All Right, Wrap It Up!
Guilliman Listening to Nurgle's threat, the arc at the corner of his mouth changed from ridicule to a smile.
That was a real smile, not proud or sarcastic, but a kind of ease that "the business is done".
His eyes passed through the sea of fire that was still burning and fell on the Plague Throne in the distance.
"If that's the case, I'm here to help.
Imperium's medical system needs to be updated."
He paused, and the arc of his smile retracted little by little, like the last ripple of a wave when the tide ebbs.
His eyes changed from gentle to sharp, from sharp to cold, and from cold to like two swords about to be unsheathed.
"The same awaits me, my merciful father.
Sooner or later I will visit your Garden of Nurgle again and set a fire here again."
When he said the last sentence, the smile had completely disappeared.
There was no expression on his face, only his blue-gold eyes were still burning.
He pulled Emperor's Sword up from the scorched earth, and pointed the tip of the sword straight at the sky, at the dark green clouds, and at the looming bloated figure of Plague Throne behind the clouds.
Golden flames spurted out from the blade, turning into a pillar of light that reached the sky.
The light beam exploded in the sky above Nurgle's Garden, turning into countless tiny Mars, like fireworks, like shooting stars, like paper money at a funeral.
Guilliman holds the sword, facing Nurgle from afar across the burning Garden of Nurgle.
There was no arc in the corners of his mouth.
His eyes showed no emotion.
There was no ups and downs in his breathing.
But Nurgle read a message from those eyes at that moment -
"I do what I say.".
Garden of Nurgle was silent.
The flames are still burning, but those screaming Plaguebearer are no longer screaming.
They seemed to feel the weight of that gaze and huddled in the ruins, motionless.
Adeptus Custodes's sword stopped in mid-air and did not fall.
Grey Knights's Psionic Energy The storm no longer spreads, but hangs there quietly, like a cloud blown away by the wind.
The eyes of everyone and the devil fell on the pillar of light soaring into the sky, on the burning Emperor's Sword, and on the black-haired man standing in the middle of the sea of fire.
Guilliman didn't say another word.
He just held the sword, maintained that posture, and looked at Nurgle.
It was as if she was waiting for him to look away first, as if she was waiting for him to admit defeat first, or as if she was waiting for him to take action first.
He was not in a hurry, still holding Emperor's Sword in his hand and Mortarion in his arms.
Nurgle first looked away.
He did not admit defeat, nor did he take action.
He just remained silent, looking away from the golden beam of light and landing on the steaming cauldron in his hand.
The thick soup in the pot is slowly evaporating in the golden flames, and the thick layer of bubbles on the surface bursts one by one, revealing the dark green, viscous, and squirming soup underneath.
That is the essence that he spent countless years brewing, the foundation of his Garden of Nurgle, and the source of all his plagues.
If even this pot of soup cannot be saved, then Nurgle's Garden will really no longer be Nurgle's Garden.
He put down the spoon and said no more.
"Everyone, withdraw your troops!"
Guilliman's voice echoed over the ruins of Nurgle's Garden.
The sound was not loud, but every syllable seemed to be lifted by some invisible force, floating through the burning rotten forest and through the collapsed pool of ichor.
Passing over the still smoking bomb craters filled with Plaguebearer wreckage, it fell into the ears of every Imperium soldier.
"Okay, everyone! Stop sweeping, stop killing! It's time for us to return to Imperium!"
His tone was as calm as if he were saying in the office, "That's it for today, let's get off work."
There was no impassionedness, no excitement, not even a trace of mood swings.
But the blue, red, black, and gold figures that were galloping in Garden of Nurgle stopped their movements at the same time when they heard these words.
A Ultramarines was holding a Power Sword. The sword blade had already sunk into the chest of a Great Unclean One, and dark green pus was pouring out along the sword slot.
His other hand was still holding the horn of a Plaguebearer that was trying to escape, and the little thing's legs were kicking around in the air.
After hearing the order, he did not stop drawing the sword, but after drawing it out, he did not continue to cut. He just stood there, gasping for air, with pus still dripping from the blade.
His eyes crossed the sea of burning fire and landed on the figure in the black tuxedo in the distance. A trace of reluctance flashed in his eyes - not the land of Garden of Nurgle, but the pleasure of being able to kill Chaos Daemons unscrupulously.
But he still sheathed his sword.
A Adeptus Custodes was nailing a Plaguebearer to the wall. The golden spear penetrated Plaguebearer's round belly and hung it on the broken wall of the ruins. The Plaguebearer was still screaming and kicking its limbs.
Adeptus Custodes was silent for a moment after hearing the order, then suddenly pulled out the spear, turned around and left.
The Plaguebearer slipped from the wall, fell to the ground, covered its still smoldering wound, and let out a tearful scream for the rest of its life.
Before it finished barking, a Adeptus Custodes boot stepped on its head.
It wasn't intentional, I just stepped on it while passing by.
That Plaguebearer's head exploded like a ripe tomato on the sole of the boot, with juice splashing everywhere.
Adeptus Custodes did not look back and continued to stride towards the direction of the crack.
A Black Templars warrior was squatting next to a pile of rubble, with his Power Sword stuck beside him, and his hands were tearing the head of a Plaguebearer.
That was not a battle, but an execution.
That Plaguebearer had been beaten half to death by him, its horn was broken, its belly was cracked, and only half of one leg was left.
He just wanted to unscrew this round head with mung bean eyes with his own hands.
After hearing the order, he paused for a moment and then continued to twist.
With a "click", the head was separated from the neck, and dark green liquid sprayed into his hand.
He threw the head on the ground, stood up, picked up Power Sword stuck next to him, and wiped the stains on the sword blade clean on Plaguebearer's body.
"The last one."
He whispered, as if to comfort himself.
Those Grey Knightss who were entangled with Death Guard on the edge of Garden of Nurgle, after hearing the order, took three steps back neatly. The Psionic Energy storm in their hands was still gathering in their palms, but they no longer moved forward.
They did not turn around and leave, but maintained a defensive posture, retreating step by step, always staring at the still twitching Death Guard.
Those Death Guard didn't pursue them anymore.
They just knelt there in silence with their heads lowered, as if waiting for the final judgment.
In Nurgle's Garden, the golden flame is still burning.
Those flames will not be extinguished because of Guilliman's retreat, they will continue to burn until the last trace of Nurgle's blessings on this land are burned to ashes.
But the Imperium warriors stopped killing. They put away their weapons and dusted off the ashes on Power Armour.
Throwing away the Plaguebearer remains that were still hanging on his body, he formed a loose formation and walked towards the Material Universe fissure that was still slowly healing.
Their pace is fast, not because they are afraid that Nurgle will regret it, but because of their Gene-Father.
The dark-haired man standing by the crack - was waiting for them.