Sharp claws tore through Isha's abdomen. Blood, mixed with fragments of flesh, erupted outward. Isha's pelvis shattered with a sickening crack, and her internal organs dangled helplessly from her torn belly. This gory and cruel birth unfolded before Mortarion's eyes—the metallic tang of blood, the raw scent of flesh, and the stench of viscera flooded his senses, causing his amber eyes to tremble.
Birth is inherently painful, bloody, and agonizing. It is the mother's hormones that blur the memory of that pain; it is the instinctive joy of the masses that polishes the gore; it is the collective cognition of civilization that masks the torment. Human reality overlays the primal reality, turning that moment into something beautiful, happy, and worth celebrating. But at this moment, this birth stripped away all pretenses of warmth, revealing its true nature in the most blood-drenched form.
Wings of bone, draped in nerves and vessels, unfurled from the womb. Scalding blood ignited upon them, flickering like flames. Slender arms, white as skeletal remains, reached out slowly. Tattered lilies fell from the fingertips like rotting wedding veils or fragmented funeral shrouds. More elongated than a human, closer to death than a Necron, this being—born from the divinity of life and murder—crawled out of Isha's ruined belly. With shimmering, lightless eyes and twitching, elongated ears, the spawn of the "Dark King" was born into the material world.
Through Isha's womb, he was no longer a fragmented, incomplete thing. He was a true living being, born fully under the name of the Destroyer Angel. In the instant of his birth, as the new threads of causality formed, the Destroyer Angel understood that his success depended on two figures: Nurgle, who had protected Isha and entered into a cycle of symbiosis with her, elevating her to the Life Goddess of the galaxy; and Alexander, who had become the Eldar God of Death, accepting the Eldar as a part of humanity. Without them, his birth as a xenos divinity would have been met with the "natural rejection" left behind by the Master of Mankind. It was only because of Nurgle and Alexander's actions that this rejection was neutralized.
Was this a coincidence?
Absolutely not. The Destroyer Angel was certain he had been snared. His arrival was precisely according to Alexander's calculations. He had to change his plan—and in that moment, he let out a dry cough. It was his first sound in the mortal world: not a cry, not a cheer, but a dry, diseased cough.
Disease. The Destroyer Angel looked past the Black Manor toward the fallen form of the Grandfather. The Plague Father had recovered somewhat, his murky eyes fixed on the newborn. Birth was Nurgle's domain. Heredity was also his. At birth, what is passed from mother to child is not just life, but the mother's ailments. Mother-to-Child Transmission—the most malignant aspect of the plague, passing sickness to the innocent and pure. Through Isha, who had been stained by countless plagues, the God of Plague defiled the newborn Angel.
The "Angel" summoned by the girl also let out a wail of agony. He rolled off Mortarion as his scarred flesh began to sprout pustules and ugly dark spots. Already weakened and lacking the immunity of a true Primarch, the plague infecting the Destroyer Angel seized him instantly.
The Destroyer Angel looked at his own arm. Ugly dark spots were spreading—the marks of the God-Blight.
It was a bacterium, a bacteriophage, a virus, a prion, a parasite, and a cancer all in one. It was a living thing driven only by the urge to infect, infect, and infect again. Flesh, soul, existence, essence, and even death itself were its targets. Even a god could be killed by it. In a timeline where Alexander never appeared, Ku'Gath had once tried to realize this, but had only created a crude inferior version. The Grandfather had finally perfected it: the Plague of Plagues, the King of Sickness.
This had been intended for Tzeentch, but was now gifted to the Destroyer Angel as a birth present.
If circumstances were different, the Destroyer Angel had a thousand ways to bypass this rot. But because it had been woven into the causality of his birth via transmission, he had only seventy-seven days. In seventy-seven days, he would collapse and disintegrate.
He looked toward the weakened Nurgle. He had to destroy the source—if he could temporarily kill the Plague God, the concept of the plague might vanish for a time...
Just as the thought occurred to him, the Warp trembled. The tides of the Immaterium condensed into a form. The sky above Nurgle's Garden, once pierced by flames, was torn open. Between emerald clouds, a massive metallic-blue head—larger than a star—emerged. A glowing red nose burned hotter than a sun, and a pair of eyes that were neither cat nor raccoon looked down upon Nurgle's domain.
Alexander had domesticated the chaotic faith. He had recovered.
The Destroyer Angel nearly cursed aloud. The timing was too perfect, as precise as Guilliman arriving at Terra. He grabbed the mangled shoulder of the Azure Angel, and a Warp rift formed behind them. This twisted entity, born of the Dark King's seed and Isha's womb, gave one final look of disgust at the giant face in the sky before vanishing into the tides of the Warp.
He was drifting. In the tides of the Warp, his will felt like a feather falling into water—becoming wet, heavy, and slowly sinking into the boundless tide of consciousness. His name was diluted by ten million others; his existence was eroded by ten million souls. He had to remember... who was he?
"Executioner." A voice spat from within or without. He saw a gloomy Raven, watching him with hatred. "Traitor." A cold Lion stared at him with ferocious eyes, growling his name. "Brother."
White wings flickered gently. A golden Angel looked at him with sorrowful eyes, whispering his name. The Angel showed no hatred, no anger—only a stinging, piercing pity. The Angel's hand reached closer, and his will instinctively wanted to flee. "No."
"Stay close to me, brother," the Angel's voice became clear. "I will do everything in my power to help you, no matter how long it takes."
His hearts—the human one and the demigod one—thudded in unison. The Angel's finger touched him, scalding and hot. They were connected by shared memory. He saw blood—hot, steaming blood flowing on the ground. He watched as the most noble Angel executed one of his own sons. He stood behind a heavy stone pillar in that xenos cathedral on Melchior, watching the beautiful Angel kill his own child. He could sense the madness and bloodlust of that dying Blood Angel... but he didn't understand.
Was this Nephilim mind control? They had just fought side-by-side on this planet. The Angels and the Luna Wolves had crushed the grey xenos, while the Khans of the White Scars struck the homeworld.
He revealed himself to the Angel, knowing he could not hide from Sanguinius's senses. He was not Curze or Corax. He had come out of concern. To witness such a secret and remain hidden would be a stain on their brotherhood.
"■■■..." The Angel spoke his name.
"What have you done?" He suppressed his shock, his face full of worry. "You... you killed your own son."
"Were you tracking me? Spying on me?" Shock turned to anger, then receded into shame and bitterness. Finally, Sanguinius spoke with a deathly stillness. "You should not be here. This was not meant for outside eyes."
"So it seems," he nodded. "But I am not an outsider. I am your brother. Tell me, what drove you to this? Was it the Nephilim?"
Sanguinius looked at him, lips trembling. The Angel must have been searching for a lie, a way to deceive him. It would have been easy; he would never have doubted the Angel.
"No." But the Angel did not lie.
Just as he would never doubt the Angel, the Angel would never lie to him. They were closer than any of the other brothers. Guilliman was rational but calculating; Mortarion was resilient but gloomy; Lorgar was gentle but obsessed; Magnus was wise but secretive; Russ was powerful but... he could not help but feel a certain hostility toward him.
Only the Angel was different. "The fault is mine... it is my genetic sequence."
The Angel's voice was thick with sorrow. "I am certain there is a dark power within my genes. It is about blood, rage, death, and madness. When I look inside, I see it clearly. One part is blood—it has awakened. The other is darkness—it is not yet born. It has not shown itself in me, but it has manifested in my sons."
He looked at the corpse of the Astartes.
"It is happening more and more," Sanguinius said. "Perhaps that crimson tide will eventually drown all my sons. I have glimpsed such a future in my visions."
"Why did you never ask for help?"
"Ask who?" Sanguinius laughed self-deprecatingly. "You might tolerate this flaw. Lion... might keep the secret. Russ would laugh it off. Guilliman would offer help. Vulkan would offer pity. But Ferrus would look with suspicion, Dorn with wariness, Perturabo with intolerance, Alpharius with hidden motives, and Lorgar would question my purity."
"You could ask our Father. He is the greatest biologist; none know the mysteries of the gene better than He." He spoke with total trust in the Master of Mankind.
But Sanguinius remained silent. For a fleeting second, he sensed his brother's thought: Perhaps Father designed us this way. Purity was the coincidence; the mutation was the intent. The 'ghoul' was the design.
"You know what happened to those two Legions," Sanguinius said softly. "I only beg you to keep this secret."
"No."
He looked at the Angel for a long time before speaking. His eyes were bright with certainty. "I will do more than that. I will do everything in my power to help you, no matter how long it takes."