"Just go ahead!"
The Primarch had no patience for banter with a Great Unclean One. To him, the bloated, pestilent monstrosity before him resembled nothing more than a grotesque mountain of filth. Words were wasted on such an abomination.
Dukel surged forward without hesitation.
He took a single stride, raising his chainsword high. It came crashing down with the weight and fury of a planetary bombardment.
The attack was direct, brutal, and calculated. Even the Plague Lord, a being steeped in decay and fearlessness, faltered under the sheer force of it.
Yet, Linbas did not waver. The corpulent daemon's immense, rotting frame suddenly moved with unsettling speed, his corrupted psychic energy flaring as he retreated.
Roar!
The plague zombies shambled through the miasma, hacking up torrents of vile, fetid bile.
The corrupted ichor, imbued with Nurgle's psionic taint, could corrode even ceramite armor and turn Leman Russ tanks into rusted husks.
"After ten millennia, Your Highness remains just as reckless," Linbas taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. "You cannot dodge in mid-air."
Chi-chi-chi!
Before the daemon could finish his sentence, the vile sludge he spewed dissipated against an invisible force field around the Primarch, leaving behind wisps of blackened smoke.
It was utterly ineffective.
"So, this is a force field technology I've never encountered before," Linbas muttered in begrudging admiration.
Still, the Great Unclean One was unfazed. What baffled lesser daemons might not deter him.
Boom!
Dukel's strike slammed into the ground with tectonic force, the tremor rippling through the battlefield like a planetary quake. Plague zombies swayed unsteadily, their sluggish movements thrown further into disarray.
The surrounding Nurgle daemons and Imperial warriors instinctively withdrew, creating a wide berth.
In battles between demi-gods and greater daemons, mortals who dared intervene did so at the cost of their lives.
Dukel showed no frustration at his missed blow. Instead, his intensity only grew. He charged again, heedless of the plague zombies stumbling around him, his chainsword cleaving the air toward the Great Unclean One.
The ground-shaking tremors disoriented the zombies, leaving them powerless to stop his advance.
Linbas raised a bloated hand, psychic energy coalescing at his fingertips. A nearby plague zombie jerked unnaturally, spewing forth a torrent of green, rotted fluid.
The putrid discharge exploded upon contact with the air, transforming into a dense, noxious cloud.
"Hold your breath, Lord Dukel!" a nearby Space Marine bellowed.
The daemons of Nurgle were not known for Khorne's raw ferocity, Slaanesh's insidious allure, or Tzeentch's labyrinthine schemes. Instead, their strength lay in near-immortality and toxins so vile they could reduce even Astartes to lifeless husks.
"This concoction is a gift from my loving Father," Linbas gloated, his grin splitting his bloated face. "I usually savor it myself, but for you, Your Highness, I've saved the very best."
One by one, plague zombies retched up wave after wave of toxic bile. Seven times they expelled the rancid fluid, until the battlefield was drowned in poisonous mist.
The green miasma gnawed at everything—the earth writhed, the walls groaned, and even the air itself hissed under its caustic touch. Power armor filtration systems strained against the airborne contagion, forcing the Astartes to retreat further.
The daemons reveled in the fetid fumes, their bloated forms basking in the decay. Greedy, jealous eyes turned toward the Primarch enveloped in the toxic haze.
"This feast is too divine to keep to myself," Linbas crooned, licking his ulcer-ridden lips as he inhaled deeply.
Bang!
Suddenly, a figure tore through the poisonous fog.
The Primarch's form emerged, chainsword glinting ominously.
Linbas's grotesque smile didn't waver. "You've tasted my father's soup, haven't you? Even a Primarch cannot resist its allure."
Dukel remained silent, his eyes burning with resolve. With a single swing of his chainsword, he tore a meter-long gash across the daemon's bloated torso, spilling rotted ichor and corrupted fluids.
The Great Unclean One recoiled, but instead of retaliating, he turned to flee, using short-range psychic teleportation to evade Dukel's relentless strikes.
Plague zombies hurled themselves at the Primarch in droves, their decomposing bodies serving as futile shields. But even their numbers could not prevent Dukel from inflicting grievous wounds.
Linbas laughed even as his entrails spilled onto the ground. "Your Highness, your body will soon betray you. My father's gifts will take root, and you will find yourself unable to resist."
Dukel grimaced, the filth and stench of the battlefield threatening to overwhelm him.
"Who do you think you are?!" he roared, his chainsword tearing through Linbas's putrid flesh. "You're nothing but a walking heap of corruption!"
The daemon smiled through his injuries, his voice honeyed with malice. "The more you fight, the deeper my father's blessings will seep into your veins. Soon, you'll belong to us, nurturing our garden with every step you take."
Dukel, undeterred, unleashed his fury with each swing of his chainsword. The battlefield quaked under his wrath, walls crumbled, and the corrupted earth split apart.
Linbas endured the onslaught with grotesque composure. "You are a worthy offering for my father," he murmured, his tone almost reverent. "The Imperium's decay is inevitable. My loving father shall embrace all in his garden of eternal peace."
...
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