Vulkan was still locked in a bitter battle.
He was surrounded by Chaos Abominations in the swamp. The twisted creatures surged toward him from every direction like an endless tide.
He swung his warhammer, crushing the Nurglings that came near into pulp, smashing the lunging Beasts of Nurgle away, and sweeping the swarms of Plague Flies descending from above into clouds of blood.
But his movements grew slower, heavier, and increasingly feeble.
Every step was a struggle.
His feet sank into the rotting mire, which coiled around his ankles like a living thing, trying to drag him deeper.
Whenever he lifted a foot, more mud surged in to fill the space he had left, making his next step even harder.
Beneath the mire, all manner of horrific creatures writhed. They all wanted to devour him, to drag him into the depths of the swamp and turn him into nourishment for Nurgle's Garden.
Vulkan could only strike back hastily, reacting in desperation. His warhammer no longer struck with its former strength, his steps were no longer steady, his breathing grew labored and heavy, and his vision began to blur.
His body grew weaker and weaker as the viruses ravaged his flesh and soul.
He could feel his muscles wasting away, his bones becoming brittle, his organs failing, and his mind growing sluggish.
Vulkan's soul was being extinguished beneath Nurgle's mighty power.
That soul, once blazing like fire and surging like lava, was now dimming little by little, like a candle guttering in the wind that might go out at any moment.
He could feel Nurgle's power enveloping him, seeping into him, trying to assimilate him and make him part of the Garden of Nurgle.
Vulkan was now like a volcano whose eruptions had spent themselves.
The crater that had once spewed