Nurgle's ploy was as blatant as it was sinister. He sought to lure Dukel into a carefully prepared trap.
Dukel didn't know the exact nature of these traps, but it wasn't hard to guess their purpose: to corrupt, weaken, or ultimately destroy him.
Killing a Primarch outright would require Chaos to send an overwhelming force, risking direct confrontation. Instead, they employed more insidious methods, seeking to manipulate emotions and sow despair.
In the past, the original form of Primarch No. 2, with his impulsive nature, would have rushed headlong into the epidemic zones without hesitation. But Dukel, tempered by experience and the advanced technologies he had developed, was no longer so easily provoked.
This time, he had the means to resolve the plague without stepping into the trap himself.
The essence of Nurgle's plague was a curse of negative energy, originating from the Warp.
Dukel approached the infected soldier, who seemed to have recovered but remained under the lingering grip of the curse. He could sense that as soon as he left the area, the infection would relapse. The curse had not yet been completely dispelled.
Projecting his mind outward, Dukel condensed a sphere of spiritual energy in his palm, radiant and tangible. He gently placed his hand on the soldier's head.
"Aaaaaaaaah!"
A piercing scream echoed from the void, as if some hidden entity writhed in agony.
From the soldier's head, a cloud of black smoke, invisible to mortal eyes, began to rise. This was the remnant of Nurgle's curse being forcibly purged.
This time, the infection was completely lifted.
"Send this soldier to the hospital for rest and recovery," Dukel instructed.
Several Battle Sisters stepped forward to escort the now-healed soldier away.
"Your Highness, do you have any other instructions?" Sister Efilar asked, her eyes shining with admiration.
Dukel's tone was resolute. "Chaos is extending its claws once more. Efilar, rally the Sisters of Battle and the Ecclesiarchy. Cut off those claws one by one."
This plague had spread across several worlds, requiring significant manpower to address it. Dukel saw this as an opportunity to solidify the Imperium's defenses and to lay the groundwork for a unified state religion.
"But how should we treat the infected? We don't yet know how to cure the plague," Efilar asked hesitantly.
Dukel smiled, his confidence unshaken.
"You don't need to treat the plague directly. Organize quarantine efforts in the affected areas, bestow blessings, and eliminate any signs of Chaos influence. Leave the treatment of the infected to others."
By "others," Dukel referred to the members of the Heart Network.
Psychic energy could dispel the Warp's negative energy curses, making it possible to cure the plague efficiently. Dukel's directive for the Sisters and the Ecclesiarchy was to maintain order, calm the populace, and deal with any lurking demons or cultists.
Efilar nodded, her trust in Dukel absolute. "As you command, Your Highness."
Once Efilar left, Dukel entered the Heart Network and began assigning tasks.
Ophelia VII and the surrounding worlds were close to the Great Rift, perpetually under the shadow of Chaos. For months, Dukel had focused on strengthening the Imperium's forces, leaving the Heart Network members to expel Chaos incursions in his stead.
The results were impressive. Armed with advanced technologies and their enhanced capabilities, the Heart Network's members had proven nearly invincible against Chaos forces. Even if Dukel had personally led the campaigns, the results could scarcely have been better.
Although Nurgle's followers continued to spread plagues in secret, these worlds enjoyed a rare period of stability—a fragile peace in the dark times of the galaxy.
A few days later, Dukel was summoned to attend a council meeting.
At the meeting, a planetary councilor proposed an idea:
"In these peaceful times, we should honor the greatness of the Primarch. By celebrating His Highness's achievements, we can inspire faith and hope in the people, bolstering their morale."
The proposal was met with overwhelming approval.
Humanity had endured millennia of suffering, confusion, and darkness. The councilors believed that proclaiming the return of a Primarch would reignite hope and strengthen the Imperium's unity.
Dukel listened silently. He had come to understand the power of faith and hope in combating despair. However, his instincts warned him that this was no ordinary proposal.
His heightened spiritual awareness—the product of his Fetal Breathing-level cultivation—gave him an unshakable sixth sense. More reliable than visions of the future, it hinted at the presence of hidden threats.
Even so, Dukel ultimately nodded in agreement, cautioning the council not to make the celebration overly extravagant.
The councilor who had proposed the idea smiled broadly, as if genuinely pleased. Dukel observed him carefully, sensing ulterior motives beneath the surface.
"I wonder," Dukel thought, "whose claws will reveal themselves this time?"
In the Warp, within a castle of twisted flesh and bone, joy erupted.
Fulgrim, once a loyal Primarch, now a Daemon Prince, sat gracefully, his lips curled into a sinister smile. Before him lay two gifts: a beautiful laurel wreath and an exquisite rapier.
"Such lovely offerings," Fulgrim mused, his voice dripping with malice. "Chaos never forgets its brothers."
These were no mere objects; they were conduits of the Warp's influence. Through these gifts, Chaos intended to corrupt and ensnare its prey. Fulgrim's laughter echoed through the halls, resonating with the castle's grotesque architecture.
Far away, the planetary councilor who had proposed the celebration knelt in a hidden chamber.
The room twisted and warped under the influence of a powerful will. The councilor's eyes burned with fervor as he picked up the rapier, his hands trembling.
"This is the gift," he whispered, his voice thick with reverence. "The great Primarch must receive it."
As the councilor emerged from the chamber, his steps quickened with excitement. Behind him, the room dissolved into chaos, leaving no trace of its existence.
The councilor's laughter turned eerily joyful, but his heart seethed with resentment.
"The Primarch should never have returned," he thought bitterly. "He should have remained lost to the void, like the others. Yet he dares to rise again, claiming glory and imposing his will upon the Imperium."
Fueled by jealousy and manipulated by Chaos, the councilor tightened his grip on the rapier. He was ready to play his part in delivering this "gift" to the Primarch, unaware of the full extent of the trap he was walking into.