Inside the viewing hall, the atmosphere was frozen like ice, heavy as if it were a physical entity.
On the screen, the Death Guard once known as Morian was twisting into a twitching, mindless mass of flesh amidst inhuman agony. The pale emblem of the Fourteenth Legion upon him was faintly visible within the crazily proliferating flesh, like an ugly, blasphemous joke.
It was not merely Death, but a more malicious erasure and mockery of "existence" itself.
"Ha!"
Russ's savage laughter cut through the dead silence like a thunderclap. But there was not a trace of joy in that laughter, only pure contempt and loathing from the marrow of his bones.
He slammed his hand onto the armrest, stood up, and glared at Magnus on the other side of the screen.
"Is this the 'gift' of sorcery? Is this the ultimate result of you Psykers playing with the power of the Warp?"
His voice roared, full of wild fury, "A pathetic beast that knows only how to howl! Magnus, look at what state your tricks eventually turn people into! Is this your so-called 'higher knowledge'?"
Magnus did not respond; his massive frame trembled slightly in his seat, his single eye filled with unspeakable pain and remorse. What he saw was not just the horrific mutation of a warrior, but a terrifying preview of the collapse of his own beliefs.
"I thought I had long seen through all forms of Death."
A voice as raspy as two tombstones rubbing together in a toxic storm rang out. Mortarion stared fixedly at the mass on the screen; that had once been his son, a Death Guard.
Beneath his respirator, under that pale and sickly skin, purple veins bulged from extreme anger, nearly bursting through the skin. Even the most lethal toxic mists of Barbarus had never made him show such deep-seated hatred.
"In the World where I grew up, Death was a release, the end of fortitude. A warrior dies in pain but retains his honor. But this... this is not Death; this is eternal humiliation!"
His questioning voice rose higher and higher, each word squeezed out from his poisoned lungs, shaking the walls of the viewing hall and the souls of every Primarch.
"And yet, I led them toward destruction."
"I would rather lead them to be ground into dust under the fiercest artillery fire than ever allow them to embrace this... this filthy sorcery! I hate it! I have fought against it my entire life!"
Then he asked in return:
"Even if I have grievances against the Emperor, even if I believe his rule is another form of tyranny, it is absolutely impossible that I would choose these things! Absolutely impossible!"
Rogal Dorn slowly rose from his seat. His movements were steady and powerful, like the fortresses he built with his own hands, every motion filled with unquestionable determination.
There was no superfluous expression on his resolute face, but his gaze was like the hardest granite, looking directly at his brother who had fallen into rage and despair.
"Resist it, Mortarion."
Dorn's voice was like the man himself: solid, emotionless, yet filled with unquestionable power. He did not offer comfort; instead, he issued a command, a command to the will.
"Are you not always known for your fortitude? Just as you resisted those oppressors on Barbarus, resist this future! It has not yet happened; it is merely a phantom, a weapon used to shake our will. Your fortitude goes far beyond this."
Dorn's words were like a shot of adrenaline, accurately piercing the core of Mortarion's conviction.
Fortitude—this was his only pride, the cornerstone of his existence.
At that moment, a ghost-like voice came from the shadows in the corner. Alpharius's figure flickered in the light and shadow, as if he were both there and not there.
"Based on my understanding of Mortarion, it is impossible for him to yield to a sorcerer." His words were calm and sharp, like a scalpel, precisely dissecting the contradiction before them. "His stubbornness and hatred for sorcery are known to all. So, why would he be standing there?"
This question plunged all the Primarchs into silence.
Yes, why?
The question was like a stone thrown into stagnant water, stirring up a thousand ripples. The Primarchs were no longer just shocked by the images; they began to think about the logic behind them.
How could Mortarion, that stubborn soul who would rather suffocate in toxic mist than bow to his sorcerer foster father, embrace a god of sorcery even more base and filthy than his foster father?
Perturabo sat there gloomily; he looked at the screen, and in his eyes was not fear, but a cold mixture of disgust and technical criticism.
"Inefficient transformation."
He muttered in a low voice, as if evaluating a failed engineering project. "Waste. A well-trained Astartes, an efficient War Machine, transformed into a mass of illogical flesh that only performs indiscriminate attacks. Its energy output is unstable, its structure is chaotic, and it has no tactical value."
"This isn't a weapon at all; it's a pile of... malfunctioning parts. Nurgle? What a ridiculous name, what a ridiculous creation."
Jaghatai Khan viewed the problem from another angle. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers lightly tapping the hilt of his blade, his gaze sharp as an eagle's.
"This is not combat, nor is it modification. This is pure malice."
His voice was calm, but carried the suppression found before a storm. "Look, it is still twitching, but it can go nowhere. Its soul is trapped in a physical prison that is constantly collapsing, forced to feel endless, meaningless growth and decay. This is more malicious than any chains. This is not failure; this is eternal enslavement."
And Corax, the liberator in the shadows, felt another, deeper resonance. He looked at Mortarion's pained face as if seeing his own reflection.
"We all walk in the darkness, brother." His voice was very light, like a breeze passing by, yet it clearly reached Mortarion's ears.
"We make our enemies tremble with fear. But our purpose is to bring light and freedom. Whereas this... it is an end in itself. Its existence is to spread pure, meaningless pain and despair. It is not a weapon; it is the curse itself."
"There is a fundamental difference between us and it."
Sanguinius finally stood up, his entire being radiating a soft and warm glow, as if to dispel the gloom gathered in the viewing hall due to this horrific sight.
His golden figure crossed the invisible barrier between the Primarchs created by shock, every step firm and powerful.
He came to Mortarion's side and gently pressed his palm onto the cold shoulder guard. The contact was hard and cold, but Sanguinius's hand brought an unquestionable warmth.
"This is only what might happen, my brother."
The Angel's voice carried a divine compassion and power, "But this is by no means your predetermined destiny. Your will is far more resilient than what this vision shows."
He reached out his hand like a true brother, that flawless palm radiating a halo of hope in the dim light. Mortarion stared at that hand; in his sunken eye sockets, burning with the flames of pain, a hint of hesitation emerged.
"Resist the evil that seeks to steal the soul of your Legion," Corax's voice rang out again, giving support from the shadows on the other side. "Let it see what the true unyielding fortitude of the Death Guard is. Are you willing, brother?"
"You are one of us, always."
Fulgrim also spoke up to add, his voice devoid of its usual vanity and pride, leaving only pure concern. He looked at Mortarion as if looking at a perfect work of art about to be defiled, full of regret and the desire to protect.
On Mortarion's face, distorted by pain and anger, something hot finally slid from his sunken eyes.
It was not the toxic rain of Barbarus, but something that could corrode hard ice more than any toxin... tears.
He suddenly grasped Sanguinius's hand, like a drowning man catching the last straw. That massive hand, accustomed to wielding a scythe, was now trembling slightly.
Three-Body World
The leaders of the Three-Body World watched the process of the Chosen Champion Morian turning into a "Chaos Spawn" on the screen, watching those pervasive tentacles, arms, eyes, and teeth grow savagely from every inch of his body, and they fell into chaos.
"Bacteria, viruses—they have their own place in the ecosystem; their proliferation and evolution follow the logic of survival and competition."
"But this 'vibrant vitality' on the screen does not exist for survival or competition; its sole purpose for existing is endless, meaningless proliferation of pain. This is not reproduction; this is the disorderly piling of matter, the total shattering of information and structure."
"It does not protect life; it protects the process of 'decay' itself. How can this be called a god?"
The leaders of the Three-Body World fell into a long silence.
They could understand destruction, they could understand devouring, but they could not understand this illogical "creation."
This made them feel more fear than the chaotic movement of the Trisolaran system. The chaos of the Trisolaran system was an unconscious physical phenomenon, while the chaos of Nurgle was a conscious, malicious madness.
Crisis Era · Planetary Defense Council
In the conference room, there was a dead silence. The previous discussion about the almost barbaric military power of the Imperium of Man in the Warhammer World had completely stopped. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the screen, their faces showing unconcealable shock and a deeper kind of coldness.
Luo Ji leaned back in his chair, hands crossed, his gaze deep. He did not look at the mass of twisted flesh called a "Chaos Spawn," but at the icon of "Father Nurgle" on the screen.
"I seem to... understand a little now," he spoke slowly, his voice raspy.
Shi Qiang took a sharp puff of a non-existent cigarette and scratched his hair irritably: "Understand what?! Teacher Luo, what the hell is going on? If a believer loses a battle, they get turned into something like this? This is much harsher than the Trisolarans' 'dehydration' and 'rehydration' set, and it makes no sense at all!"
"The sense—this is the sense." Luo Ji's gaze was as sharp as a knife.
"Shi Qiang, we've been trying to apply the logic of 'civilization warfare.' Between civilizations, the Law of the Dark Forest is followed, and the goal is survival. Your existence is a threat to me, so I must eliminate you. All of this has logic to follow."
He pointed to the screen:
"But what we are seeing now is not a civilization. This is a... cosmic-level cancer cell. It does not follow the Dark Forest; it wants to infect every tree in the forest and turn them all into cancer cells just like itself."
It is not for survival; it is for spreading, so that the entire Universe falls into the same eternal, sickly carnival as itself."
A PDC physicist adjusted his glasses and said with a trembling voice: "This has already transcended the scope of biology. This is pollution at the level of physical laws. We have always believed that life is the most fragile miracle in the Universe, an orderly spark that occasionally appears in the darkness."
"But this Universe tells us there is another possibility—an 'Order' based on 'pain' and 'decay' that can similarly self-replicate and expand. This is too terrifying..."
In everyone's mind, it was as if a bolt of lightning had cleared away layers of fog. They simultaneously recalled everything they had seen before regarding the Imperium of Man.
That religious-like fanatical faith, the near-divine worship of the Emperor.
The merciless purging of any heretical thoughts, the zero-tolerance cruelty toward any genetic mutation.
The slogan that ran through it all: "Kill the alien, purge the heretic, burn the mutant!"
Before, they thought this was ignorance, totalitarianism, and a backward social form.
But now... "Holy shit..." Shi Qiang cursed in a low voice, but his tone was full of the horror of realization, "I finally get it. That Emperor... the enemy he faces isn't some alien civilization at all..."
Luo Ji took over his words, his voice carrying a hint of awe and a chill down the spine.
"The enemies he faces are these things. These Chaos Gods."
"So, what he built was not a 'country' or a 'civilization'; it was a 'sterile isolation ward' so massive it spans the entire galaxy."
"He demands absolute unity of thought not for dictatorship, but to prevent thoughts from being infected by this... cosmic virus. He purges any genetic instability not because of racial discrimination, but because any tiny mutation could become a breakthrough for this cosmic cancer."
"They aren't fighting a war..." Luo Ji's gaze swept across every pale-faced person in the conference room, "They are conducting an eternal, hopeless... disinfection operation."