The chainsword in Dukel's hand continued its relentless arc, carving through the invading Nurgle daemons as they breached the defensive line. Before they could react or even comprehend the situation, they were obliterated, shredded into nothingness without hesitation.
The chainsword, ablaze with soul-fire, remained untouched by the filth of the Warp. Each swing left behind not blood or viscera, but trails of brilliant, purifying flames.
For a brief moment, the battlefield resembled a crimson river.
Kane's expression shifted from early apprehension and confusion to stunned disbelief as he watched the carnage. Yet, as the more powerful daemons of Nurgle's host began their advance toward the defensive line, his anxiety returned tenfold.
"Your Highness, be cautious! A Plague Apostle of Nurgle approaches!" Kane's voice carried a note of desperation as he shouted the warning.
Plague Apostles were among the most feared champions of Nurgle's forces. In the eyes of the "Grandfather," those who survived prolonged exposure to his corruption were deemed worthy to ascend as daemons. These souls, unyielding in spirit yet tainted beyond redemption, were reforged into Plague Apostles.
Such beings served as walking vectors of contagion, spreading diseases meticulously cultivated by the Plague Lords. Even the mightiest warriors risked succumbing to their influence if they let down their guard.
A deafening crash echoed across the battlefield. Dukel's power gauntlet struck the approaching Plague Apostle with a bone-crushing blow, annihilating it in a single strike. He glanced at Kane and grunted, "What did you just say?"
His voice betrayed genuine confusion—the din of the battle and the wailing of the dying made it impossible to catch Kane's words.
Kane stood dumbfounded, eventually deciding not to repeat himself. "Never mind... carry on."
Despite Dukel's unmatched prowess, Plague Apostles—and even Plague Lords—were formidable enemies. To eliminate them often required the concentrated firepower of an entire Space Marine company. On the battlefield, their presence could hold up even a Primarch for valuable time.
But this battle was not occurring in open plains or among the stars. This was within the narrow confines of a mountain defense line.
Even with the aid of robotic servitors and heavy machinery, the space within the mountain was inherently restrictive. Its architecture provided no room for sprawling maneuvers or large-scale tactics.
This limited space served as a double-edged sword. While it constrained even mighty foes, it allowed Dukel—whose body was nigh invincible in the material realm—to turn the confined battlefield into a killing ground. Here, even if the Four Chaos Gods themselves intervened, it would be akin to locking them in a cage with a ravenous predator.
"No wonder the think tanks positioned His Highness Dukel here," Kane muttered, watching the slaughter unfold. "This must have been their plan all along."
The tactical foresight of the Imperial Expeditionary Corps' strategists was undeniable. They anticipated scenarios with surgical precision. Yet, at this very moment, aboard the Mind Fire in orbit, the think tank staff were in utter chaos, scrambling like headless grox.
As the Nurgle host poured into the final line of defense, communication between the battlefield and the strategists was severed.
"What's happening inside the mountain?" a panicked analyst yelled. "I hope His Highness Dukel isn't in peril."
"Get Efilar at the Iron Fortress on the vox immediately!" another strategist demanded. "We need her to treat the wounded and reinforce the mountain defenses!"
While the chaos reigned in orbit, the situation within the mountain was starkly different. Watching Dukel cleave through the Warp-tainted horde, the Imperial soldiers felt a surge of courage.
The Primarch radiated an aura that demanded awe. His every motion exemplified strength and unwavering resolve. The buzz of his chainsword and the fountains of daemon blood it spilled ignited the spirits of all who bore witness.
This indomitable presence spurred even the most timid soldiers to grip their lasguns tighter and charge into the fray, roaring battle cries as they confronted Nurgle's abominations.
Outside the mountain, the bloated and diseased form of the Great Unclean One, Linbas, surveyed the situation. His festering visage twisted in confusion.
"What is happening? It's been too long, and there's no feedback from within the mountain," he rumbled, his voice thick with decay.
From his vantage point, the interior of the mountain seemed like a void. Every daemon that entered simply vanished without a trace, as if the mountain were a maw devouring them whole.
"Lord Linbas," a Plague Lord reported, his tone hesitant, "we have pinpointed the Primarch's location. However, those who entered the gap appear to have been annihilated almost instantly. None even managed to send a signal."
The Plague Lord's expression betrayed unease. He speculated, "The Emperor's lackeys must have laid formidable traps within the defenses."
Linbas, however, was not content to wait. "There is no time for further delay. I shall deal with this myself!"
He lumbered forward, his massive, diseased body exuding a miasma of death. The Great Unclean One's impatience was palpable—his wrath at the delay only exceeded by his fear of displeasing his dark patrons.
"Clear the way for me, my children!" Linbas commanded.
Inside the mountain, Dukel noticed the flow of daemons through the gap dwindling until it ceased entirely. Just as he prepared to pursue, his eyes fixed on the towering form approaching the breach.
Enveloped in a toxic haze, the creature was none other than the Great Unclean One, Linbas. Surrounded by shambling hordes of rotting zombies, Linbas embodied the festering corruption of Nurgle.
Despite his grotesque form, Linbas's voice was surprisingly affable, if muddied. "Ah, His Highness, the Second Primarch. It's been... what? Ten millennia since we last crossed paths? How have you been?"
Kane's eyes widened in terror. "A Great Unclean One... A being whose mere presence can corrupt entire worlds!"
Yet Dukel remained unfazed. His cold gaze met Linbas's as he stepped forward with his chainsword at the ready.
"You claim to know me," the Primarch said, his tone icy. After a pause, he added, "Who the hell are you?"
The bluntness of the question hung in the air. To Dukel, all Great Unclean Ones looked the same—bloated, rotting, and utterly repugnant.
...
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