use this kindness to gain the greatest benefit for the Imperium.

Nurgle's rage was completely ignited in that instant.

The dark green cloud suddenly expanded, and the golden patterns on its edges, like ruptured blood vessels, spewed out streams of dark green Chaos energy.

The energy was burned to nothingness in the golden flames, emitting a sharp sound like a baby crying.

His spoon burst forth from the cloud; it was a huge, bronze-green wooden spoon with a long handle, its surface riddled with pits and cracks.

Strands of dried soup clung to the edge of the spoon, smoldering in the golden firelight and emitting a pungent, sour smell.

That wasn't an ordinary spoon; it was the Spoon of Plague Birth, the magical tool that Nurgle used to stir the great cauldron and mix all the sources of plague.

In Nurgle's hands it is a spoon, but when it is pointed at an enemy, it becomes Nurgle's sharpest weapon.

In those still-burning corners of Nurgle's Garden.

The surviving Plaguebearer screamed in unison; they recognized the spoon—it was the spoon that had stirred them out of the soup.

"You have been provoking me, human! Guilliman, do not test my patience! Even though I am the most benevolent and gentle of the four gods!"