"Let's do it—and give the Father's blessing to these poor fools still bound to the Corpse-Emperor," Gurlo growled, striding forward.
The Plague Marines parted to let their warlord pass.
Their bloated armor oozed foul-smelling fluids and was stretched grotesquely over distended flesh. Clouds of green flies buzzed around them, their stench thick enough to nauseate even a hardened warrior. Every step they took left behind a miasma of rot and misery.
"Let us bring the fools a gift from our loving Father," rasped Gurlo's second-in-command. His voice gurgled like rotting meat through a broken throat, yet still carried weight and clarity.
He followed closely behind Gurlo, hefting a grotesque power hammer of pulsing flesh and rusted metal. Grenades filled with volatile plague toxins clinked against his belt.
This was no ordinary Plague Marine—it was a Plague Alchemist, one of Nurgle's most insidious creations. Twisting disease and decay into weapons, a single alchemist could poison entire worlds. Their concoctions spread corruption like wildfire across the Imperium, and their rituals could even sacrifice entire planets to Nurgle, turning them into festering gardens of rot.
"Praise the Father."
"Bring them the gift."
"The Father's love will embrace them."
"Death to the Corpse-Emperor."
The chorus of Plague Marines echoed across the ruined plains. They raised rust-covered boltguns, cracked maces, and plague-lances spewing trails of filth, following Gurlo with a zeal born of madness.
At the front, Gurlo raised his enormous plague axe and let out a hoarse, gurgling war cry, "We are the sons of Mortarion! We are the embodiment of plague and death!"
His warriors roared in unison, just as corrupted artillery unleashed another barrage. Demon engines and heretical traitors manned the guns, firing shell after shell at the fortress walls.
Sickly green shells struck the fortress void shield, erupting in poisonous flame. Toxic mist rolled across the energy barrier, but for now, the shield held.
But only barely.
Each blast pushed the fortress's void shield generator closer to failure. Its glow flickered, warning of imminent collapse. With just a few more volleys, the shield would fall—and with it, the last true protection the defenders possessed.
"Release the Father's gift," Gurlo commanded.
From the fog-shrouded ruins beyond, hordes of plague-walkers shambled forward.
They had once been human—planetary defenders, civilians, perhaps even soldiers—but all were now twisted mockeries of life. Dripping with green mucus and covered in pustules, they staggered aimlessly, their hollow eyes void of thought or soul.
Many still wore tattered uniforms. Weapons hung uselessly from decaying hands—they had no will to wield them. Gurlo didn't need them to fight. Their role was far simpler: to spread disease.
Green ichor dribbled from cracked mouths and fleshless wounds. Tentacles writhed from bloated torsos. A fog of rot rolled before them.
Driven forward like cattle, the plague-walkers moved toward the fortress, cannon fodder to draw fire and sow disease.
Tens of thousands advanced through the shattered ruins, a tide of filth washing toward the Emperor's last defenders.
Behind them marched the Plague Marines, driving them forward like shepherds of death. The corrupted artillery and daemon engines behind them maintained constant bombardment, further weakening the fortress's defenses.
Then the defenders struck back.
From the ramparts and trenches came the roar of lascannons and heavy bolters. A line of Imperial firepower lit up the battlefield. Shells and beams tore through the advancing undead.
Corpses exploded into clouds of rot. Flamers unleashed cleansing fire, turning plague flies and mutants into ash. Laser fire sliced through walkers, dropping them in twitching, burning piles.
Within the fortress, the defenders chanted the name of the Emperor. They knew what faced them was death—but they would not yield. Every shot was carefully aimed to conserve ammunition. Every explosion was a silent prayer for survival.
Still, the enemy pressed forward.
The Plague Marines targeted key firepoints and heavy weapons teams, picking them off with devastating accuracy. Explosive rounds tore through flak armor and power armor alike. Their bolters barked death, opening gaps in the defenses and allowing more plague-walkers to advance.
Daemon engines rumbled forward, spewing pestilence and bile. Towering Plagueburst Crawlers lobbed shells that spread virulent gas, suppressing Imperial fire and corrupting the air itself.
The defenders counterattacked with every tool they had. In desperation, squads strapped melta bombs to themselves and charged the advancing monstrosities. But for all their bravery, they could not stem the tide.
Their positions fell one by one. The defense lines were compressed, shrinking like a noose around their own necks.
In the distance, towering Helbrutes—dreadnoughts warped by Chaos—emerged from the green mist. Ancient, powerful, and grotesquely mutated, they dwarfed even the Imperium's tanks.
Jie'an, a veteran commander, watched the battlefield through a pair of magnoculars.
A burning Chimera transport lay in the path of a Helbrute. Compared to its massive bulk, the armored transport looked like a toy.
The dreadnought's right arm bore a corrupted plasma cannon, spitting molten death. Its left limb had been replaced with a claw of rusted iron and bone. From its chest gaped a maw lined with twitching teeth, surrounded by blinking eyes.
Jie'an had seen it before. That monster alone had destroyed a Baneblade with contemptuous ease.
He knew the truth.
"We're done," he muttered. "Emperor help us."
They had no Knights. No Titans. Not even enough tanks left to hold a line.
Grinding his teeth, Jie'an grabbed his vox. "Form a suicide squad. See if anyone can get close enough to plant a melta charge."
A squad volunteered.
Other troops laid down covering fire as they charged forward, bombs strapped to their armor. One by one, they fell—burned, shot, or torn apart.
The last soldier made it within ten meters before a burst from the Helbrute vaporized him.
Jie'an chuckled bitterly. "Such courage… wasted."
He turned toward the fortress interior. Civilians cowered in bunkers and shelters, families huddled together, children crying. He knew what would happen if the line broke.
Chaos did not take prisoners.
Jie'an looked back at the sky. The void shield shimmered, flickering like a dying flame. His augmetic eyes pierced the haze to see the green smog blanketing the atmosphere. The world had already fallen.
They had held for weeks. Fought with everything they had. But now… they were out of time.
Drawing his power sword and laspistol, Jie'an opened the vox channel to all forces.
"It was an honor to fight beside you, brothers and sisters. May we all stand beside the Emperor in the end. May our souls find their place in His eternal light. The glory of mankind endures. The Emperor's light will shine forever. We fight to the last. Chaos will never break us."
His words became the final rallying cry.
The shield gave one last flicker—then died.
Plague shells slammed into the courtyard, exploding in clouds of filth. Screams erupted as civilians and soldiers alike were consumed by poison and fire.
The last defense had fallen.
Plague-walkers surged through the breach, followed by the Plague Marines. Gunfire broke out. Screams echoed. It was no longer a battle—it was slaughter.
Still, the defenders fought, wielding bayonets, blades, even their fists.
They fought not for victory, but for dignity. For the memory of the Imperium.
For the Emperor
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