"Warp parasites, taste my enchanted attack!"
Eden's smile carried a trace of malice.
He drove the mechanical arm—laden with high-intensity holy psychic power—straight toward Daemon Angron's head.
"No…"
Daemon Angron watched it coming, his pupils shrinking violently as fear surged up inside him.
Even from within the Warp, the Chaos Gods could sense the stench and danger of that mechanical arm.
That was not ordinary holy psychic power, but holy psychic power compressed to an extreme.
The Savior's dominion had used a Warp-extraction device to siphon energy from the Sacred Sun, then mixed in a small quantity of the Emperor's bone particulates, and repeatedly compressed it.
It was, quite literally, a carefully brewed and fermented sacred energy—capable of dealing tremendous damage to Chaos.
A gaping hole had already been punched through Daemon Angron's chest by the holy psychic beam.
Under the Chaos Gods' control, he immediately abandoned the attack, twisting away in an attempt to evade the mechanical arm.
Compared to a holy-energy beam, the mechanical arm's strike was far more dangerous. It could not be allowed to hit—if it did, it was over.
That was their shared conclusion. If the beam had been "pure damage," then this strike was a reeking blow that carried the very concept of sanctity.
"This is a blasphemous insult to the true gods of the Warp!"
"Caw. Fate will curse you…"
In their hearts, the Chaos Gods hurled maledictions at the Savior. He was shameless, vicious beyond measure.
The Cursed One, the Master of Mankind, was already on the verge of death. The Chaos Gods had long adhered to a simple principle: if you can avoid provoking him, avoid it.
Keeping that creature forever trapped upon the Golden Throne was the best outcome.
Yet they had not expected the Savior to find a way to extend the Cursed One's power outward.
How was that any different from hauling your own ancient ancestor out to self-detonate on your enemies?
Worse still, the old ancestor was carrying a shit-smeared, fermented, peerless Imperial relic—double damage.
The Chaos Gods were now experiencing exactly what the Chaos Daemons had felt when facing holy bone-ash shells—only stronger, more "authentic," and far more nauseating.
That helplessness and powerlessness crawled over them. The Savior was even more troublesome than the Emperor himself.
Unfortunately, it was already too late. In the instant Daemon Angron tried to dodge, the Savior's other mechanical arm locked him down.
Then the mechanical arm saturated with high-intensity holy psychic power slammed straight into Daemon Angron's face, extending mechanical claws to clamp his skull in place.
This was not just a plunger attack. It suctioned on.
The Chaos Gods seemed to hear a wet pop, and the reeking holy psychic power surged along the possessed daemonic body and transmitted through.
It was an unbearable, profane assault. The conceptual corrosion—and the smell—of that holy psychic power made them dizzy, their insides churning.
Urgh!
As the direct point of contact, Daemon Angron reacted even more violently, thrashing in a frenzy.
He fought desperately to break free of the horrific attack, yet could do nothing.
"You still want to run?"
Eden stared at Daemon Angron—and at the Chaos Gods behind him—and a cold smile crept across his face.
He thought of the disaster at Vostoniya, the annihilated fleet, and the countless humans corroded and driven into endless hardship.
These Chaotic abominations had inflicted unimaginable torment on mankind. Account after account could not be forgotten.
"This is a strike of human justice…"
He increased the output of the high-intensity holy psychic power, then flipped Daemon Angron hard onto the ground and pinned him there.
"You like corroding the galaxy so much, huh? Eat shit, you Warp parasites!"
Eden planted his foot on Daemon Angron's chest. The mechanical arm—like a toilet plunger—jammed Angron's head into the platform's metal deck, even caving the metal in.
The sheer force was obvious.
That mechanical arm went into manic output, blasting high-intensity holy psychic power into Daemon Angron's face, and then—along some conceptual conduit—driving it straight into the Warp.
This was, in essence, a clash and corrosion of authority. Plain, direct, unadorned.
If the Emperor's duels with the Chaos Gods had once been refined exchanges—using authority in higher-dimensional arenas, trading counters with the poise of masters—
Then the Savior was using holy psychic power and technology to brute-force it, like throwing a brick through a window—crude, violent, and dumping a bucket of filth.
The Chaos Gods could not withstand it. They had strength, yet nowhere to apply it.
To them, this was like a plunger hooked up to a septic tank.
It was spraying at full blast.
In only a few seconds, Daemon Angron's head was covered in scorched marks. His eyes were already rolling back, his entire body trembling and twitching nonstop.
The ferocity of the attack was plain to see.
"Savior, stop your attack, or you will face the wrath of war and blood!"
"Such blasphe—urk, urk…"
"No…"
The Chaos Gods had it even worse. In this moment, they endured the most blasphemous, most revolting experience of their existence.
Put simply: some conduit—some channel—had been connected to a septic tank, and it was blasting them.
There was also an indescribable suffocation.
A suffocation on the level of concept. The corrosion of the Cursed One was so intense that it felt worse than losing a divine war.
In truth, this high-intensity assault from the Cursed One was not instantly lethal, but it was agonizing—torture—and it left a long-lasting mark.
Its humiliating nature was extreme.
"Feel good now?!"
With that plunger slam, Eden felt his entire body clear, as if he had finally vented a towering grievance.
He knew the high-intensity holy psychic power he had "secretly brewed" was already corroding its way through the Warp channel toward the region where the Chaos Gods resided.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been difficult to accomplish.
But who told them to personally descend and possess Angron?
That was the Chaos Gods opening a channel to this side with their own hands—and it was wide open, perfectly suited for him to exploit.
To ram the Emperor's high-intensity holy psychic power straight down their throats.
…
At this moment, within the Warp.
In Khorne's domain, the Brass Citadel.
"Savior!"
Lava and flame spread madly, the fortress splitting apart. The Blood God's crimson shadow shuddered violently, sending tremors through the domain itself.
He had never known rage like this. Not even when he had suffered an ambush by his greatest Bloodthirster, Skarbrand, had he been so furious.
This might have been the first time the Blood God had ever hated a living being so intensely. The humiliation and blasphemy inflicted upon him were unbearable.
The Cursed One's high-intensity holy psychic power poured along the channel into the Brass Citadel, its concept relentlessly corroding the domain. The Blood God retched as he struggled to block it with rivers of molten flame.
"Blood God…"
This was effectively the Brass Citadel's septic tank exploding. Khorne's Daemons fled in panic and extreme nausea, terrified they would be a heartbeat too slow.
Those who ran too slowly were swallowed.
They turned to ash in agony, even their souls corroded beyond recovery and rebirth.
Even those who did not die were tainted by an omnipresent stench that could not be washed away.
The attack was not absolutely fatal, yet it made the Daemons even more afraid.
Daemonic entities farther from the Brass Citadel witnessed a spectacle.
In the void, viscous, golden-cursed energy cascaded downward like a ruptured conduit in flood.
The Blood God's shadow was smeared with that golden-cursed energy. He had gone mad, destroying vast sections of the Brass Citadel that had been corroded.
That assault was the work of the Savior—the Daemon-Eater. The Khorne Daemons' fear and fixed impression of that existence deepened yet again.
They trembled.
In Slaanesh's domain, the Palace of Pleasure.
"What is this, exactly?!"
"No! My makeup, my gowns!"
High-intensity cursed energy slammed into the royal couch, flooding the surrounding lavish palace.
More Pleasure Daemons playing within were drowned, or shrieked and thrashed within the energy.
The Lord of Pleasure burst from the palace, releasing a piercing scream.
That energy was intolerable, forcing the deity into a panicked retreat.
The Lord of Pleasure seemed to weep, yet grew even more resentful and venomous. The Daemon-Eater had used the Cursed One to pollute the palace—and the exquisite cosmetics and finery.
There was little desire for pleasure left within the god. Worse, a stench emanated that no Daemon dared approach, requiring time to recover.
The concept of this Lord of Pleasure's authority had been damaged, and the spread of pleasure itself was affected.
Somewhere in the galaxy.
Within a luxurious ship-palace studded with jewels—dazzling beyond compare—yet even more dazzling were the snow-white bodies used as decorations, sealed in amber.
"What a marvelous body…"
A Rogue Trader, a sector lord, gently parted gauzy drapes that flowed like water, gazing at the xenos beauty lying upon a velvet bed.
Desire surged within him as he moved in to explore that wonder.
So sweet.
Yet in the next instant, an unbearable stench erupted from that "sweetness," and the lord's desire vanished on the spot.
He was instantly finished, left with a permanent shadow.
He was even knocked out by the stink, foaming at the mouth.
Not only that—many more pleasure-worshippers found their desires affected.
Bodies at pleasure gatherings became foul. Many men could no longer perform. Fine food and wine became hard to swallow, while jewels and art filled people with disgust.
Those believers grew calm, gradually shaking off the corrosion in solitude, thereby escaping the claws of pleasure.
The once-enchanting spread of indulgence had become so nauseating that people avoided it like the plague—there was no allure left at all.
"Emperor, after I endured several days without **, I gained strength, and my body began to recover…"
"Ah, we must resist desire with will. This is a dawn. ** is harmful. Persist for a hundred years without **!"
After being struck by the shockwave, followers of a certain pleasure cult even began organizing, preaching theories of abstinence.
A brand-new sect was born in the galaxy, enduring for ages.
They called themselves the Brotherhood of Abstinence, and their teachings spread across the psychic networks.
They urged the people of the Imperium to remain pure, resisting the corrupting trends that poisoned the Imperium and harmed mental health, and they even criticized those tech-priests who spread "two-dimensional" filth.
In Tzeentch's domain, the Crystal Labyrinth.
After a hundred years, the Cursed One's dreadful blasphemous energy appeared in this domain once again.
Fortunately, the Changer of Ways had experience dealing with it. In an instant, he used the Labyrinth to seal off that cursed energy, preventing it from spreading.
Even so, the blasphemous stench was unavoidable. It diffused throughout the entire Labyrinth.
Tzeentch's Daemons—the great ravens—collapsed one after another onto the crystal floor, strangely tranquil.
Like corpses.
They knew that, due to the Changer of Ways sealing the domain, they had no way to escape the Labyrinth.
Since they could not flee and could not resist, they could only endure in silence. Perhaps that was destiny's decree.
In this moment, the Crystal Labyrinth was astonishingly orderly. More schemes and plots in motion were suspended.
The stirring of countless fates across the galaxy and the Warp also paused.
This caused numerous coups and conspiracies to be exposed or to fail in clumsy fashion.
Some people even ascended thrones or took control of their families smoothly—without any struggle or bloodshed at all.
It was eerily harmonious.
Not only that, the Mechanicus' tech-priests discovered—delighted—that their experimental success rates rose dramatically.
More technical errors and dangers were identified in advance.
In Nurgle's domain.
Deep green mists took on a strange hue.
The once-filthy, laughter-filled Garden of Nurgle fell silent. The pus-dripping jungles and ulcered trees wilted, as if they had fallen ill.
This garden had not yet recovered from that great fire and the Godplague disaster, and now it suffered a second heavy blow.
Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz.
A Plague Fly, as usual, swooped toward a corpse-flower to drink its filth—yet the moment it touched the mist, its body seized.
Affected by the Cursed One's fog-like energy, it stiffened, then dropped to the ground with a smack, its fly-legs twitching.
"Grandfather, the filthy garden is too stinky. We can't stay…"
"When will we ever finish cleaning this?!"
Bloated Nurgle Daemons complained, their bodies sealed inside fully enclosed, damp leather hazmat suits, straw tightly bound around every possible seam.
They bent over and labored, clearing regions polluted by cursed energy, trying to stop it from affecting the garden's filth—lest the plants stop oozing pus.
These favored children of Grandfather were performing the most challenging task in Nurgle's history: reaching in with their bare hands to scoop out holy residue.
They trembled with fear.
They knew exactly what corrosion awaited them if their leather hazmat suits tore.
"Grandfather, someone help me?!"
Suddenly, one Nurgle Daemon realized his protective suit had torn and screamed.
But the other Daemons did not dare approach, fearing that his frantic movements would damage their own suits.
Before long, golden fog filled the inside of his suit. He collapsed on the ground, twitching.
Plaguebearers, wrapped up tight, limped over and used a dead-branch stretcher to haul the poor wretch away.
Outside the heavily polluted zones, Nurgle Daemons wore gas masks, stuffed and sealed with straw.
They watched the miserable creature being carried off, exchanging muffled whispers while keeping their distance.
After all, the Nurgle Daemons had no idea who else might already be contaminated by that hateful energy.
"Blessed be the stink.
I heard that favored one had been blessed by sevenfold plagues, yet he still fell in that vicious pollution.
Emperor save me, don't let it be my turn to handle the cursed residue!"
"We shouldn't have gone to the galaxy at all. We shouldn't have provoked the Savior. Why get close to those stinking humans?!"
"Exactly. The garden used to be so wonderful—music, dancing, mud pits, and delicious plague soup.
We should have stayed in the garden and brewed soup. But now we can't even stew anything tasty. The environment's bad. The pollution is too severe!"
The Nurgle Daemons talked among themselves, growing more resistant toward the galaxy and mankind, and even more unwilling to provoke the Savior.
In a certain mudflat region.
Glug, glug.
Soaked firewood sent up smoke and flames, and the great cauldron of plague soup bubbled.
Barag the Glutton wore an ornate gas mask, with two pus-sacs stuffed into the nostrils as well.
He was one of the rare few still brewing soup.
Nurglings wore ragged little masks, yet—unlike usual—they did not crowd around. They hid far away, tears even hanging at the corners of their eyes.
In the distance, the Great Unclean Ones who revered the Glutton cast looks of awe.
They watched as the First Favored, Barag the Glutton, carefully added just a tiny pinch of cursed contamination into the plague soup.
Bang!
In an instant, the plague soup produced a bizarre mist unlike anything before.
Panic rippled through Nurgle's Daemons.
They cried out, unable to stop themselves from backing away, nausea rising.
How could anyone brew delicious plague soup like this?
This soup might not be lethal, but such a vicious soup—what Nurgle Daemon could stomach it?!
Even so, they maintained respect. That master soup-brewer was experimenting with an entirely new plague soup.
"The stinker it is, the more fragrant it becomes…"
Barag the Glutton said so.
The Plague God's First Favored was gradually walking a path no other Nurgle-aligned being had ever walked.
Astonishing.
Deep within Nurgle's Garden.
Inside the black house, the once-wriggling maggots had all died, strewn across the floor. Even the slick moss and twisted mushrooms had dried and fallen away.
This wooden hut—bedchamber of the Lord of Plagues—had never been so clean, and it was stained with a shining golden brilliance.
To Nurgle's servants, that was intolerable. It was also the most heavily polluted region of the garden.
To spare his favored children from harm, Grandfather forbade all Greater Daemons from visiting.
Hrk.
On the broken wooden bed inside the black house, an endless green mountain of flesh—seeming infinitely vast, smeared with infinite filth—lay there, occasionally groaning.
He had not yet recovered from the earlier blow dealt by the Cursed One and the beating administered by the other gods.
And now he suffered fresh harm. The corrosive force of the Cursed One's contamination was intense.
The damage was not great, yet the torment was.
Now even sleep was difficult for the Lord of Plagues. At every moment, he existed within cursed stench.
Urgh!
Suddenly, the being turned his head and slumped over the edge of the broken bed.
Grandfather… threw up again.
The Savior's vicious attack this time had caused enormous ripple effects across the Chaotic domains. The Chaos Gods' hatred of him deepened.
They realized that this newborn existence might pose a threat to Chaos no less than the Cursed One.
That was a troublesome matter—one that required careful planning and a long view.
…
Back in the galaxy, upon the forge platform.
This platform, several kilometers across, was on the verge of breaking apart under the devastation of the two titans' battle, filth flowing everywhere.
Fortunately, the Savior had gained the advantage and was suppressing the dreadful beast unleashed by the Chaos Gods.
Eden manipulated the armor and gave another couple of "plunger" shoves with the mechanical arm.
He saw Daemon Angron foaming at the mouth, barely moving.
"Sigh, you're done that fast?" Eden said with a touch of emotion.
That was probably for the best. His high-intensity holy psychic power had also been completely exhausted.
(End of Chapter)
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