As the battle dragged on, the Great Unclean One's earlier confidence began to waver.
"Based on his current exertion, he should succumb in another thirty seconds." Even now, Linbas remained sure of his eventual victory.
But thirty seconds passed.
"Filthy creature! Is running all you can do?!" Dukel roared, his chainsword striking with relentless ferocity.
"Perhaps the Primarch hasn't inhaled enough of the broth? No matter. Just a little longer," Linbas muttered to himself.
A minute passed.
Two more hideous wounds marred the demon's body.
"Buzz!—"
"Keep running, you pile of rot! Let's see how long you can keep this up!" Dukel laughed, the hum of his chainsword underscoring his words as he pursued his quarry like a predator savoring the hunt.
The chase was only intensifying, and it wasn't Dukel slowing down—it was Linbas. For all his supposed immortality, the Great Unclean One's body, bloated with Nurgle's blessings, was beginning to falter.
"Could this be the Emperor's doing? A blessing to resist the loving father's soup? The False Emperor's influence grows stronger with humanity's faith... It's plausible," Linbas mused, though his confidence in Nurgle's power remained steadfast. "Even if blessed, no mortal could suppress the allure of the thick soup forever. I need only wait a bit longer."
Five minutes passed.
To Linbas, those minutes felt like an eternity. The Primarch continued his unrelenting assault, showing no sign of weakness.
Linbas blinked in disbelief. How is this possible? He hasn't fallen yet!
Those were seven of the most potent soups crafted by Nurgle himself—each a toxic masterpiece.
"Keep running, you wretch! I'm gaining on you!" Dukel shouted, releasing a surge of psychic fire that raced across the battlefield, reducing demons in its path to ashes.
Dukel begrudgingly acknowledged Linbas's cunning. Though slower, the Great Unclean One's controlled swarm of plague zombies provided him just enough cover to narrowly escape again and again. But the psychic fire cut through everything indiscriminately, leaving fewer demons to shield their master.
"This hunt ends soon," Dukel muttered, his grip tightening on the chainsword.
Linbas could no longer guarantee an unscathed escape. The wounds inflicted by the chainsword carried soul-burning psychic flames, searing through his corrupt flesh and causing irreparable damage.
As for the thick soup? Dukel didn't care to understand its purpose. To him, it was just another grotesque trick by the Chaos Gods—less terrifying than Khorne's straightforward brutality.
The mental force field protecting Dukel wasn't just technology—it was the manifestation of human defiance, reinforced by the unwavering will of countless souls connected through the Astronomican. It rejected the Warp's malevolence utterly.
Even the gifts of Chaos, whether Khorne's or Nurgle's, could only be suppressed temporarily, and the Primarch's force field was nearly impenetrable. Without direct injection of the poison into his body, the mist alone posed no real threat.
The smile on Linbas's bloated face finally faltered, replaced by confusion and dread. His faith in Nurgle's unassailable gifts was absolute, but the Primarch before him remained unaffected. Perhaps he was bluffing? Or maybe... the soup's effect was simply delayed?
But Linbas couldn't afford to gamble any longer. Despite his body remaining technically functional, his flesh was rotting away, and the soul-burning flames from Dukel's blade were steadily draining his vitality.
Seventeen strikes had landed already.
Linbas felt it—a growing certainty that four or five more blows would mean his end. A final, permanent death that even Nurgle's endless rebirths could not reverse. It was unthinkable. Yet, the feeling grew stronger.
Eighteen strikes.
In a moment of distraction, another deep gash split his grotesque body.
Run!
For the first time in millennia, true panic gripped the Great Unclean One. He couldn't recall the last time he felt such fear—perhaps ten thousand years ago? Or had he never experienced it before?
Nineteen strikes.
"Splurt!"
Foul ichor sprayed across the battlefield as Linbas's massive frame wobbled. The Great Unclean One, the embodiment of pestilence and decay, now fled in terror, driven by a primal instinct to survive.
But the speed difference was undeniable. Even with every trick at his disposal, Linbas couldn't outrun the relentless Primarch.
Twenty strikes.
The fear in Linbas's heart grew unbearable. Even the proudest of Nurgle's servants couldn't suppress their dread in the face of true annihilation.
Desperately, Linbas tried to tear open a rift into the Warp, but the battlefield had been sealed by Dukel's psychic fire. Escape was impossible.
Twenty-one strikes.
"Buzz!—"
The chainsword screamed like a death knell. Linbas's once-mighty body was now skeletal, his rotten flesh nearly gone. Nurgle's demonic legions, witnessing their master's plight, surged forward in desperation, hoping to protect him.
But the Imperial forces, emboldened by their Primarch's display, redoubled their efforts. Humanity's defiance burned brighter than ever.
Linbas, nearing his end, suddenly felt calm. The chaotic battlefield grew silent in his perception. Even the cries of his "children" faded away.
"My dear father..."
"The end of life belongs to you."
"But what lies beyond death?"
"I can no longer return to your garden. Not even your power of rebirth can save me."
Linbas's final memories surfaced—a grotesque tear sliding from his bloated eye.
Twenty-two strikes.
"Splurt!"
The chainsword tore through him one last time. The Great Unclean One's body collapsed, his essence unraveling into nothingness.
In his final moments, Linbas gazed at Dukel, a strange mixture of mockery and resignation in his expression.
"Primarch, do you even understand the power you wield?" he murmured.
"Eh?!" Dukel sneered. "You're just babbling nonsense!"
He kicked aside the festering remains of the demon's corpse, his fury still burning.
Then, without warning, an immense and fragile force surged into Dukel's body. His power swelled dramatically, and in the depths of the Warp, an incomprehensible entity stirred—a vast, unblinking eye watching as the intricate wheels of fate began to spin faster than ever before.
...
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