Phelps's charging steps abruptly stopped, and his cloudy eyes suddenly contracted.
The Sisters of Silence.
Blanks.
In an instant, all the doubts were answered.
No wonder the enemy dared to withdraw the priests and deploy purely mechanical units for defense. Moreover, the effect of the Rust Plague was greatly reduced, the plague bacteria could not spread, and even the mechanical units did not quickly become corrupted and out of control.
The force field of Blanks is itself a natural nemesis of Warp forces.
The Rust Plague is never simply chemical corrosion; its core is the Warp curse of the Nurgle.
As long as it is within the untouchable zone, all plague effects attached to the Warp will be suppressed or even completely rendered ineffective.
"No wonder..." Phelps's voice deepened beneath his mask, for the first time truly feeling the pressure.
He was not afraid of powerful firepower, nor of wall-like defenses, nor of the flesh and blood of ordinary people.
The " Blanks is a form of control at the rule level, directly negating the Death Guard's most relied-upon plague power.
Without the aid of the plague, the twenty-two warriors faced a drastically reduced chance of victory, having to confront seven Terminator and seven Sisters of Silence head-on, plus mechanical firepower from the rear.
Dominic gripped the Power Sword in his hand, its blade humming.
He didn't speak, but coldly stared at the group of rotten traitors before him, his eyes filled with not fear, but only utter hatred and fighting spirit.
The Sisters of Silence took a step forward in unison, and the pale silver, untouchable domain suddenly expanded, silently enveloping the 22 Plague Marine.
"Ugh!"
Almost the instant the force field enveloped his entire body, a Plague Marine let out a painful groan.
It wasn't the pain caused by external forces, but rather something deeply rooted in the soul that was forcibly ripped away.
The whispers of Nurgle that had lingered in my mind for millennia vanished abruptly, like a radio station being cut off.
The relentless, surging plague rapidly receded from every bone and muscle.
The writhing, rotting flesh, the swollen pustules, and the pus flowing through the gaps in the armor all ceased to move.
The rusted armor, now fused with flesh and blood, now felt like a heavy shackle, causing excruciating pain to the bones.
The first to react was an old soldier standing on the flank.
He stiffly lowered his head, looking at his arms covered in rotting flesh, his abdomen with drooping intestines, and the pitted rust and mold on his armor.
I could smell the overwhelming stench of decay emanating from myself.
The cloudy, yellowish eyes slowly returned to their original dark brown color.
Qingming Festival gradually returned to his eyes.
What followed was a memory that had been sealed away for ten thousand years.
The perpetual poisonous fog of Barbarus, the cold stone steps of the Legion's training camp, the golden light piercing the clouds on the day the Emperor descended, the shouts of comrades fighting side by side during the Great Crusade...
There was also Horus's betrayal, Typhus's sneer, and the endless plague that swept through the entire legion.
006. M31.
That was the year that changed the fate of the XIV Legion.
Primarch Mortarion raised the banner of rebellion, only to be outmaneuvered by his most trusted company Typhus.
The plague that Nurgle himself unleashed dragged the entire Legion into endless torment.
The soldiers' flesh rotted in the plague, their armor growing fused with their bodies, enduring excruciating pain day and night.
In the end, Mortarion bowed to the Plague God in his desperate situation, and the entire Legion became Nurgle's servants.
They went from being the Emperor's Death Guard to walking plagues, to the very monsters they once despised.
Nurgle's blessing distorted their perception, leading them to gradually accept their rotting bodies and even regard their deformed decay as a blessing from Grandfather.
But when the untouchable realm severed their connection with the Warp, and when the veil of Chaos was forcibly torn open, their minds and memories, suppressed for ten thousand years, surged back like a flood breaking through a dam.
"No..."
"How could this happen..."
A hoarse voice squeezed out of the soldier's throat, trembling with disbelief.
He raised his hand, intending to touch his face, but his fingertips only touched the rotten flesh turned inside out and the wriggling maggots.
"No, no, no!!!"
A piercing scream echoed through the passageway.
Like a chain reaction, one Plague Marine after another stopped moving.
The Warp energy emanating from them rapidly dissipated, and their minds broke free from millennia of Chaos and ignorance, transforming them back into the proud warriors of the XIV Legion from Barbarus.
But what they saw was their own disfigured body.
It was the blood of his own kind that had stained his hands for ten thousand years.
It's a life where I've already fallen into an abyss, with no way back.
"Calm."
Phelps ' voice rang out, deliberately maintained in a steady tone.
He was the only one out of the twenty-two who didn't lose his composure.
As a veteran member of the First Company, he was never forced to accept the plague.
He craved power, the approval of those in power, and the desire to survive and rise higher in this chaotic world.
Nurgle's blessing was not a curse to him, but a gift, the price he paid for power.
He accepted it, and gladly accepted it.
"This is a gift from our Grandfather, the source of our strength," he said in a deep voice, trying to comfort his companion who was on the verge of collapse.
"Ten thousand years have passed. We are no longer who we once were. Accept the present, seize this warship, Grandfather will bestow upon us even more..."
"Shut up!"
A furious roar interrupted him.
A tall Plague Marine suddenly turned around, his dark brown eyes bloodshot, filled with pain and hatred.
He was a sergeant in the Seventh Company, and had made great contributions in the Great Crusade. He hated the Xenos and the Chaos traitors the most.
"You traitor! You maggot!" he roared, his voice trembling with extreme rage.
"It was you! It was Typhus! It was you who dragged the Legion into the abyss!"
"We are the Emperor's Angel of Death! Not the lackeys of the plague god!"
Look at what we've become!
More and more soldiers joined in the cursing.
Pain, despair, hatred, regret... countless emotions erupted in an instant, shattering their millennia-long numbness.
Someone knelt on the ground, pounding their decaying fists against the metal deck, letting out suppressed sobs.
Some people stared blankly at their hands, repeatedly murmuring the names of their fallen comrades.
Some people looked up at the dome, as if trying to see their long-lost homeland through the layers of steel.
They would rather die on the battlefield of the Great Crusade, or in the fires of the Horus Heresy, than live for ten thousand years in this state.
"The grace of Grandfather..." Phelps wanted to say something more.
His response was a dull blast of gunfire.
"Bang!"
A soldier put Boltgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger without hesitation.
The bomb exploded inside his skull, shattering his head and his corrupted soul into countless fragments.
His body crashed to the ground, finally freed from endless torment.
It's like turning on a switch.
"Bang, bang, bang--"
Gunshots rang out continuously.
One after another, Death Guard warriors chose the most resolute way to end their lives.
They shattered their own skulls with explosive bombs, severed their own necks with Power Axe, and used the most tragic acts of self-annihilation to apologize to the Emperor and bid farewell to their legions.
They would rather perish completely than remain Nurgle's puppets, unwilling to live on in this rotten shell any longer.
Nineteen shots rang out.
Nineteen veterans who had experienced the Great Crusade, the Horus Heresy, and the Chaos Expedition of Ten Thousand Years have fallen into eternal silence.
Only three people remained on the field.
Phelps, and two soldiers with bloodshot eyes staring intently at him.
"You've bewitched us." The warrior on the left gripped his Power Axe tightly, the blade trembling slightly with rage.
"You led us onto this path."
You deserve to die.
The soldier on the right let out a low roar, and the two of them simultaneously activated their thrusters, charging towards Phelps from the left and right, filled with overwhelming hatred and despair.
The Power Axe and Power Hammer sliced through the air, aiming straight for Phelps ' head and heart with a sense of mutual destruction.