The warp, a realm of perpetual turmoil, boiled as ever. Deep within this chaotic expanse lay the Garden of Nurgle, a grotesque domain ruled by the Chaos God of Plague.
This warped paradise was a macabre tapestry of jungles, swamps, and vegetation teeming with putrid life. Diseased sludge oozed along meandering paths, while the air hung heavy with plague clouds, buzzing with swarms of flies and cackling imps.
Monstrous plant life, including plague-maw bushes, gas-bloated fungi, and venomous flowers, writhed and competed for space. The sickly light of the warp filtered through the twisted flesh-thorn trees, casting grotesque shadows across the landscape.
The garden pulsed with a sickly vitality, a place where only the most resilient followers of Nurgle, those well-versed in enduring pain, could survive. Yet, amidst this perpetual horror, an unsettling silence had fallen.
A gathering of Nurgle's most favored lieutenants, the Great Unclean Ones, clustered around Gath the Slow, their gaze filled with a mixture of pity and disgust.
The inscription etched upon his form by the cursed son of the Emperor, Guilliman, burned with a mocking power.
The writhing flesh offered no solace, the wounds inflicted by the inscription an eternal reminder of his humiliation.
"His cruelty knows no bounds," K'Gath, another Great Unclean One, rumbled, his voice dripping with a sickly sweetness, "an affront not only to Gath, but to the Father himself."
"Perhaps it is time to unleash Mortarion," offered Father Nurgle's Rot, his voice a rasping gurgle.
"Bound by brotherhood, he understands the sting of such humiliation better than any."
"Let the son of the Emperor feel the wrath of a father scorned," another chimed in. "Let him drown in the misery he so readily inflicts."
The Great Unclean Ones, their voices echoing through the stagnant air, plotted their revenge against Guilliman. Time in the warp held little meaning, especially in relation to the mortal realm.
They spent decades, even centuries by outside reckoning, meticulously crafting their plan. Their aim? To make Guilliman choke on his arrogance, to force him to wallow in the agony of his own mistakes.
The council concluded, each Great Unclean One departing to fulfill their assigned tasks. Meanwhile, Mortarion, having received word from Gath the Slow, burned with rage and fury. The arrogance and cruelty of Guilliman would be answered in kind.
Mortarion seethed, his massive frame trembling with rage. The inscription branding him "trash" by the cursed Guilliman was a festering wound in his soul.
The memory of Typhus' escape, a humiliation orchestrated by the Khan, still gnawed at him. Now, Guilliman dredged up those old feelings with his arrogance.
"Come then, Guilliman," Mortarion roared, his voice echoing through the stagnant air. "Let's see if your arrogance survives this encounter."
Despite his fury, a sliver of longing flickered within him. He yearned to confront his brother, to prove he was no longer the naive fool he once was. Guilliman would pay dearly for his mockery, Mortarion swore silently.
The Garden of Nurgle seemed frozen in time, oblivious to the passage of years in the mortal realm. From their perspective, it was still the day Gath the Slow had been banished. Time flowed at the whim of the warp's masters.
Meanwhile, the war on Sara Star had reached its denouement. The demons were expelled, the traitor leader slain. Plaguefighters, bereft of their starships, were hunted down and executed by loyalist forces.
Cultists were systematically purged, their vast and scattered numbers posing a challenge. Extermination teams of Space Marines and Astra Militarum troops fanned out across the planet to eradicate them.
The surviving civilians were evacuated from the plague-ridden fortress and relocated to a cleaner area. Rescue efforts were underway.
The Adeptus Mechanicus tirelessly cleansed and purified the entire city, while Ecclesiarchy priests chanted sacred hymns, attempting to expunge the taint of the warp.
Guilliman, standing on a half-shattered balcony overlooking the ruined hive city, sighed deeply. The ruler's former residence, now his temporary abode, bore the scars of past opulence.
Unspoiled sections revealed the lavishness that once defined this place: exquisite artwork, advanced Mechanicus technology, all designed for a life of unimaginable luxury.
The stark disparity between the hive's upper echelons and its underbelly was appalling. The nobles reveled in food and produce imported from other worlds, their wealth insulating them from the grinding poverty of the workers and scavengers below.
Even the middle class enjoyed a meager existence, surviving on synthetic meat or vat-grown livestock. Trade unions and nobles maintained a semblance of order through regulations and laws, ensuring continued industrial output.
However, the bottom rung of the hive city existed in a perpetual state of chaos. Here, the concept of humanity seemed to lose all meaning.
Their sustenance consisted of corpse starch, the dregs of what the upper echelons discarded. Law and order were a distant dream.
Gangs ruled the streets, mutants roamed freely, and rogue psykers unleashed their untamed powers. Every waking moment was a brutal struggle for survival.
It was no surprise, then, that such a vast gulf between the rich and the poor fostered a fertile breeding ground for Chaos cults. The underbelly of the hive city provided fertile soil for the whispers of corruption.
Countless downtrodden souls, unable to bear the weight of their burdens, chose to betray the Emperor and embrace the promises of Chaos.
But Chaos wasn't the only threat. Even the insidious Zerg had infiltrated the Imperium, establishing cults through seductive lies of equality and freedom.
Large swaths of the desperate populace were easily swayed into serving these alien invaders.
"This situation cannot stand," Guilliman concluded. The greatest enemy of humanity resided within the Imperium itself.
The threat of Chaos paled in comparison to the internal friction caused by rampant inequality. Suffering under oppressive rule, many chose the path of damnation out of sheer desperation.
The Ecclesiarchy, Inquisition, and the High Lords of Terra maintained a semblance of order, but their rigid bureaucracy and infighting were inadvertently driving more citizens into the arms of Chaos.
Unless the Imperium addressed the root cause of this malady, its future remained bleak.
A sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence. Sicarius entered the chamber. "My lord," he announced, "the Sara representative awaits your audience."
"Bring them in," Guilliman instructed, pushing his thoughts aside as he strode towards the hastily cleaned hall. The corpses had been removed, and the bloodstains scrubbed, but the craters and scorch marks remained as grim reminders of the war's brutality. The scars of battle, unlike the societal ills plaguing the Imperium, wouldn't be easily erased.
Guilliman, ever the pragmatist, remained unfazed by the opulence of the chamber. Whether it was a lavish office or a pauper's hovel, the setting had no bearing on his decisions or thought processes.
A delegation, garbed in attire that screamed obscene wealth, sashayed into the room. In a blatant display of self-importance, some had even doused themselves in excessive perfume, their aim being to project an air of utmost refinement.
"Most esteemed Primarch," they chorused, bowing deeply in a display of obsequious flattery.
"We, the esteemed planetary governor of Sara and his esteemed associates, extend our most sincere gratitude. Your arrival and subsequent intervention have undoubtedly saved us. The Emperor, in his infinite wisdom, has surely rewarded our unwavering loyalty to the Imperium."
A particularly corpulent man, his body a grotesque monument to gluttony, lumbered forward. His blubbery form resembled nothing more than a plaguebearer in the making, lacking only a coat of virulent green paint.
Guilliman's brow furrowed as he surveyed the delegation. Their pristine clothing, devoid of even a single battlefield scar, spoke volumes.
Their opulent attire, adorned with gleaming mechanical prosthetics that only the exorbitantly wealthy could afford, was a stark contrast to the suffering they claimed to represent.
He swiveled his head towards Sicarius, a flicker of confusion evident in his cerulean gaze. Were these truly the representatives of Sara he had requested?
Sicarius, sensing his master's rising ire, hastily offered an explanation. "My lord Primarch," he began.
"These are indeed the esteemed planetary governor and the most influential families on Sara. I located them within the secure confines of the planetary fortress and brought them before you, as instructed."
"Sicarius," Guilliman interjected, his voice deceptively calm yet laced with barely contained anger, "let this be a lesson. While I understand you weren't privy to the true purpose of this campaign, there will be no further tolerance for such egregious oversights."
He continued, his voice rising in volume with each pointed question. "Ten billion souls perished on this world, yet these self-proclaimed leaders stand before me, untouched, unblemished, their finery pristine! Is this a source of pride?"
"They hold positions entrusted with the protection of the citizenry, yet they leverage those very positions to shield themselves while abandoning their sacred duty! Do their actions merit such deference?"
"Is it justice for the ravaged and the forsaken to witness these shameless opportunists seize the credit for a struggle they never endured? Sicarius, for what cause did we fight? Were we defending a populace, or a festering hive of maggots?"
His voice boomed through the chamber, a stark counterpoint to the delegation's obsequious greetings. "Tell them to leave, Sicarius. Find a true representative of the people, someone who embodies the spirit of Sara, not its self-serving elite."
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