The psychic voice of the Daemon Prince Vorlag faded, leaving behind a silence that was somehow more menacing than the previous battle. The tolling of the distant, diseased bell continued, a slow, rhythmic heartbeat for the dying world. It was no longer a challenge; it was a summons.
On the bridge of the Obelisk, Lord Inquisitor Varrus leaned forward, his ancient eyes narrowed. "It is a trap, of course. A classic stratagem of the Archenemy. He seeks to lure you into the heart of his power, where the veil is thinnest and his strength is absolute."
"We are aware, Lord Inquisitor," Captain Arken's voice crackled back over the vox, his tone like stone. "But the mission objective remains. The head of the serpent lies in its nest. We will go."
"Be on your guard, Captain," Varrus warned, his voice a low hiss. "Every word a Daemon Prince speaks is a hook. Every promise is a lie. His goal is not to kill your body, but to corrupt your soul. Do not listen to his whispers."
Rimuru looked towards the colossal, boil-like citadel on the horizon. A direct invitation was far more efficient than fighting through legions of daemons and navigating a toxic maze.
"It is a trap that expects its prey to be afraid," Rimuru said, his voice carrying over the vox to the Obelisk. "I am not. We accept his invitation."
With the immediate threats neutralized, the small band of seven began their trek across the blighted plains. It was a journey through the very definition of hell. The ground was a spongy, pulsating carpet of fleshy moss that squelched under the Astartes' armored boots. Fungal forests of weeping, fleshy growths reached towards them with spore-puffing fronds, and the air was so thick with contagion that the Deathwatch marines' suit-recyclers were constantly issuing purity warnings.
But a strange, visible phenomenon accompanied their march. A perfect, ten-meter circle of purity surrounded Rimuru. The ground he walked on turned to clean, black ash. The weeping fungi withered and collapsed as he passed. The toxic air around him shimmered and cleared. He was a walking, mobile exclusion zone of order and cleanliness, an absolute anathema to Nurgle's domain. The Deathwatch instinctively stayed close, walking in the clean, safe wake of their strange, otherworldly ally.
As they drew closer to the citadel, the promised whispers began. They were not screams of rage, but soft, gentle, and deeply insidious temptations carried on the buzzing of the corpse-flies.
So tired... the whispers cooed in the minds of the Astartes. You have fought for so long, little soldiers. The war is endless. But it doesn't have to be. The Grandfather loves his children. Lay down your heavy bolter. Take off your constricting armor. Rest. Rest in his soft, damp soil. Let the pain end. Let the struggle cease. Is it not a blessing to finally let go?
"Litanies of Hate, brothers!" Arken roared, his own mind a fortress. "Recite the catechisms of duty! Do not listen to the honeyed lies of the profane!"
The Astartes began to chant, their gruff voices a counter-rhythm to the whispers, their faith a shield against the psychic poison of despair.
The whispers then turned their attention to Rimuru, their tone shifting.
A new king... so clean, so orderly... You seek to build, to create. But all things must end. All order must decay. It is the one great, beautiful truth of the universe. Why fight it? Your quest is a fleeting vanity. Join us. Embrace the inevitable, joyful entropy. The Grandfather's love is boundless. With your power, imagine the glorious, bountiful plagues we could create together! A galaxy teeming with new life, reborn in his image!
Rimuru paused, a thoughtful expression on his face.
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Agreed, Rimuru thought, and the whispers simply... stopped for him. He filtered them out, his mind a perfectly silent, orderly place once more. He looked at the struggling Astartes.
"It's trying to talk you into surrendering," he said, his voice cutting through their chanting. "It seems to think that giving up is a good thing."
His simple, dismissive analysis of the profound psychic assault was so jarring that it broke the whispers' hold on the Astartes' minds. They stared at him, then at each other, their resolve hardening. The daemon's whispers seemed pathetic when laid bare so plainly.
They reached the base of the Citadel of Contagion. It was not a building of stone and steel, but a living mountain of diseased flesh, corroded iron, and weeping bone. A single, colossal gateway, like a gaping, circular wound, stood before them. It was wide open. No guards, no turrets, no barriers. Only darkness and the overwhelming stench of decay lay within.
"The beast is confident," Arken grunted, raising his thunder hammer. "It believes its lair is poison enough to kill us."
"It has invited us in for a reason," Kael's voice crackled over the vox from orbit. "Be wary of what you see. Reality is thin in a place like that. Your own senses can be turned against you."
The team stood before the open maw, the final threshold. The tolling of the great bell from within was louder now, a slow, deep note that seemed to vibrate in their very bones.
Captain Arken turned his helmeted gaze to Rimuru. His voice was low and grim. "Once we step inside that gate, there is no retreat. We either kill the Daemon Prince, or our souls are forfeit to the Grandfather of Plagues for all eternity."
Rimuru looked at the horrifying, pulsating entrance, then at the five grim-faced super-soldiers who had, against all logic and doctrine, placed their trust in him. He gave them a smile—not a polite, diplomatic one, but a smile of pure, unshakable confidence.
"Don't worry, Captain," he said, his voice echoing with a power that pushed back the dread of the citadel itself. "I have no intention of letting anyone's soul be forfeited today."
He hefted his sword, Soulcleaver, its silver-white blade seeming to glow with its own inner light in the oppressive gloom.
He took the first step through the gate, into the very heart of the enemy's power.