Mortarion was in a pitiful state—his lower body smashed to pieces, his wings in tatters. If he weren't a Daemon Prince—and a primarch-turned-daemon at that—he would be dead. The daemon primarch even set aside his pride, pleading to Nurgle for aid.
To the Death Guard's ten-thousand-battle veterans, the sight was like a lightning strike from a clear sky.
Though Typhus had led the Death Guard for ages, in their hearts their only Legion Master was the primarch, their gene-father Mortarion.
But now their gene-father lay so wretched—defeated head-on by his former company captain Typhus!
"Do you see? You all see it? The age of primarchs is over. I won! I beat him! I beat this coward—this despicable wretch!" Typhus shrank back to human size and raised his massive scythe high.
He howled in exultation. In this moment he fulfilled a ten-millennia ambition. Since joining Mortarion's Legion he had looked down on the primarch, scorned him to the core.
Spurred on by Erebus, he had trapped his primarch, driving him into Nurgle's embrace.
He hoped to humiliate Mortarion and gain a rank above a primarch—but the Chaos gods prized primarchs exorbitantly.
For ten millennia, Mortarion hid in the Eye, ignoring the Legion. Typhus ran everything—yet everyone still called Mortarion gene-father.
Until Abaddon changed the script. He broke with his own gene-father; after upgrading to a Chaos Daemon Primarch, he obtained his own gene-seed and could found his own Astartes—making the Black Legion formally sever ties with Horus.
Abaddon's success filled Typhus with confidence. Add Vashtorr's gigantification and Nurgle's blessings—
and now this challenge. If he failed, he'd just die. He would never again bow to that primarch—that coward!
"Typhus! Typhus!"
"The Death Guard's true Legion Master!"
"Our highest respect to you!"
Unlike the veterans, many new Death Guard recruits raised their weapons; their bloated bodies exuded boundless stench and pestilence.
Blessed by Nurgle, they roared to the heavens. Today they witnessed history, the decline of primarchs.
Mortarion felt a wave of desolation. He had longed for a home—an actual home. He'd thought joiningNurgle would grant what he sought. But Chaos—
Everything—all of it—was mirage. This hideous visage, this shambling corpse of a shell!
"Great Nurgle, save me—great Father!" Mortarion stretched out his hands, muttering.
He did not want to die, so he begged Nurgle. Nurgle is merciful—if he begged, he would be spared.
A green radiance wrapped Mortarion, rapidly mending his wounds. Moments later he stood whole again before them.
But at this point, none of the Death Guard acknowledged this primarch anymore.
"Don't get cocky, Typhus. You only beat obsolete trash!" Nurgle's majestic voice rolled from afar into the ears of every Chaos Astartes.
"Great Nurgle, great God of Life, you are the most benevolent being in the cosmos.
I will prove my worth to you. I will prove I'm ten thousand times stronger than that refuse. I will lead the Death Guard.
I will lead countless family to sweep away your foes. I will take back your beloved bride. I swear it!" Typhus slapped his fat, suppurating, stinking bulk and roared.
As long as he possessed Nurgle's gigantification, he was confident he could defeat anyone.
The Imperium's current edge came from gigantification. Soon, that advantage would vanish.
"Vashtorr's gigantification is only a revision. You still fall short of the Imperium's true primarchs. They possess something called cosmic beasts.
It's a power even I cannot nullify—rooted in realspace principles, akin to the Necrons' star-god power; a bane to the warp, an absolute insulator," Nurgle said.
He could hardly wait to take revenge on the Emperor. This time he would teach that golden colossus a proper lesson.
"Great Nurgle, if you grant me this gigantification—if you grant me your blessing—I will surpass Typhus," said Mortarion, now fully recovered.
He could not let that bastard stand on his neck. The primarch's dignity must be defended.
So Mortarion made a decision: he would gain this power too. The loyalist primarchs were said to have gigantified and upgraded; as an old-era primarch, he no longer even ranked among the cosmos's top combatants.
If the Chaos gods could bless his former captain beyond him, then as a primarch he would be stronger still if he received that power.
At this, Typhus's face darkened as he knelt pledging loyalty to Nurgle.
That bastard—how dare he!
"Mortarion, I can grant you this blessing—but what have you done to earn it?
You are not Typhus. For ten millennia he has sung my praises, spread my gospel through realspace, shared my blessings with my adorable humanity.
You, my child, merely curled up in a corner, sniveling about home. That is not the primarch I favor.
If you want this blessing—this power—then go kill the Imperium's new primarchs.
I hear two primarchs are waging a crusade—one named Rhodes, one named Elena.
They fused with those special cosmic beasts to become primarchs.
Kill them both, bring me their cosmic beasts, and I will bless you," Nurgle said.
"Great Nurgle, I can complete these tasks too. Please assign them to me. I guarantee I'll bring you those so-called cosmic beasts," Typhus said, kneeling at once.
"Oh, my child, I have another important task for you—one very powerful. I want you to attack Holy Terra and bring back my lovely bride," Nurgle said.
At this, Typhus's swagger froze—his green face somehow greener.
Are you kidding me? Great Nurgle, you want me to attack Holy Terra?
Is that a place I can attack? Last time you four big shots struck together—with hordes of Bloodthirsters—and nothing came of it!
How exactly am I qualified for this?
Even Mortarion was speechless. Holy Terra is not so easily taken.
Horus reached Terra's gates—what happened then? The Emperor cleaved him in two.
"I will send the entire host to support you. All Daemon Princes and Great Daemons will heed your command and attack with you," Nurgle said.
After a decade of preparation, he had upgraded all his Great Daemons and Daemon Princes. The gigantified primarchs would no longer beat them like children.
Others had only Vashtorr's tech, but after obtaining that plague-beast,
Nurgle had independent gigantification capability—though currently only applied to his Great Daemons and Daemon Princes.
With such power, surely Terra could be taken.
"Great Nurgle, to assault Terra, we must first punch through the Sol System. Otherwise the attack is wasted. I propose we first dismantle the Emperor's campaigning primarchs—what do you think?" Typhus said.
He worshiped Nurgle, but attacking Terra was absurd.
How about a lighter assignment?
"Which primarch do you want to face? Several are campaigning," Nurgle asked.
Capturing a primarch would be ideal. He could trade a live primarch to the Emperor to recover Isha.
"Great Nurgle, I will bring you Guilliman's head. I'll strike the Ultramar 500 Worlds," Typhus said after a moment's thought.
Guilliman was on Terra, not Ultramar. Hitting the 500 Worlds would draw him out—best choice.
"Very well. Then it's settled. Split forces: Mortarion, you go after Rhodes and Elena. Typhus, you go after Guilliman.
Whoever finishes first, I will grant the grandest reward."