From the Eye of Terror, massive Chaos plague fleets sortied, accompanied by vast hordes of Nurgle's daemons.
Nurgle's forces nearly emptied their coffers, dividing into two thrusts: one led by Primarch Mortarion toward the First Fleet of the Indomitus Crusade;
the other by the Death Guard's new Legion Master Typhus toward Ultramar's 500 Worlds.
Meanwhile, hordes of Chaos cultists struck Imperial worlds everywhere, spreading Nurgle's plagues to the galaxy's corners.
The moment they entered realspace, a dreadful pestilence billowed forth.
In the Ultima Segmentum, the Segmentum Solar, the Obscurus and the Eastern Fringe, different plagues erupted in turn. After infection,
bodies turned sickly green, boils swelled, breathing failed, life ebbed, and victims became nauseating shambling corpses.
The horror-zombies attacked humanity—attacked all living things—turning them into more of their kind. A terrifying pestilence spread.
"Come, join Nurgle's great family—know Nurgle's boundless love!
This is Nurgle's gift to you—your highest honor," Typhus cackled, seeding the god-plague across Imperial worlds.
…
On the Golden Throne, the Emperor and Magnus amplified their sight with psychic might and sensed the catastrophe at once.
Countless subjects wailed; pain wracked them; after death, the plague puppeted their corpses to assault their kin.
The pestilence spread with frightening speed. Ecclesiarchy preachers and Inquisitors relayed report after report to Holy Terra.
The Astronomican's adepts were overwhelmed; distress calls flooded in.
"This is Hive World XXX—under plague threat—requesting aid."
"World XXX has detected large Chaos fleets—requesting aid."
"XXX reporting mass Chaos Astartes and daemon incursion—requesting aid."
Countless pleas arrived and were compiled for Imperial Regent Guilliman and the newly resurrected Imperial Chancellor, Malcador.
With Malcador's return, Magnus yielded the chancellorship back to the former regent.
The two worked frantically, processing filings and dispatching nearby sector garrisons for relief.
Unlike the sluggish old High Lords, Guilliman and Magnus's new council moved with ruthless efficiency.
Orders were signed and transmitted across the Imperium; even the Indomitus Crusade fleets received directives: the Imperium faced unimaginable peril—halt the crusade and divert to relieve nearby embattled worlds.
"Father, at least ten thousand Imperial worlds are under attack; hundreds have already fallen," Guilliman reported to the Emperor.
"Organize relief at full tilt. Have Malcador assist you. Notify all campaigning primarchs at once," the Emperor said, methodical.
This god-plague—this Plague War—he had prepared for it for a decade. Nurgle wasn't the only one making preparations.
Imperial geneticists, virologists, and Apothecaries had been developing all manner of counteragents.
To truly beat Nurgle's pestilence, however, they needed aid from an Aeldari goddess— Isha, goddess of life.
Whenever a great plague engulfed the galaxy in ages past, the goddess of life would somehow diffuse her grace into realspace, imparting methods to save lives.
Now that Isha had a body to walk in realspace, the Emperor was eager for Rhodes to petition her aid.
Ending this Plague War soon would minimize Imperial losses. The Imperium had only just begun to recover; it could not endure another hammer blow.
"Emperor, our forces are spread thin. Deathwatch garrisons are already aiding nearby worlds, but numbers are insufficient—and this plague is especially stubborn," Malcador said, resurrected for a year and freshly reacquainted with a wretched millennium.
The Imperium of this era disappointed him utterly—one could call it a cesspit.
He even felt tempted to advise the Emperor to wipe it clean and rebuild order.
A millennium ago, during Age of Strife, humanity's tech surpassed today's.
Leaving the Imperium to mortals was, in hindsight, a grave mistake.
Perhaps the Emperor once wished mortals to develop themselves—but in a cosmos crawling with monsters and gods, without divine shelter, the weak are lambs to the slaughter.
So Malcador had changed his mind: the Imperium needs gods; it needs the Emperor; it needs new primarchs.
"Only the life goddess with Rhodes can truly unravel this god-plague," the Emperor said.
"Your Majesty, some things we should do ourselves, not always rely on others. With your current power, shouldn't you be able to crack this plague?" Malcador asked.
The Emperor was now extraordinarily powerful—far beyond his former self—tenfold, a hundredfold.
He was like a warp god shackled to the Throne; the Throne extended his spirit into the warp's strata.
A plague wrought by one of the Four—Nurgle—should be within his reach to counter, if he so willed.
"No. This time I must focus everything on another enemy. I must face Nurgle, Tzeentch, and Khorne," the Emperor said.
He held dominion over darkness, cold, death, fear—but not life. His brilliance shone by humanity's hope.
He could craft a cure—but not as easily as the life goddess. It would take at least a decade or more,
and consume terrifying psychic reserves. He had to husband strength—to strike Nurgle a killing blow.
"You're staking it all on a xenos god—and on a primarch you didn't create," Malcador said.
Rhodes was not the Emperor's creation—he hailed from another universe, bringing novelties from beyond. Malcador felt he could not be wholly trusted.
You cannot rely on him for everything.
"You don't understand, Malcador. When you meet Rhodes, you'll see—he truly wants to help humanity, not with false piety. He harbors little lust for power—of that, I'm surer than anyone," the Emperor said.
If Rhodes were ambitious, he would never have accepted a post within Imperial leadership. He'd launch a grand rebellion, rule countless human worlds, found a new regime, and topple the Emperor.
With that strange power of his, the Emperor was certain Rhodes could handle the Dark King. So long as humanity survived, the Emperor would remain upon the Throne.
Even if the Imperium fell and another regime rose, he would still be the Master of Mankind, still on the Throne, living for humanity.
"May your decision be right," Malcador sighed.
"Chancellor, I trust Rhodes too. Without him we primarchs would not be reunited; the Imperium would not have recovered this far," Guilliman said.
As the Terra conference ended, Guilliman used his cosmic-phantasm power to contact Rhodes remotely.
They had agreed on this method. Warp comms were easily intercepted; with cosmic beasts, no one could eavesdrop.
"Rhodes, plagues are breaking out across the Imperium—you know that, right? How's your crusade fleet?"
"I know. I've dispatched 200,000 gene-sons and 300,000 Battle Sisters from the crusade, dispersing to Imperial worlds to render aid," Rhodes said.
"Right now our only hope is for the life goddess to produce a cure for the god-plague. The sooner the cure arrives, the sooner this war ends," Guilliman said.
"Months ago, when the first outbreaks began, I set Isha to work. She'll have a cure soon—at most a month," Rhodes said.
"Then I'm relieved. Be careful—Chaos may strike at you," Guilliman said.
"You should worry about yourself, Guilliman. A plague fleet is already en route to Ultramar."