The warp churns ceaselessly, forever echoing with the unrelenting storm. This is the realm of the Chaos god —Nurgle, a festering place known as the Garden of Nurgle, hidden deep within the subspace.
This peculiar realm is composed of jungles, swamps, and overgrown vegetation, all borne of unclean life. The winding paths of the garden are clogged with disease-ridden sludge, wriggling worms, and a relentless air thick with plague clouds, buzzing swarms of plague flies, and cackling imps. The massive mouths of plague bushes and swollen fungi, emitting toxic gases, fight for space to grow, while flowers with venom sacs crowd around, each one more grotesque than the last. Unholy light filters through the twisted trees, casting unnatural shadows across the plague-ridden forest. It is a world draped in filth, dripping with venom, infested with disgusting bugs, and plagued by popping, bubbling sores.
This is a place of pure evil, where no living thing can endure except for Nurgle's most devoted followers, those who are hardened to suffering.
On most days, the garden is alive with the laughter of its denizens, resembling a twisted, harmonious family. Nurgle's demons, unlike those of the other Chaos gods, are perpetually content, their joy unfaltering. But today, the usual joviality has faded into a peculiar silence.
Gathered in solemnity, the most devoted servants of Nurgle—the Great Unclean Ones—watched as the Slogath, once favored by their god, writhed in agony beneath the marks of ridicule.
The words upon Slogath were cursed, and their power could never be erased. No amount of wriggling flesh could hide their truth. These words would remain etched into Gath's being for eternity, a permanent reminder of the humiliation brought upon him by the scorn of his kin. The Great Unclean Ones, filled with a slow-burning fury, looked on with pity as they discussed the betrayal of the one who had brought shame to their god and his followers.
"What he did was cruel, unforgivable even," Kugas murmured, his voice tinged with both pity and anger. "The son of the cursed has insulted not just us, but our father as well."
Rain Rutigues, a towering figure among the Unclean Ones, spoke next, his voice dripping with malice. "Perhaps it is time for Mortarion to emerge. They are brothers, after all—only he will understand how to make Guilliman pay for his arrogance."
The Great Unclean Ones agreed. The time had come to take action. They would ensure that Guilliman felt the weight of his pride and arrogance, to let him taste the bitter consequences of his disrespect.
For decades, the demons had plotted and planned, every detail meticulously crafted to break Guilliman's resolve. And now, the time was drawing near.
Mortarion, too, had received word of Guilliman's scorn. The Primarch of the Death Guard was seething with fury, his heart heavy with the weight of his own past and present frustrations. Typhon had betrayed him, slipping from his control and aligning with Nurgle. This betrayal had cut deeply, leaving Mortarion forever scarred.
Now, Guilliman was adding insult to injury, mocking Mortarion in ways that brought forth memories of old wounds, ones that had never truly healed. The mere thought of Guilliman's arrogance sent a wave of fury through Mortarion, his body trembling with the intensity of his rage.
"I will make you regret this, Guilliman," Mortarion swore, his voice a low growl. "When I come for you, you will feel the full extent of your pride."
Time within the Garden of Nurgle held no meaning. To the outside world, only a day had passed since Gath the Slow's expulsion. But within the subspace, time could stretch into infinity, warped by the will of those who ruled over it.
And so the plot against Guilliman began.
The war on Sara Star was at an end. The plague marines, their warships destroyed and their forces scattered, were trapped on the surface. They faced swift retribution from the loyalist forces. The cultists, too, were being purged, though their numbers were vast, and their spread made them difficult to eradicate quickly. Small teams were dispatched to hunt them down, and the clean-up operations would soon yield results.
The civilians, rescued from the plague-infested fortress, were relocated to a safer, less corrupted place. Mechanicum forces worked tirelessly to purify the city, while priests of the state religion chanted Emperor's prayers, attempting to expel the corruption of the warp.
"Destruction is always easier than creation," Guilliman muttered as he stood on a ruined balcony, gazing out over the shattered hive city. The once grand metropolis now lay in ruins, its elegance now nothing more than a memory.
He looked at the remnants of luxury—ornate art pieces, advanced technologies of the Mechanicum, all intended to serve the few at the top of the hive's hierarchy. The elites of the hive lived in excess, indulging in the finest foods, fruits from distant worlds, and the most extravagant comforts. Meanwhile, the lower classes suffered in squalor, their lives reduced to scavenging and struggling for survival.
The divide between the rich and the poor had become an abyss, and it was no surprise that chaos cults had gained a foothold among the oppressed. The lower tiers of the city, ignored by the upper echelons, provided fertile ground for corruption and betrayal.
Guilliman understood that the empire's greatest enemy was not the chaos forces at the borders, but the rot within. The injustices, the suffering, the lack of unity—these were the true threats. The empire was crumbling from within, and unless something was done, it would be torn apart by internal strife.
He sighed deeply, contemplating the weight of the empire's future.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed through the ruined hall. Sicarius entered, his expression grim. "My lord, the representatives of Sara are here."
"Let them come," Guilliman replied, his mind shifting from the weight of his thoughts to the immediate matters at hand.
He walked toward the hall, where remnants of battle still lingered. The blood had been cleaned, the bodies removed, but the scars of war remained—craters and charred marks on the walls, remnants of destruction that could never be erased.
As Guilliman entered, a group of well-dressed individuals stood before him. They were the representatives of Sara, resplendent in their fine clothes, the very picture of wealth and power. Yet Guilliman could see beyond their appearance. They were untouched by the horrors that had ravaged their world. No sign of injury, no sign of sacrifice. Just their perfect, unscarred bodies.
"I am the planetary governor of Sara," one of them, a bloated man, stepped forward, his voice dripping with sycophantic flattery. "Thank you, Lord Primarch. You have saved us. This must be our reward for our loyalty to the Emperor."
Guilliman's brow furrowed as he scanned the group. They were clean, pristine, without a mark upon them, while millions had perished. Their clothes, expensive and elaborate, contrasted sharply with the devastation surrounding them. Their mechanical prostheses, sophisticated and costly, spoke of privilege—privilege earned at the expense of the suffering of their people.
He turned to Sicarius, confusion in his eyes. "Is this truly the representative of Sara you brought before me?"
Sicarius, sensing his master's unease, quickly responded, "Yes, my lord. These are the planetary governor and the influential families of Sara. I found them in a secure fortress and brought them here."
Guilliman's gaze hardened, his voice cold. "Sicarius, this will be the first and last time you bring such people before me. These are the very ones who have failed in their duty. Ten billion people have perished, and these individuals remain untouched, unscathed. Is this something to be proud of?"
His voice rose with anger. "They've abused their power, protected only their own lives, and abandoned their responsibilities. The people suffer, and yet they remain untouched. Do you truly believe these are the kind of people we should be seeing?"
"Sicarius, tell me—why do you fight? Is it to defend a corrupt group of maggots, or to protect the people of the Empire?"
Guilliman turned sharply to the group, his eyes filled with disdain. "Tell them to leave, Sicarius. Find a true representative—someone who understands what it means to sacrifice for the people of the empire."