Inside the Super Gene Universe's observation lounge, the atmosphere was completely different from the previous two Worlds.
There was no pure moral condemnation, no divine pity—only a blunt, technology-and-data-driven deconstruction and judgment based on the existing cosmic Order.
"Holy crap… that's it? Only one out of three survived? What kind of gene-augment surgery has a 66.6 % fatality rate?"
Ge Xiaolun was the first to shout; he was utterly dumbstruck.
As someone with the "Galaxy Power" super-gene, he understood "upgrades," but he couldn't comprehend such a crude, almost murderous method.
"This isn't a tech issue anymore—it's outright reckless! And that ship—holy hell…"
When the camera swept through the plague warship's interior, Ge Xiaolun's face turned paper-white, his stomach churning violently.
"Ugh… the walls are made of flesh? And what's oozing through those pipes—what is that stuff?"
"How did this ship even pass a health inspection? Wait—do they even have those?"
Pointing at the mortals used as "Wetware," his voice trembled: "Yan told me Angels can link minds through data streams, but that's—only with mutual consent!"
"What is this? Using people as USB drives? And it's forced installation, lifetime use!"
Finally, watching the plague ship slam head-first into the Emperor's fleet guns, Ge Xiaolun didn't know what expression to wear:
"Bro, they jump without nav? On Earth we still need Gaode Maps to drive!"
"They literally stuck their face out for a slap—did the Commander's brain get eaten by the maggots on board?"
"Hahaha! Queen here is dying of laughter!"
A mocking queenly voice echoed through the lounge; Morgana crossed her legs, puffing smoke, face full of schadenfreude.
"This is their so-called 'blessing'? Hell, my demons throw a better Orientation Party!"
"If you want to fall, at least follow the basics! All dirty and slimy—zero class, bottom-of-the-barrel trash!"
She sneered at the plague ship: "Look at this junk—my Demon-1 is ten-thousand times cleaner! And using people as spare parts?"
"Listen up, this is slavery! I stand for free fall—do whatever you damn want—not living like sewer maggots! These idiots got the concept totally wrong!"
Seeing the ship jump straight into the Imperial fleet, Morgana laughed so hard her cigar nearly dropped:
"Morons! Pure morons! This is what happens when you believe in gods!"
"Told ya—trust no damn deity, trust yourself! Where's their 'Father Nurgle' now? Come down and take the cannon for them!"
She swiveled gleefully, taunting: "Hey, Keisha, see your Order of Justice? Here's another version of you! An empire built on fear and iron fists—watch it slam into another turd. This Universe is hilarious!"
"Barbaric."
Holy Keisha sat upon her throne, voice calm yet carrying undeniable judgment.
Her Knowledge Vault analyzed everything at lightning speed, but the conclusion made her frown slightly.
"That warship—a chaotic conglomeration of biological contamination."
"Energy efficiency abysmal, zero system redundancy; using living beings as compute units is unheard-of, the lowest form of biotechnology."
"Its very existence is an insult to the word technology."
For that reckless jump, Keisha gave the final verdict:
"A pure gamble—no data-driven calculation, no precise targeting of destination coordinates."
"The inevitable result of blind reliance on so-called faith: disorder, chaos, barbarism."
Her gaze swept the poised Imperial fleet, tone still calm:
"As for this fleet, they represent another backward Order built on fear and personality cult—just neater weapons. Now two different forms of barbarism will collide pointlessly."
Warhammer World
The Primarchs' reactions were fiercer than any outsider's—those had been their brothers-in-arms, and might be future foes.
"Traitors! Slaves to sorcery!"
Mortarion's respirator rasped with bone-deep hate and disgust.
What he saw wasn't Death or transformation—it was betrayal.
"My Deathshroud exist to endure all through sheer tenacity!"
"Yet they wag their tails at a sorcerer, accepting his filthy 'blessing'?!"
He scorned the bloated survivor, Sephartus, on the screen.
"This isn't strength—it's contamination! His will is corroded, his soul a breeding ground for witchcraft!"
"He's no longer Death Guard—just a breathing garbage heap!"
"Hah."
Perturabo gave a cold snort, the contempt of an engineer for shoddy goods.
"Three in, one out—a 33 % success rate 'upgrade'?"
"Mortarion, is this your Legion's new equipment standard? I wouldn't use such garbage to design a drainpipe."
He jabbed at the living ship on-screen, shaking his head in disgust:
"As for that vessel—a living meat-boil? How do you repair it?"
"Cut off the bad parts or sew them up? I bet its structural strength can't match the smallest Imperial frigate."
"One precise Torpedo Salvo and—like that poor bastard—it'll burst into a puddle of pus."
"Waste incarnate."
Guilliman rapped the armrest, sounding like he was auditing a failed deal,
"Perturabo's right, but structure isn't the main issue."
"Two veteran Astartes for a 'monster' that could blow up any second—this deal was a loss from minute one."
"And that jump? Like blindfolding yourself and charging straight at the thickest guns. This isn't war—it's suicide."
"You're all wrong!"
Lorgar's voice brimmed with holy wrath and pity; he was practically preaching,
"This isn't tech or strategy—it's the fall of souls! See, brothers, the price of abandoning truth!"
"They begged for power and received ruin; they swore fealty and became sacrifices! False gods always give poison wrapped in honey!"
His gaze swept the hideous crew and ship interior.
"Their souls scream in hell, their bodies sink in rot!"
"Only the God-Emperor's radiance can purify all this! Only faith in the Emperor can bring true eternal life and glory!"
"Your God-Emperor never taught them how to navigate, Lorgar."
Khan drawled, puncturing Lorgar's fervor with a single sentence.
"They trusted a new god and jumped to the wrong place. If they'd trusted the glittering golden father and leapt into a star instead, what difference would it make?"
"A pack of prisoners who traded speed and glory for a coat of maggots."
"Things that can't even run dare call themselves strong? Laughable."
"Look—compared to these folk, the human skins I hang on my wall don't seem half so unacceptable."
Curze let out a low, morbid laugh in the dark.
"Shut up, Curze!"
Vulkan's roar erupted like a volcano, magma seeming to flow beneath his obsidian skin.
He cared nothing for the quarrel over faith or strategy; he pointed at the mortals used as "Wetware" on the screen, red eyes brimming with grief.
"They are human! Not numbers or playthings in your eyes!"
"They once had families and hopes! Twisting them like this… it's the vilest blasphemy against life itself! That so-called 'Father Nurgle'—he's a monster I'll smash into splinters with my Warhammer!"
"This is illogical."
Dorn, silent until now, finally spoke, his words heavy and direct as stone.
"The foe has chosen the worst tactic; either Nurgle has turned their brains to pulp,"
"or they come with full preparation."
Yet the Astartes in the amphitheatre had long since stopped watching the imminent battle.
Their senses, their souls, remained trapped by the scenes inside that warship, unable to break free.
The first to break were the very warriors who prized endurance and resilience above all—the Death Guard.
"Ugh…"
A stifled retch sounded from the ranks of the Fourteenth Legion.
A veteran tore off his respirator, ignoring the faintly toxic recycled air of the Barbarus system, and fell to his knees, vomiting violently.
But only bitter bile came up; his stomach had long adapted to the Empire's most efficient nutrient paste.
His reaction acted as a signal: panic—an emotion long purged—spread like the most virulent plague through the Death Guard's ranks.
Warriors who had never flinched in the foulest gas or grimmest biochemical war now went pale, their power-armoured bodies shaking uncontrollably.
What had they seen?
They had seen their own future.
"That is not… resilience."
A company captain whispered, voice full of bewilderment and dread, "It is merely… rot."
The robust bodies they boasted could resist any toxin or disease would, in time, become fertile ground for plagues and maggots.
The endurance they pursued against every hostile environment would, in time, become the curse that kept them forever in endless decay.
"No… we are the Emperor's Death Guard."
A young warrior, mind half-unhinged, repeated the sentence like the sole spell that could separate him from the bloated, pus-dripping monsters on the screen.
When Morian, amid so-called "blessing," burst into that nameless Chaos Spawn in a shower of gore, the Death Guard's psychological line collapsed entirely.
"Monsters… we've turned into… monsters."
They were warriors, not monsters.
They faced the Universe's malice with their own flesh to safeguard the Imperium's Order—not to become an even fouler, nameless malice themselves.
It was a negation of their very roots, the most thorough desecration of their purpose.
Yet amid this ocean of panic and collapse, one figure stood out of place.
First-Captain Typhon.
He too knelt, racked by coughing, his power armour clacking from violent tremors.
His face bore the same revulsion and terror every Death Guard displayed.
"This… what unspeakable blasphemy… this is no path of true resilience…"
He stammered to the brother beside him
But it was all a mask.
Deep in his soul, behind the face of disgust everyone accepted, Typhon felt a rapturous, sacred shiver.
[Behold! How generous Grandfather is! How benevolent Father Nurgle!]
Within, he sang at the top of his voice.
[He does not let His followers die—He grants them to "live" on in a new, more eternal form!]
[Pain is stripped away, despair is blessed; rot is rebirth! This is true, trans-mortal "resilience"!]
Watching the warrior's transformation into Chaos Spawn on the screen, he felt not fear but a morbid awe at divine might.
[See, Morian—you've cast off that fragile mortal shell to become an eternal part of Grandfather's garden! What glory!]
Looking at his brothers vomiting and trembling in terror, he brimmed with scorn and pity.
[Poor, ignorant souls.]
[You see only the mask of rot, blind to the eternal, cycling rebirth behind it.]
[You fear pain, so you will never know the ultimate serenity found after embracing it.]
But he had to act.
He must appear to hate this more than anyone.
He knew his hour had not yet come.
With this perfect disguise he would lead every brother—his stubborn, pitiful Primarch—step by step into the warm, moist, "loving" embrace of Grandfather Nurgle he had long since chosen.
He felt the faint link deep in the Warp grow clearer and sweeter as the images on the screen continued.
Typhon repressed the urge to sing Nurgle's praises aloud; lifting his head, he met his Primarch's gaze with eyes full of "horror" and "loathing".
"My liege… we… must never become that."
His voice rang with loyal, convincing "fear"."}]