Chapter 28: What Do You Fight For? (3/5)

The Warp roiled as it always did, echoing with ceaseless storms. Deep within its depths lay the Garden of Nurgle, the domain of the Chaos God of Decay. This uncanny expanse was a composition of jungles, swamps, vegetation, and verdant plains, all manifested from unholy life. Winding paths throughout the garden were thick with diseased mire and writhing worms; the air flowed perpetually with clouds of pestilence, filled with the buzzing of endless plague-fly swarms and the laughter of small daemons. Plague-maw thickets, bloated fungi oozing toxic gases, and flowers bearing sacs of poison pushed against one another, competing for space to grow. The malevolent light of the Warp fell upon the plague forests and thorns of flesh, casting spots of light tainted by impurity and malice. Everywhere, the garden dripped with viscous toxins, alive with the rustling of repulsive insects and the sickening pop of bursting bubbles. It was a place of absolute evil; save for those Nurgle worshippers accustomed to enduring agony, no living thing could survive in the Garden of the Plague God.

Ordinarily, the place was filled with laughter and mirth, appearing like a harmonious family. Nurgle’s daemons were ever free of worries, the most joyful among all the Ruinous Powers. Yet, the once-lively garden was now abnormally silent. The Great Unclean Ones, most favored by Nurgle, gathered together, looking with pity at the words etched upon Ku'gath the Plaguefather’s kin, the Pox-Walker. A surge of fury rose within them as they sensed the mockery of the Cursed One’s progeny. The words burned into the flesh of the Plague-Walker carried the power of the Cursed One; writhing flesh could not cover them, and the damage wrought by the script would never heal. These humiliating words would remain on him forever.

"What he has done is too cruel, and equally infuriating," Ku'gath remarked, watching the Pox-Walker with pity. The son of the Cursed One had humiliated all of the Father’s servants, and the Father himself.

"Perhaps it is time to let Mortarion go out. They are brothers; they understand each other better," said Rotigus, the Rain-Father. "He will make that arrogant wretch pay the price."

"Let the progeny of the Cursed One know what a terrible mistake he has made."

"Let him be tormented by agony until he collapses."

The Great Unclean Ones discussed their plans for Guilliman, resolved to make the arrogant Primarch pay. Time in the Warp is meaningless—at least to the outside world. The Great Unclean Ones deliberated for half a century, debating every detail of their plan to make Guilliman taste the bitter fruit of his own arrogance and suffer for his transgressions. Once the council concluded, they dispersed to prepare.

Meanwhile, Mortarion had received the message from the Pox-Walker. Guilliman’s arrogance and humiliation filled him with intense irritation, particularly the remarks labeling him a failure, which drove him to a state of ungovernable rage. Typhus had indeed slipped from his control, and it was Typhus who had orchestrated the defection to Nurgle. This remained a festering wound in his heart, and any mention of it triggered his fury. Jaghatai Khan had once exploited this to goad Mortarion into losing control.

Now, as Guilliman employed the same tactic, Mortarion was consumed by the same overwhelming anger.

"I will come for you, Guilliman. I hope you are still as arrogant and insolent then as you are now," Mortarion declared, his massive frame trembling. He could no longer restrain the urge to find his brother and show him that he was no longer the man he once was. Guilliman would pay the heaviest price for those words; Mortarion swore it in his heart.

Though time had passed so slowly within the garden, to the outside world, it was still the same day the Pox-Walker had been banished. Time in the Warp has no meaning; its flow depends on the masters of each realm. The daemon had been banished; the leader of the traitors had been slain. The war on Sala had ended. The plague warriors had nowhere to run; having lost their ships, they were trapped on the surface and subsequently executed to the last by the loyalists.

The cultists were also being purged. Their numbers were vast and scattered, making them difficult to eradicate entirely. Space Marines and the Astra Militarum divided into squads to hunt them down, and results were expected soon. The surviving civilians were evacuated from the plague-ridden fortress and settled in a less contaminated area. Relief efforts were underway. The Adeptus Mechanicus was cleansing and purifying the entire city, while accompanying Ministorum priests chanted the Emperor’s prayers, striving to banish the taint of the Warp.

"Destruction is always easier than creation," Guilliman said, standing on a partially shattered balcony, overlooking the ruined hive city. He shook his head. He occupied the former quarters of the hive’s ruler. Even amidst the destruction, one could discern the former opulence of the place. Precious artworks were scattered about, and the advanced technologies of the Mechanicus had been perfectly applied to provide the owner with the most comfortable of lives.

The wealth gap in the Imperium had reached terrifying levels. The nobles in the upper reaches of the hive enjoyed grain and produce from other agri-worlds. They controlled the distribution of the hive’s wealth, leading to lifestyles of exquisite, unimaginable decadence. The workers and scavengers of the middle and lower levels, however, lived lives of utter misery. The middle levels could still afford some synthetic meat or livestock raised on stimulants. The unions and elites enforced rules and laws to maintain production and order.

As for the lowest levels, they were barely considered human. They fed on corpse-starch and the refuse discarded by the upper levels. Order was non-existent. Gangs ran rampant, alongside mutants, rogue psykers, and monsters lurking in the shadows. For them, there was nothing but endless slaughter for survival. Honestly, with such a horrific wealth gap, it was no wonder that Chaos-worshipping cults emerged one after another. The depths of the hive provided fertile soil for the corruption of humanity. Countless people, unable to bear the suffering, chose to forsake the Emperor of Mankind and defect to Chaos. And it was not just Chaos; even Tyranid spies had developed numerous cults within the Imperium. By shouting slogans of equality and freedom, they could easily deceive masses of people into serving them with absolute devotion.

"This situation must change, or humanity will only fall into endless internecine strife," Guilliman understood clearly that the Imperium’s greatest problem was the Imperium itself. No matter how Chaos encroached, it could not hide the fact that many traitors chose Chaos simply because they had no hope and lived under crushing oppression. The Ministorum, the Inquisition, and the High Lords of Terra maintained the integrity of the Imperium to an extent, but their chaotic and bureaucratic rule also funneled a massive number of recruits to Chaos. If the chronic illness of the Imperium itself could not be eradicated, there would be no future.

Footsteps echoed. Sicarius strode in. "My Lord, the representatives of Sala have arrived."

"Send them in." Guilliman gathered his thoughts and walked toward the hall, which had just been cleared. The bodies had been removed and the bloodstains scrubbed, but the craters and scorch marks remained highly visible; the scars of war were not so easily erased. Guilliman did not care; the squalor or luxury of his office would not influence his decisions or his thinking.

A group of people wearing extravagant clothing entered. To mark this important occasion, some had even applied perfume and donned their cleanest, most luxurious attire.

"Greetings, great Primarch."

They bowed respectfully, their obsequious demeanor full of fawning flattery. "I am the Planetary Governor of Sala. We thank you for your arrival, my Lord; you have saved us. By the holy and great Emperor, this must be the reward for our loyalty to the Imperium and to the Emperor."

A fat man stepped forward, his body so bloated and his layers of blubber so thick that if one splashed green paint on him, he could step onto a stage as a plague servant. Guilliman frowned slightly, scanning the group. They were clean and well-fed, without a single wound. Their clothes were luxurious and expensive, and several wore finely crafted mechanical augmetics—things no ordinary person could possess.

Guilliman turned to Sicarius, his gaze filled with confusion. Were these the representatives of Sala he had asked for?

Sicarius, sensing his master’s bewilderment, hurriedly explained: "These are the Planetary Governor of Sala and the heads of the most influential families. I found them deep within a fortress and brought them to meet you."

"Sicarius, this is the first and last time. I am not angry with you, only because I never explicitly told you the true reason for which we fight." Guilliman’s calm voice masked his fury. "Hundreds of billions of people have died on this world, yet they have lived on perfectly well, without even a single scratch. Their clothes remain spotless. Is this something to be proud of?"

"They accepted positions that should have been used to protect the common people, yet they used that power to protect themselves, abandoning their duties. Is this behavior worth promoting?"

"The suffering are left to heal their own wounds, while these shameless creatures usurp the credit. Do you think this is fair, Sicarius?"

"What do you fight for? Is it to guard a nest of maggots, or to protect the subjects of the Imperium?"

"Get them out of here. Find a true representative to see me, Sicarius."