You slowly rose from where you'd fallen, consciousness returning in fragmented pieces. Your body felt different, wrong in ways that went beyond mere physical transformation. The Khorne Terminator armor that encased you had been fundamentally altered, corrupted and enhanced in equal measure by the Blood God's forced blessing.
You instinctively gripped the daemonic weapon that had once been a simple scythe. The Bloodthirsty Manreaper had sprouted blood-red living eyeballs that swiveled independently across the blade's surface, tracking movement with predatory awareness. Metal fangs jutted from the weapon's edge, gnashing together with wet, grinding sounds.
Your vision swam red, as though you were looking at the world through a film of fresh blood. The crimson haze tinted everything, transforming the corrupted ship into a realm of violence waiting to be unleashed.
A few words echoed endlessly in your ears, repeating with hypnotic insistence. The syllables seemed to bypass conscious thought entirely, speaking directly to something primal and terrible within you.
"Chop, chop, chop."
"Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!"
The mantra grew louder with each repetition, drowning out reason and restraint. Your crimson gaze fixed itself upon the staggering Nurgle zombies that filled the chamber, each one a target, each one an offering waiting to be made.
You couldn't help but let out a deafening roar from deep within your chest. The sound was animalistic, inhuman, a challenge and declaration of violence that reverberated through the corrupted corridors.
You lowered your metal helmet slightly, the motion bringing the single blood-red metallic horn into attack position. The adjustment made you resemble nothing so much as a steel bull in a frenzied state, ready to charge and gore anything in your path.
Your two blood-red magnetic boots slammed heavily onto the metal deck, the impacts ringing like war drums. You launched a terrifying charge directly toward the Nurgle zombies ahead, building momentum with each thunderous step.
In an instant, the world became violence and movement. Countless Nurgle zombies who dared to stand in your path were smashed into masses of blurred, flying flesh by the immense force of your impact. Bodies exploded under the Terminator armor's weight, reduced to component parts that scattered across the deck.
Even the terrifying healing abilities and tenacious decaying power bestowed upon their rotting bodies by the Destroyer Plague proved utterly powerless against your arrival. Nurgle's gifts meant nothing before Khorne's fury.
Your steps showed no sign of stopping, no hesitation in the carnage. You were momentum incarnate, an unstoppable force of destruction carving a bloody path through corrupted flesh.
You gripped the Bloodthirsty Manreaper tightly in one hand and swept it horizontally in wide, devastating arcs. As the sharp blade danced back and forth through the air, the living eyeballs embedded in its surface faintly emitted terrifying, overlapping screams. The sound mixed with the shriek of splitting flesh and shattering bone.
Almost every staggering Nurgle zombie was caught completely off guard. They could only passively endure your endless rage, unable to mount any defense against the slaughter you visited upon them.
Just fifteen seconds later, by some still-functioning part of your mind that counted despite the red haze, five or six hundred Nurgle zombies had been completely torn to shreds. Your frenzied attack had reduced them to nothing more than rotting chunks of meat scattered everywhere across the chamber.
Pools of green pus, teeming with countless terrifying toxins and deadly viruses and bacteria, continued to corrode the surrounding metal floor. The acidic fluids ate into the deck plating with soft hissing sounds, occasionally sending up wisps of thick green mist that roiled through the air.
Just then, having lost your immediate targets with all the zombies within reach destroyed, you abruptly stopped your killing spree. The sudden cessation of movement was jarring, as though someone had flipped a switch.
You stood in the center of a floor completely littered with rotting flesh and pools of corruption, your armored form a monument of violence amid the carnage. Your hand instinctively raised the Bloodthirsty Manreaper high, holding it aloft like a banner.
The incredibly heavy tail of the daemonic weapon slammed down heavily against the metal deck, producing a deafening roar that echoed through the chamber. The impact left a deep crater in the already damaged plating.
You slightly raised your metal helmet with its crimson metallic horn, tilting your head back to address the universe itself. A terrifying roar built in your chest, forcing its way up through your throat.
"Blood sacrifice to the Blood God! Skull offering..."
The words came automatically, pulled from you by forces beyond your control. But even as they left your lips, something within you rebelled. Some core of identity, some fragment of will that refused to be subsumed.
"...The Golden Throne!"
The final words burst from you in defiance, changing the profane chant mid-utterance. Your unwavering will and the fire of your soul had finally risen in rebellion, breaking free from the endless craving for bloodshed and the many constraints that sought to bind you.
The effort felt like tearing yourself in half, like ripping free from chains made of your own desires. But you succeeded. The compulsion shattered.
The crimson scene before your eyes slowly faded like morning mist burning away under sunlight. Your vision gradually returned to normal, colors bleeding back into the world beyond shades of red and violence.
You subconsciously took a deep breath of the air surrounding you. It carried the metallic taste of blood and the sweet-rot stench of decay, but mercifully lacked any chemical or psychic influence. The air was just air, foul but natural.
Just moments ago, you had come closer than ever before to that irreversible line. The boundary between sanity and madness, between service and slavery, between humanity and daemonhood. For the first time, you'd truly approached the precipice of Chaos corruption and depravity.
But you no longer felt the same primal fear that had gripped you during previous encounters with Chaos. Something had changed within you, hardened by proximity to the abyss.
At this moment, all that remained in your heart was a deep, abiding hatred for being controlled by anything, and boundless rage directed at Khorne for the forced blessing that had nearly claimed your soul.
You would not be a puppet. Not for any god, mortal or otherwise.
You stood there silently for a long moment, allowing your breathing to steady and your thoughts to settle. The Bloodthirsty Manreaper felt heavy in your grip, a reminder of how close you'd come to losing yourself entirely.
Finally, you began moving again. You piloted the Khorne Terminator armor back through the corridors toward the armory, retracing your blood-soaked path through the ship.
Your cold gaze swept through the helmet's visor as you entered the chamber, taking in the dazzling array of weapons and equipment stored inside. Each piece possessed terrifying destructive power, tools of war gathered from across the Death Guard's long history.
You walked with deliberate purpose until you arrived before a mountain of melta bombs. The thermal weapons were stacked in organized rows, each one capable of generating heat intense enough to reduce ceramite to slag.
You easily hoisted entire boxes of the melta bombs despite their considerable weight, your enhanced strength making the task trivial. You began methodically wandering along the passages and chambers of the entire armory, mapping out optimal placement in your mind.
You distributed the melta bombs almost evenly throughout the space, connecting each device to its detonator with careful precision. Your movements were mechanical, methodical, driven by grim purpose.
You were preparing to die alongside the Death Guard and Primarch Mortarion aboard the flagship Terminus. If you could not save them, you would at least deny them to the Ruinous Powers.
After ensuring the explosive network was complete, you retrieved the master detonator. The device had required some trial and error to configure properly, but now it would detonate all the melta bombs in a cascading sequence that would tear the ship apart.
You carefully tucked the detonator into a secure compartment on your armor, ensuring it would remain accessible when the moment came.
After finishing these preparations, you casually picked up the Bloodthirsty Manreaper from where you'd leaned it against a weapon rack. The daemonic weapon's eyeballs swiveled to watch you, seemingly aware of your intentions.
You left the armory behind and began driving the Khorne Terminator armor toward the upper decks and the bridge beyond. Your path would take you deeper into the corrupted heart of the vessel.
Although the arrival of the Destroyer Plague had completely shattered your original plan to use the surviving Navigators to escape the Warp and save the entire Death Guard from their corruption, you still wanted to make one final attempt.
You would try your best to see if you could somehow save Primarch Mortarion from his predetermined fate, from the destiny that awaited him as Nurgle's champion.
Even if you ultimately failed in this goal, even if salvation proved impossible, it seemed better for Mortarion to die completely by your hand than to live as a puppet of the Chaos Gods. Death with dignity versus eternal damnation.
Along the way through the corrupted corridors, thick green mist had begun to spread throughout the interior of the ship. The fog clung to every surface, reducing visibility and carrying with it the unmistakable stench of Nurgle's garden.
A large number of the ship's repair servitors and a smaller population of human crew members had been transformed into staggering Nurgle zombies. They shuffled through the passages with jerky, uncoordinated movements, flesh sloughing from bones with each step.
You wielded the Bloodthirsty Manreaper with grim efficiency, effortlessly ending their tragic existence. Each strike was a mercy, releasing them from the horror of undeath.
You also witnessed firsthand the true victims of this plague. Death Guards, once proud Astartes warriors, were now surrounded by swarms of black flies spawned by the Destroyer Plague. Their powerful bodies and fragile souls were being relentlessly tormented by corruption they couldn't resist.
After countless of these corrupted Astartes caught sight of your Death Shroud armor, clearly marked by Chaos influence and daubed in Khorne's colors, they still gripped their weapons tightly. Even through unbearable, endless pain, they tried to rise and launch attacks against what they perceived as a traitor.
You gazed at the Death Guards through your helmet's visor, seeing past the corruption to the warriors they had been. These were your brothers, in a sense, sons of the same gene-sire even if from different timelines.
Without hesitation, you wielded the Bloodthirsty Manreaper with swift, merciful strikes. You granted them the last vestige of dignity you could offer, the only gift that remained within your power to give. The release of death.
In moments, accompanied by the relentless sweeping and slashing of your scythe, the chamber filled with fallen warriors. The mangled corpses of Death Guards almost completely covered the metal deck behind you, a carpet of the honored dead.
Even the crimson blood flowing everywhere, pooling and running in streams across the corrupted floor, seemed to drape your Khorne Terminator armor in a tangible yet somehow intangible blood-red cloak. The gore clung to you like a mantle of office.
You continued forward despite the weight of what you'd done, driving the Khorne Terminator armor onward. The Bloodthirsty Manreaper, now thoroughly stained with the blood of countless Astartes, remained gripped firmly in your hands.
You entered the elevator that connected the upper and middle decks of the massive vessel. The platform was large enough to accommodate Terminators and their bulk, designed for rapid troop movement during boarding actions.
Shortly afterward, accompanied by the soft hum of mechanical valves turning and ancient gears engaging, the elevator carried you upward. You successfully arrived at the upper deck and slowly stepped out onto new territory, into what would become another battlefield.
You had walked only a short distance forward when you entered a huge, cavernous, ancient hall. The chamber stretched away in all directions, its ceiling lost in shadows high above.
You could almost immediately take in the full scope of the tragedy unfolding here. Death Guards were scattered throughout the space, some kneeling on one knee in postures of anguish, others pounding their metal helmets against the deck as though trying to drive out the corruption. Occasional uncontrollable screams of pain echoed through the hall.
However, just as you instinctively raised the Bloodthirsty Manreaper, preparing to grant these Astartes the only release you could provide, something made you pause.
A new presence had entered the chamber.
The figure wore armor called the Plate of Barbarus, crafted in iron-gray with distinctive green shoulder pauldrons. The design was ancient, predating the Imperium itself, forged in another age under poison skies.
The terrifying figure towered three and a half meters tall, dwarfing even your enhanced form. Across his back was slung a massive scythe called Silence, the weapon's blade easily as tall as a man.
The Primarch slowly crossed the gaps left between countless suffering Death Guards, walking toward you with measured, deliberate steps. Each footfall was precisely placed, betraying no weakness or hesitation.
You couldn't help but take a deep breath, the action automatic despite your armor's sealed environment. You instinctively tightened your grip on the Bloodthirsty Manreaper until the haft creaked under the pressure. The weapon's blood-red living eyeballs swiveled frantically, sensing the presence of something far more dangerous than plague zombies.
Recognition crashed over you like a physical blow.
That figure was none other than Mortarion, the Fourteenth Primarch of the Death Guard Legion. The Pale King himself, here before you in the flesh, before his full corruption had taken hold.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~