Chapter 138: Dukel, It’s Time to Return to Terra

The God of Plague had suffered a humiliation unlike any before. His domain was collapsing, His authority crumbling, and the southwest expanse of the Immaterium trembled in response. In the Garden of Nurgle, dirges filled the air, as if heralding the apocalypse across countless planes.

Yet none mourned His suffering.

On the contrary, every realm touched by the currents of the Warp revelled in celebration. The Blood God bellowed with laughter upon His brass throne, and the Changer of Ways exulted in His crystalline labyrinth.

Even the darkest denizens of the Immaterium, those who shunned the light of the greater gods, whispered in delight.

In the Warp, there was no reverence for age, no pity for the fallen. Nurgle, the eldest of the Dark Gods, had stumbled, and all rejoiced at His disgrace.

None would rise to defend Him. The abyss of the Immaterium teemed with ambitious eyes, ever seeking the moment a god might fall from grace, eager to usurp divine dominion.

Even the youngest of the Dark Gods, the Prince of Excess, laughed within His pleasure palace. Though He had lifted not a single claw in this war, Slaanesh had reaped the spoils nonetheless.

Through the shimmering veils of His domain, the Dark Prince's lustful gaze fell upon the Imperial forces cast from Nurgle's blighted realm—upon the living flame, and finally, upon the Goddess of Life, borne upon the shoulders of the Primarch.

Once, she had been His, before Nurgle stole her away in ages past. Had she remained in His grasp, He would have devised six-hundred and sixty-six pleasures to break her spirit and mold her flesh.

Desire smoldered in His eyes as He reached forth, intent on reclaiming His prize. The goddess was within reach, free of the Plague God's grasp at last.

Yet, the memories of the battle still burned in His mind.

The sheer radiance of the flames, the unrelenting wrath of red lightning—it was enough to drive even a Chaos God to hesitation.

The Prince of Excess withdrew His hand.

For now.

A fleeting defeat meant little. Neither the Emperor nor His sons had yet ascended to true godhood. Time was His ally, as it always had been.

Behind the veils of decadence, Slaanesh panted with anticipation, His hunger undiminished. Supreme pleasures demanded supreme patience.

Meanwhile, the Plague God languished in seclusion. His once-vast domain lay charred and broken.

Nurgle brooded in silence, the festering wounds upon His divine flesh refusing to heal. The garden, once a paradise of decay and rebirth, was a realm of quiet sorrow. His daemonic children wept, lamenting their father's pain.

Rotigus, the Rainfather, stirred. The scent of fire still lingered in the air, a phantom of the battle that had scarred even his own blighted flesh. His swollen form trembled with unease, pustules bursting as he shifted.

"I am not Ku'gath," Rotigus murmured, clenching his bloated fists. "I will not wallow in despair."

Yet, as he gazed upon his kin, all he saw were wailing, grieving daemons, their sorrow as thick as the rot-stench in the air.

"Setbacks are not defeat, and defeat is not the end," he rasped, addressing the gathered daemons. "Chaos is eternal. We need only bide our time. Do we not, my rancid brothers?"

His words fell upon deaf ears.

Rotigus sighed, then turned away, seeking an old rival among the garden's decaying boughs.

He found him beneath a great, gnarled tree, its vast trunk splitting under the weight of disease and entropy. A swollen birth-sac, twitching and convulsing, lay nestled against its rotting roots.

"Ku'gath," Rotigus called.

The sac quivered, a muffled groan escaping from within.

"Hush now, my old enemy," Rotigus cooed, pressing a clammy hand to the quivering membrane. "Calm yourself."

He traced circles upon its surface, soothing the restless form inside.

"If we are slain for our folly, we must await our Father's mercy to rise once more, must we not?"

A faint outline of a horned head formed beneath the translucent skin—then faded.

"You are here," Rotigus mused, lowering himself beside the quivering form. "I thought to mock you, but in truth, the cost of this war has robbed me of such petty joy."

His voice darkened. "As expected, Mortarion buried his blade in his father's heart. He has his ambitions, but I find them contemptible."

"He fancies himself a victor, but he is nothing more than a pawn. He has won nothing but the hatred of his own kind."

Rotigus leaned closer. "I am disappointed in you, Ku'gath. Deeply so. You followed Mortarion's scheme, yet what have you gained?"

"You ignored my command to withdraw from the Damned Territories. You let the Sons of the Damned breach our garden, let them set it aflame with their hateful blades."

"Our brothers are gone. Our father is wounded. We are diminished."

His tone grew cold. "You are in grave trouble, my rotting brother."

The birth-sac writhed with Ku'gath's silent agony.

And as Rotigus spoke of Mortarion, the Lord of Death himself remained in hiding, lurking within the most forsaken depths of the Warp.

Compared to Ku'gath, his plight was far direr.

Mortarion had stolen much from his father's domain before making his escape. The sum was vast enough to drive even daemons into a frenzy.

Now, they all sought him.

Dukel hunted him, his own blood seeking to seize the stolen wealth for himself.

Nurgle's daemons searched for him, eager to reclaim what belonged to their Grandfather.

His own Death Guard, those who had escaped with him, yearned to form a new legion under his rule.

And there were others, lurking in the darkness, each with their own designs.

For once in his miserable existence, Mortarion was the most wanted being in the Warp.

But he had no time to concern himself with such things.

Pain wracked his soul, and his very essence withered beneath the weight of death itself.

Illusions plagued his mind.

And the hunt had only just begun.

The echoes of his past reverberated in his mind, visions and voices overlapping in a relentless tide.

"Pledge your allegiance to me."

Mortarion knelt upon one knee, his gaze sweeping across the dark, desolate swamps of Barbarus.

"Follow my expedition."

Once more, Mortarion knelt, raising his head to meet the piercing, unnatural eyes of the stranger. The weight of those words stretched time itself, freezing the moment.

"Swear fealty to your loving Father."

He knelt again, this time on the rusted and ruined deck of the Terminus Est. His gaze was drawn upward, meeting the abyssal stare of a monstrous being. The ferocious eyes, the roiling heavens—all swallowed by Him.

"It is the only path forward. You have no other choice."

His father. His Emperor. His loving father. Their voices merged, transcending time and space, speaking in unison.

"You are my son."

"You are my champion. I have waited so long for you. The moment I have been waiting for has finally come."

For an eternal instant, past and present collapsed into one another, dissolving into a maelstrom that threatened to consume him. Mortarion, lost and suffocating in the sands of memory, found himself unable to resist.

They called him, beckoning him to a fate he could not deny. His oath, his honor—his very being—were bound to them. From this moment onward, he would have no other path but the one they laid before him.

He had sworn.

He had knelt.

He had given himself to their cause, until the High Overlord was no more.

Yet something within him resisted. Desperation clawed at his soul as he struggled against the web of truth and deception entangling him.

"Endure, Mortarion," his foster father's voice commanded.

"Rise, my son," said the Emperor, radiant and resplendent.

"Mortarion, awaken. Your brothers await you beyond the stars. You may not understand now, but if you stand together, you will restore the galaxy."

"You need an expedition. One that will etch your deeds into history," the bright-eyed youth beside the Emperor intoned.

"Get up," urged the Plague Father.

"Rise from the grave as my prince. The mortal realms await your vengeance, to serve a purpose most dark and terrible. Your name shall be feared until the last soul rots into nothingness."

Mortarion responded in kind, reciting his oath with unyielding conviction: "I give myself to your banner. My blood, my bones, my indomitable will—I surrender them all."

"No!"

A violent roar erupted from his throat as the illusion enveloping him splintered. The Deathshroud scythe in his grasp swung wildly, rending the fabric of the vision before him.

"I will never serve the tyrant who enslaved me! I swear to overthrow the Supreme Overlord!"

Memories flooded his mind.

His adoptive father, casting him into the toxic swamps of Barbarus.

His Emperor, stealing his honor, betraying him with hollow words.

His so-called merciful god, poisoning him with pestilence, tormenting him and his sons with suffering beyond reckoning—while the deity laughed, cruel and cold.

"Welcome home," the voices whispered once more.

"I belong to no one!" Mortarion roared.

The Warp convulsed. Death's immeasurable power surged through him, overwhelming the grotesque daemon form gifted to him by Nurgle. It could no longer contain him.

His body was torn asunder. But in death, he was reborn.

"I can endure it." Mortarion stood tall.

"Death cannot claim me."

The bloated flesh of his former self sloughed away like rotting parchment. Decay crumbled into dust, and from its remnants, something new emerged.

His scythe gleamed with an eerie, spectral light—pale, cold, and merciless as the void.

Through excruciating torment, he carved his way free of the labyrinth of memories. His face emerged from the darkness, a grimace stretching into a predatory grin.

"The galaxy festers in sickness. Life is the root of all corruption, the wellspring of sin, the poison that taints the heart."

"The only cure is absolute death. Only through equal extinction can peace be restored to the stars."

"A grand endeavor. A triumph for all souls."

Mortarion grinned—the smile of Death itself.

"Dukor, my brother. My dear Warmaster."

"You will try to stop me, won't you? Yes… I believe you will."

And with those whispered words, he vanished like a specter into the wind.

The Imperial fleet was hurled from the decaying domain of Nurgle. Every soul aboard celebrated their return.

"We did it!"

"We set foot in the Plague God's Garden—and emerged unscathed!"

"Glory to the Imperium! Praise the Primarch! Praise the Golden Throne!"

A roar of triumph surged through the fleet, echoing with the greatest cheers since the campaign began. Every soldier's face shone with pride and relief.

Even Dukor allowed himself a smile. He laid the wounded Goddess of Life gently on the deck of the Fire of the Heart and lifted his gaze to the disintegrating remains of the Plague God's realm. A sense of satisfaction settled over him.

Then, he felt it—a gaze upon him, watching without reserve.

Dukor turned, his eyes widening slightly. Guilliman stood there, observing him with an expression unreadable.

"Dukor, where will your path lead you now?" Guilliman asked, his voice measured.

Dukor chuckled, spreading his hands in a feigned gesture of helplessness. "I have too many places to be."

"No rest for the weary."

It was the simple truth. The battle was far from over. Countless foes still roamed the stars—Mortarion, the deserter. Abaddon, the ever-defiant. The foul xenos, the vile heretics, the traitorous Primarchs who had forsaken the Imperium.

Enemies lurked in every shadow, and the flames of conquest would soon engulf them all.

And Dukor? He reveled in it.

"Yes," Guilliman murmured, a somber weight in his voice. "The galaxy is rife with enemies."

But where Dukor's eyes burned with ceaseless determination, Guilliman's reflected only sorrow.

"Brother, we must prepare to return to Holy Terra."

"You will be honored as Warmaster of the Imperium in the sacred celebrations of Terra, and the burden of reforging humanity's glory will fall upon you."

"Perhaps… it is not only my hope that rests on this."

Dukor exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a smirk. "Warmaster? No thanks. I have enough problems already."

He left it at that.