Ultramar Sub-Sector, Vystar System.

Void tremors pulsed through the star system.

The flagship of the Death Guard—Tenacity, the personal warship of the Death Lord—drifted into position, releasing thick clouds of poisonous miasma.

It was not alone. Dozens of Nurgle fleets had arrived with it, with plague barges stretching hundreds of kilometers long swaying ominously in the void.

...

Aboard the bridge.

Mortarion gazed calmly over the dying system.

In recent months, he had deployed countless corruption engines across the region, forming a dense network of plague nodes. At the heart of this network, hidden deep within Vystar, lay the secret lair of the First Favored of Nurgle—Ku'gath, brewing the long-awaited Godplague.

But now, the secret had been compromised.

Both the Lord Commander and the Savior were advancing aggressively, threatening to destroy the great work of Grandfather Nurgle.

To delay them, Mortarion had summoned every daemon and legion he could command, forming an imposing wall of rot and despair.

He only needed to buy time.

Three days. That was all he required.

Because in truth, Mortarion had always intended to lure the Primarchs here for one final, decisive ambush.

It was simply happening slightly ahead of schedule.

"My Lord Death Lord, why have you summoned me again?"

Ku'gath grumbled.

"Be patient. The Godplague will be ready soon—just three days, three hours, thirty-three minutes and three seconds. Yes, faster than you expected."

"Praise be to Grandfather..."

Mortarion's sunken face twisted in delight.

"Even fate smiles upon us. They've walked right into death's snare!"

After millennia of planning, everything was finally in motion. Success was at hand.

He would claim the Godplague, kill his brothers, and achieve glorious victory.

Staring into the depths of Vystar, Mortarion already saw it—triumph.

He had brought every soldier under his command to fortify this system. Even if he closed his eyes, surely three days would be enough to hold the line?

He could already envision the future:

Guilliman, watching helplessly as trillions of Ultramarines citizens writhed in agony beneath the toxic rot, dying in despair, turning into frozen corpses.

"Oh False Emperor… will you mourn, when you see your own son die by my hand?"

Mortarion grinned darkly.

He even planned to record Guilliman's death, broadcasting it across Holy Terra and the wider Imperium.

Let them know—hope is dead, and light has abandoned the stars.

BOOM—

His thoughts were shattered as the Tenacity suddenly rocked under bombardment.

The attacker?

...

The Radiance of Macragge.

"Mortarion, your end has come!"

Guilliman's voice crackled through vox, firm and unshaken.

But Mortarion scoffed.

"My dear brother, there's no need for theatrics. You're out of time, and out of troops.

You can't touch me, nor my army. You won't even scratch my defenses. You'll watch helplessly as Ultramar burns."

"Is that so?" Guilliman's voice now carried a hint of amusement. "Alone, I would be insufficient. But I am not alone. My brother has arrived—and so have many more armies."

The moment his words fell…

A piercing alarm howled across Tenacity's bridge.

A holographic star map of the Vystar System lit up—red dots began to appear, signaling incoming fleets.

More and more.

In seconds, the star map was overwhelmed with red—countless enemy fleets closing in from every direction.

Reports screamed across every vox-channel: all fronts under attack, multiple breaches, overwhelming firepower.

"No… this… this can't be!"

Mortarion's cold composure cracked.

He scoured the reports—enemy forces beyond imagination:

Guilliman's fleet.

The Savior's personal war armada.

Khorne and Tzeentch daemons fighting side by side, obliterating plague barges.

Orks cooperating with Tyranids to devour a massive Nurgle fortress and rescue prisoners.

Aeldari and Necrons allied, annihilating Chaos warbands.

T'au xenos acting as vanguard suicide units, clearing paths for the Savior.

Even the Terror Legion's Black Ark had entered the fray.

Mortarion's whole frame trembled.

It felt like reality was slipping.

Had the warp distorted time while he traveled? Was this still the same galaxy?

"My Lord… what are your orders?!"

The Death Guard's Chief Strategist was near panic.

"Every front is requesting reinforcements—the enemy numbers are astronomical!"

Mortarion reeled, clutching his great scythe for balance.

"Send messages… to Typhus, the Great Plague, Black Death, Famine, Chokedrinker, and the Dwarf. Tell them help is coming, but they must… they must hold for three days, at all costs.

This is a death order—for Grandfather's sacred work!"

"Understood!"

The strategist bowed and began sending emergency psychic transmissions.

Mortarion panted heavily.

His vision was blurry.

He had sacrificed so much for this plan. He would not let it fail.

Then the strategist returned, face pale.

"What now? Has Typhus refused?"

Mortarion's heart sank.

He feared betrayal from his rebellious gene-son.

"Typhus is… no longer able to respond."

The strategist's voice quivered with sorrow.

"He led an attack on the Savior with seven Great Unclean Ones. They were ambushed…

Surrounded by the Dark Prince's Champion, an Ork Warlord named Steelfang, Grey Knights, and alien agents of the Savior's Inquisition.

His entire force was annihilated. Only half his corpse… was recovered."

"WHAT?!"

Mortarion's world blurred.

That loathsome but loyal son was dead. Killed by a coalition of daemons, Orks, Grey Knights, and xenos?

"Does the Imperium even care anymore?!"

But there was no time to mourn.

"And the Great Plague?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Consumed—along with his daemon guards—by strange Tyranid bioforms. Nothing remained… not even bones.

It's believed a new human army, the Savior's Son of Mankind, were aiding the Tyranids in devouring Nurgle's minions."

"Wha—?"

Mortarion's eyes widened.

He was speechless.

All around him, the bridge fell into a deathly silence.

The galaxy had gone mad.

Even the chaotic daemons paled compared to the utter insanity now sweeping across the stars.

The Savior's forces and their allies were beyond insane—even Chaos felt conservative by comparison.

Mortarion's fingers trembled.

His mask hissed with each breath, foul gas leaking in thin tendrils.

He tried desperately to make sense of the madness, to find a way to respond.

Typhus—dead.

The Great Plague—devoured.

Two major fronts—collapsed.

And Guilliman had personally come to hold him back.

The remaining defenses wouldn't last long.

His grand plan, his Godplague, everything… it was all slipping away.

"No. We're not finished yet. We still have… reinforcements!"

He clung to one last hope.

He had asked Grandfather Nurgle for more troops before deploying to Vystar.

Those armies had already departed the Garden of Nurgle.

Yet before Mortarion could recover, the latest message from his strategists shattered all hope:

"The reinforcements from Nurgle's Garden were ambushed the moment they departed—by none other than the Supreme Bloodthirster, Ka'Bandha. They've all been annihilated!"

Damn it. It's all aimed at me!

In that instant, Mortarion was gripped by a crushing sense of isolation, as though the entire universe had turned against him. Rage and despair swelled together inside him.

Fate had forsaken him—Death Lord, and once-beloved son of Grandfather Nurgle.

PUH!

His rage surged to his heart, and he spat out a thick stream of scorched, toxic blood. The bridge spun around him, and he collapsed.

The mask covering his face was smeared with blood, staining his rotted features with a grotesque, tragic tint.

"My lord!"

The Chief Strategist of the Death Guard immediately used psychic power to support his gene-sire, filled with deep concern.

"I… I'm fine."

Mortarion stopped his fall midair and slowly floated back up. He was no mortal—he would not faint so easily.

But he had made a decision. His voice was hoarse:

"Issue new orders. All units are to fall back and consolidate. Deploy every elite warrior to the surface of Vystar. No matter the cost, the Godplague must be secured…"

That was his only remaining card to play.

Three days. All he needed was three more days.

Even if it meant sacrificing every soldier, Vystar had to be held.

There was still some hope. The dense corruption engines buried deep on the planet made orbital strikes ineffective. Ku'gath's hiding place could not be targeted from space.

They just needed to hold the ground—no matter the sacrifice.

"For the glory of Grandfather Nurgle… it will all be worth it."

So Mortarion convinced himself.

He turned to his personal guard:

"Come. Follow me to Vystar. We will redeem all with our lives!"

...

Aboard the Heart of Terror, amidst roaring cannon fire—

The vessel pressed forward toward Vystar.

Eden sat atop his obsidian throne, the daemonic flame on his body blazing fiercer than ever, exuding a terrifying pressure.

The Legion of Terror had once again spread dread across the galaxy—and he had grown even stronger.

He looked down at his war council.

Chaos reigned in the great hall:

Daemonettes cackling and squirming, the hulking Ork warboss Steelfang gnashing his tusks, the eerie High Tyranid Leader gnawing on something, the black-armored Thunder Guard of Chaos, grim Terror Legionnaires… and in the corner, a slightly shy T'au Ethereal Commander.

All… his own people.

CHOMP CHOMP.

A disturbing chewing sound echoed through the hall—wet, fleshy, and full of squelching bone snaps.

The T'au Ethereal shrank back nervously.

"Oi, Number Eight…"

Eden frowned, narrowing his blood-red eyes at the Tyranid leader—who was currently munching on half a still-writhing Nurgle daemon.

"Could you not?! Have some damn manners!"

This was basically eating crap in public. And it was still fresh.

Over a decade ago, Eden had captured a full Tyranid Hive Ship and domesticated a unique little bioconstruct named Abathur.

That creature had since become a High Tyranid Bio-Engineer and created an entire brood of Tyranids specialized in devouring Nurgle daemons.

The creature now known as Number Eight was the central synapse of that brood.

SCREECH—

Sensing pressure from the warp and psychic will, the Tyranid instantly submitted.

Its little eyes turned up fearfully toward the throne, freezing in place.

Eden let it go with a grunt, turning his gaze toward the battlefield hologram suspended in the air.

The situation across every front was ideal.

The Heart of Terror was rapidly approaching Vystar under cover of Aeldari and Necron fleets.

The next step: land on the surface, locate the Plague Factory, and eliminate the threat of the Godplague.

Additionally, a curious request had arrived from the Demon Research Institute—specifically from the newly minted black-oil sage, Grand Scholar Mao.

It had prompted Eden to make a slight change of plans.

Perhaps this battle could yield even more than expected.

Eden's crimson eyes narrowed:

"Prepare for planetary assault. Go."

...

Vystar – Port Hekka.

Major Ward of the Cadian 97th crouched low behind sandbags in a forward observation post.

Through his electro-binoculars, he scanned the misty coastline. Faint waves lapped the seawall in the distance.

Thankfully, the plague abominations had not yet launched another assault.

Then his eyes drifted skyward—and his breathing quickened. The foul, humid air inside his rebreather mask turned almost unbreathable.

"By the Emperor… Hekka Port's end may be upon us…"

This remote planetary capital—his home—was a tranquil place once.

Wide plains, clean coasts, minimal industrial corruption. And most importantly, located in Ultramar.

Not particularly wealthy, nor strategically important—but under the protection of the Lord Commander and the Ultramarines.

The people lived well. They paid their tithes. They endured.

Then came the plague abominations.

Fierce battles erupted across Ultramar—and Vystar teetered on the edge of doom.

A third of the planet had already fallen, turned into a plague-ridden hellscape.

Still, the local forces held the line, locked in a desperate, grueling stalemate.

Thousands died daily.

But in the grand scope of Ultramar's war, Vystar was nothing—barely a footnote in the data logs.

Too small to matter. Too far to notice.

Until everything changed.

Within weeks, a flood of plague fleets poured into the system. The Savior and the Lord Commander themselves were en route.

Ward adjusted his optics—and shivered.

He had looked at Vystar's skies many times… but each time, they grew more horrifying.

There were no stars left.

Only a suffocating mass of warships—Imperial, Chaos, and xenos—blotting out the heavens.

Exploding ships, ceaseless bombardment… the sky was on fire.

Vystar had become the center of the galaxy's greatest war.

The Imperium, Chaos, and every other power now fought over this world like it was sacred.

"Why?" Ward wondered.

The brass offered no answers. Only orders: hold the line.

But deep down, he knew—it didn't matter whether his post held or not.

They were ants caught in a hurricane. At any moment, the aftershocks could kill them all—or destroy the world itself.

"Vystar is like a dinghy in a storm… tossed by waves far beyond its power. Its people have already lost control of their fate.

Capsizing is only a matter of time."

Still… he did not retreat.

Even in fear, Ward would stand and fight, no matter the cost.

Because he was all that stood between the enemy and the millions of civilians in Port Hekka.

They mattered.

Even if no one else thought so.

"TAKE COVER! TIDAL STRIKE INCOMING!"

His vox screamed as burning wreckage from a T'au circular warship plummeted from orbit, smashing into the ocean.

BOOM—

The impact sent waves crashing over the defensive line, flooding trenches and washing away unlucky guardsmen.

Ward clawed his way up from the mud, tasting blood and salt in his rebreather.

A rupture in his suit. That could mean death.

Before he could patch it, a new cry rang out:

"Commander! The plague zombies are attacking again—and there are daemons! And heretics! They're everywhere!"

His heart seized.

Down the coastline, plague-walkers were crawling up from the muck.

Behind them, towering Nurgle Marines advanced with grotesque weapons.

From the bay, enormous daemons rose—oozing pus and filth into the sea.

And that was just one front.

On all sides, Nurgle's forces were invading.

The plague army had descended on Vystar in terrifying numbers.

ALERTS BLARED.

A gas shell landed near the outpost—yellow smog flooding the air.

Men screamed and vomited, writhing in pain as the air turned poison.

Ward watched, despair creeping in.

These were enemies no mortal army could resist.

This was hell.

(End of Chapter)

[Check Out My Patreon For +20 Extra Chapters On All My Fanfics!!][[email protected]/zaelum]

[+500 Power Stones = +1 Extra Chapter]

[Thank You For Your Support!]