Chapter 20: May We All Stand Beside the Emperor

"Let us begin. Let us bestow the Grandfather’s blessings upon these commoners, so foolishly misled by the Corpse Emperor," Gurlor declared. He strode forward, and the other Plague Marines parted to let their lord pass.

The armor of the Plague Marines oozed with foul-smelling fluids; it was stretched tight over their bloated frames and covered in a thick layer of buzzing, green flies. They radiated a nauseating stench and a sickly, pale-green mist from within and without.

"Let us bring the Grandfather’s grace to those fools," Gurlor’s second-in-command added. His voice carried the wet, rotting rasp of a throat consumed by decay. He followed close behind Gurlor, brandishing a flesh-encrusted power hammer as he marched toward the battlefield. The distilling equipment and experimental plague grenades strapped to his body rattled with every step.

It is worth noting that Gurlor’s lieutenant was a Plague Alchemist, capable of creating terrifying contagions by mixing various germs and viruses. He could easily poison entire Imperial worlds, with the rot spreading to other planets to sow endless agony and death. The threat posed by a Plague Alchemist was far greater than that of a standard Plague Marine; they would poison every Imperial world they touched, even orchestrating sacrificial rituals to offer entire planets to Nurgle, transforming them into the Grandfather’s gardens.

"Praise the Grandfather."
"Grace—bring them grace."
"The Grandfather’s love."
"Destroy the Corpse Emperor."

The other Plague Marines raised their rusted bolters, blades, hammers, and plague sprayers, roaring in celebration as they followed Gurlor, preparing for the final assault.

Gurlor, leading the charge, raised his massive plague axe and let out a hoarse, horrific war cry: "We are the sons of Mortarion! We are the avatars of plague and death!"

The other Plague Marines echoed the cry. Thunderous salvos erupted as daemon engines and traitor-manned artillery renewed their bombardment of the fortress. Plague shells flew toward the flickering void shields, blossoming into malicious, flame-petaled explosions. Vast clouds of toxic blight spread with each blast, though they were held back by the shimmering barrier.

The fortress shields flickered violently; they were clearly pushed to their limit. With the relentless barrage, the generators were on the verge of overload. A few more volleys, and the fortress would lose its protection. Without those shields, the fortress would be nothing more than meat on a block, waiting to be butchered at will.

"Release the Grandfather’s gifts," Gurlor commanded.

Soon, a massive swarm of Poxwalkers was driven forward from the rear. They had once been living people—citizens and defenders of this world—but now, they were nothing more than puppets and playthings of Nurgle. Many still wore the tattered uniforms of the planetary guard, their gear hanging limply from their rotting bodies. They retained only the simplest instincts and could no longer use weapons.

Gurlor did not need them to be armed; the Poxwalkers relied primarily on the contagions they carried to inflict harm. These creatures stared blankly ahead, stumbling forward with green slime dripping from their snarling, slack-jawed faces. Their rotting flesh and writhing tentacles emitted a scent of putrefaction, and the whimpers of trapped souls echoed in the air.

Driven by the Plague Marines, the Poxwalkers marched mindlessly toward the fortress, serving as expendable cannon fodder. Tens of thousands of the undead swarmed through the ruins, staggering toward the Imperial firing line. The Plague Marines followed, herding the corpses like shepherds. Behind them, daemon engines like the Plagueburst Crawlers continued their ceaseless bombardment, causing the fortress’s void shields to flicker with increasing instability.

As the enemy entered the optimal kill zone, the defenders’ fire intensified. Heavy lascannons and autocannons roared, reaping rows of plague-ridden mutants. The air thundered with gunfire; countless walkers were torn apart, exploding into gobs of rotting meat that splattered across the ground. Massive flamers unleashed torrents of liquid fire, incinerating the plague flies that attempted to close in on the line. Laser beams lanced out from the bunkers, causing the Poxwalkers to hiss and sizzle as they collapsed into charred corpses.

The defenders shouted the Emperor’s name, conserving ammunition while killing as many of the enemy as possible, desperately hoping to repel them once more. The Plague Marines returned fire with equal lethality, their bolters precisely locking onto the Imperial heavy units and key firing points. Each trigger pull shattered the bodies of ordinary soldiers and destroyed heavy equipment, systematically dismantling the defenses so they could continue driving the Poxwalkers forward.

Daemon engines, such as the Blight-haulers, advanced as well, unleashing horrific plague shells and toxins that corroded the human defenders and suppressed their fire. The Imperial guards fought with everything they had, some even binding melta-bombs to their bodies in a final, desperate attempt to halt the advance. But no matter how hard they fought, they were steadily pushed back by the relentless assault of the Plague Marines, losing position after position as their perimeter compressed.

The Plague Marines deployed their Dreadnoughts and daemon engines; the terrifying firepower of these behemoths made the situation unbearable for the undersupplied defenders. In the course of several defensive battles, they had lost the majority of their artillery and tanks, leaving them with almost no heavy fire support trapped within the fortress.

"Merciful Emperor, this is the end," Jian muttered, peering through his binoculars. He watched as the terrifying, flesh-grown Dreadnoughts emerged from the pale-green mist, trailing behind the Poxwalkers. He knew that without a miracle, the fall of the fortress was inevitable.

The Plague Marines possessed their own Dreadnoughts—ancient models from ten thousand years ago, superior in performance and blessed by the Chaos Gods, making them far more lethal than their Imperial counterparts. The Dreadnoughts lumbered past a burning Chimera transport; their sheer size made the vehicle look insignificant. One arm of a Dreadnought hung with a massive cannon, firing madly, while the other ended in a barbed, clawed limb. A great, gaping maw sat on the chest plate where the remnants of the interred warrior were kept, surrounded by a cluster of blinking, unsettling eyes.

Jian had seen these Dreadnoughts in action several times; when facing the Imperium, they were a force of utter devastation. The defenders stood no chance. He had watched with his own eyes as they effortlessly obliterated a Baneblade super-heavy tank. Their firepower was truly horrific.

"We don't even have a single Knight; how are we supposed to fight this? Get a squad together for a suicide mission—see if they can get close enough to take it out with melta-bombs," Jian said, attempting a final struggle, wondering if they could trade human lives to destroy at least one of the monsters.

A squad rushed out, other troops providing covering fire as they charged with melta-bombs strapped to their bodies. The tactic was simple: get close enough to detonate, or be detonated remotely by teammates if they fell—as long as the payload reached the target.

Unfortunately, while courage is a rare and precious thing, it cannot change the reality of war, especially not when it comes to turning the tide of such a battle.

"A pity. It failed," Jian said with a faint smile as he watched the last soldier of the suicide squad scream the Emperor’s name before being obliterated by the Dreadnought’s long-range fire. He had lived over thirty years; today, it was his turn to be summoned by the Emperor.

"And those civilians..." Jian turned to look deep into the fortress, his eyes filled with sorrow. He knew all too well what would happen once the final line of defense collapsed. Chaos never showed mercy.

Jian looked up. The shields flickered, ready to shatter at any second. Through the barrier, his cybernetic eye saw that the gray-green plague mist had consumed the entire sky. The planet had fallen; their resistance was already meaningless. They had tried their best, but the outcome had been decreed.

Facing an invincible enemy, they had no hope of victory. All they could do was shout the Emperor’s name and charge toward death.

Suppressing the grief in his heart, Jian drew his command sword and laspistol, opening the all-hands communication channel. "It has been an honor to fight alongside you all, colleagues. May we all be with the Emperor, and may your souls be accepted by Him. The glory of mankind shall endure forever, and the light of the Emperor shall shine for eternity. We shall fight to the final moment. Chaos shall never make us kneel."

As Jian’s words faded, the overburdened shields flickered a few times and then vanished entirely.

Plague bombs rained down into the fortress, igniting explosions and clouds of toxic blight. Screams and cries of agony erupted from within. The desperate wails of civilians echoed across the entire citadel. Everyone knew their final moment had arrived.

The Poxwalkers and Plague Marines breached the defensive line, beginning a frenzied slaughter on the final perimeter. The defenders drew their blades, attempting to hold the line in hand-to-hand combat, clinging to the last remnants of human dignity.