Veteran squad leader Batu cautiously led Doom toward the Thunderhawk Gunship they had arrived in.
The return journey was filled with a silent oppression.
The White Scars warriors instinctively kept their distance from the dark green figure. Though their Bolters were lowered, their fingers never left the triggers.
Doom did not care in the slightest.
The Thunderhawk Gunship's engines roared, tearing apart the suffocating silence as they carried the silent group into the lead-gray sky thick with diseased spores.
Through the portholes, they could see the enormous planet below, reeking of rotten sweetness, gradually shrinking away. Its surface was covered in slaughter marks left by Doom, ugly scars carved into the world.
Before long, the Thunderhawk Gunship docked with a cruiser lingering in low orbit.
This vessel was the mothership of Batu's scouting team—the Storm's Claw.
When the docking hatch hissed open, an odor more complex and unsettling than anything on Nurgle's planet rushed over them.
The cold scent of metal, the pungency of engine oil, the ozone stench of overstrained plasma engines... the "normal" smells of a warship mingled with a faint, stubborn reek like mold and rust, along with... a barely perceptible smell of blood.
The Storm's Claw was in terrible condition.
Its outer armor was covered in vicious tears, corroded craters, and blackened scars from energy burns.
Some areas were covered in dark green growths like giant moss. Though they had been scorched by flamethrowers, leaving charred marks behind, their edges still writhed stubbornly.
The corridor lights flickered erratically, and emergency lamps were the only source of illumination in many areas.
Dried dark brown and even dark green stains were everywhere on the cold metal decks and walls—congealed mixtures of daemon blood and human blood.
More horrifying still, some corners, pipe junctions, and even cracks in the