The Emperor's gradual death was terrifying.
On Holy Terra, the flickering light of the Astronomican reflected the vast disturbance—an immense surge of power belonging to the Chaos God [Finality]. Especially within a remote corner of the Warp, the Emperor's psychic projection—a sun burning with pale fire—began to expand and pulse.
Like a star ending its long main-sequence youth, entering its red giant phase, it grew ever brighter. The golden light that once burned away daemonic corruption now pierced through the chaotic veil.
The clash of divine powers, the death of warp-spawned entities, the annihilation and flight of minor gods—amid this maelstrom, countless watchful minds across the Warp caught a glimpse of a horrifying truth: the Lord of Mankind had departed the Golden Throne.
In the highest heavens of the Immaterium, storm clouds of violet-red roiled like cosmic tides. In an instant, they burst into showers of sparks. Golden ripples spread outward, and the dim sky—pregnant with thunder and heat—boiled in resonance with the muted roar of the "golden red giant." The oppressive, supernatural heat devoured everything in sight; daemons exposed to it ignited on contact, even the greater daemons of Chaos were scorched by its radiance.
No other being within the vast [Warp] could observe or comprehend it now. The suffocating aura filled every heart.
"Curse! Curse! The curse upon Terra has been unleashed! The tragedy of the Great Fall will happen again...!"
Aboard an Aeldari Craftworld, the Farseers—supreme seers of their kind—screamed in terror.
The Imperium of Man had never been a benevolent presence among the stars.
In truth, there were no "good" powers in the universe. Perhaps some existed—but certainly not the Imperium of Man. It was a regime fueled by hatred, founded upon human supremacism, harboring deep hostility toward every xenos species in existence. Extremely xenophobic, merciless.
It was not a matter of speaking before fighting—it was fighting without speaking.
Especially the Emperor. In the eyes of countless alien races, He was scarcely different from a Chaos God.
And yet—the Fifth Chaos God had still been born, against all reason.
Now, if even humanity itself were to fall...
The Warp storm triggered by [Finality]'s birth had already split the galaxy apart. Hyper-energetic factors had blurred the boundaries of material space. It had even annihilated Commorragh, the Dark City of the Aeldari. If the Emperor of Mankind, upon dying on Terra, were to ascend as the Sixth Chaos God—following [Finality]—the result would be an unimaginable catastrophe. Would the galaxy even have a future left?
"Contact Yvraine of the Ynnari," said one of the eldest Farseers gravely. "We must speak with her. The galaxy itself stands on the brink of doom..."
...
The Eye of Terror.
The homeworld of the traitorous XIV Legion—the Plague Planet.
After the Garden of Nurgle was burned to ashes, purified and consumed by the crystalline Sea of Thorns belonging to the Goddess of Finality, this world—lying within the Eye's deepest depths, between reality and the Warp, with half its essence already beyond the Sea of Souls—became Nurgle's last remaining inheritance.
Upon its surface, modeled after the Garden of Nurgle, seven colossal mountain ranges spread across the diseased world. Between the three tallest peaks, within the Tower of Whispers where the traitor Primarch resided, plague-flies chattered endlessly, bearing grim tidings of their Father's defeat.
This black fortress—the gift of the Plague Father himself—once possessed the power to bridge reality and the Garden of Nurgle within the [Warp].
But now, it was useless. And even if the connection still worked, the Daemon Primarch would not dare to enter.
If he were to encounter his Father's greatest enemy—the Chaos God [Finality], who abhorred plague and disease—he would be doomed. Even as a Daemon Prince, a demigod of the material realm, he would be nothing but prey.
"Uuuurgh... damnable Source of Destruction... detestable Prince of Pleasure... Great Father, how could you leave us?!"
The surviving Great Unclean Ones, who had escaped only by their Father's final mercy, now wept and wailed in despair—massive, grotesque children mourning their lost parent.
Their worm-infested maws hung open, drooling streams of foul, pus-thick bile as they sobbed. The reeking fluids splattered across the floor, soaking the already-corrupted stone.
The great hall of the Plague Fortress Monastery was nearly filled to bursting by these mountainous forms.
Many among them had once been mighty figures, infamous across the galaxy...
Scabeiathrax the Bloated, Ku'gath the Plaguefather, and Rotigus Rainfather.
Indeed, only these three mighty Great Unclean Ones—those most resilient and wretched of beings—had survived the Honkai Beast tide. Only they were strong enough to bear the Plague Father's lingering will.
"Mortarion, we must regroup," said Ku'gath solemnly.
"Yes," replied Rotigus, his voice thick with mucus. "Brew new plagues and broths—to bring the Plague Father's compassion and reluctant mercy back into the worlds of the living."
"Only then," Scabeiathrax gurgled, "can we help the Plague Father recover from the oppression of that detestable Source of Destruction."
The Great Unclean Ones gingerly set down the newborn Nurgling spirits that had wriggled out from beneath their rotting flesh. With Father Nurgle gone, this was how they birthed their kin now—while speaking, one after another, of their sole purpose.
"I will. I swear it."
Mortarion's jaundiced eyes turned from the sealed Warp-gate. His voice, low and wet, rumbled through the cracked filter of his ancient half-mask. His corpse-like face, swollen and scarred, trembled with rage.
In this burning world of endless misery, only the Plague Father had ever loved.
But that selfless love had been exploited by a selfish tyrant—the Lady of Authority herself. How pitiful, how absurd, this world was.
Even the Emperor had abandoned the Golden Throne with the aid of [Finality].
A vile pact between tyrants.
His massive frame shook with fury. Mortarion's mutated insectile wings beat once, and his rotting yellow robes fluttered open—revealing his decayed armor, heavy with rusted chains, toxin canisters, and incense furnaces dripping with pestilent fumes.
From the upper halls of the Plague Fortress, Mortarion's jaundiced gaze pierced the poisonous haze of the Plague Planet. Across the diseased land, legions of Plague Marines stood in grim formation. Cathedrals of Nurgle and vast subterranean factory-cities stretched as far as he could see.
These forges, these warrens—they would arm his warriors and fuel the Plague Father's resurrection.
"My sons," Mortarion thundered, "never forget this humiliation—just as I have never forgotten my foster father, the Emperor, nor [Horus]. Never forgive any man's scorn or disdain."
"Bury your pain deep within. Let it rot. Let it churn, twist, and boil—until you are filled with venom. Then bring ruin to everything you touch."
"Only then will you truly serve our Father. Spread his vicious gifts upon this hypocritical, laughable world—and watch it decay into its rightful end..."
The Daemon Primarch's voice rolled through the foul air, each word laced with poison. The toxins thickened, congealed, and formed a lethal storm. The air itself began to hum. Seven unprecedented, horrific viruses erupted across every inch of the Plague Planet's atmosphere, dancing in frenzied celebration.
Mortarion strode from the hall of the Whispering Tower. To his Deathshroud Terminators, he growled in irritation, "Where is Typhus?! Bring him back!"
"He answers Abaddon's summons, my lord," replied one. "Now is hardly the time for him to squander the Plague Father's power!"
And then—
Vrrrmmmm—!!!
Dawn broke.
A blinding light tore through the poison-thick clouds of the Plague Planet's atmosphere, piercing tens of kilometers of toxic fog.
It was a projection.
There was no thunderous roar of energy, no righteous proclamation, no furious curse. The colossal image fell silent upon the world, descending like the blade of a reaper's scythe.
Mortarion's eyes widened.
The holographic lines took shape—simple emerald tracings outlining a towering figure clad in brass and ivory armor. Beneath a hood and half-mask gleamed a pair of sharp, predatory eyes filled with wrath and malice.
The Roman numeral XIV glowed upon his chest, beneath the shining Aquila. Half of his Legion emblem was a black skull, the other a black sun, upon a deep red field.
"The Fourteenth Legion... Dusk Raiders—Death Guard? That's... me?!"
The immense projection moved. It raised a massive, severed head—its cracked helmet marked by the familiar T-shaped visor, and a single broken horn protruding from one side.
The Plague Father's herald, the master of the Destroyer Swarm, Captain and Chief Chaos Lord of the Death Guard Legion—Mortarion's once-loyal comrade—Typhus!
Rumble—Rumble—Rumble—!
Without warning, without signal or omen—
the poisonous mists of the Plague Planet ignited, burned away in an instant. The seven mountain ranges, their yellow-green stones and decayed monastery-fortresses, were now reflected clearly upon the sky.
In the next instant—light spears fell.
The last untouched lands of the Plague Planet were consumed by fire. The Sacred Selene Empire's XIV Legion—Death Guard Astartes—descended from orbit, their fleet a storm of gray clouds blotting out the heavens.
Even beyond low orbit, not yet in optimal bombardment range, their cannons rained fire like an endless deluge.
"AAAAHHH... The servants of Her! They are Her minions! She means to exterminate us all!"
The Great Unclean Ones within the Whispering Tower bellowed in despair and rage.
Mortarion's eyes blazed. "Then let them rot!"
...
Almost at the same moment—
The homeworld of the traitorous IV Legion, the Iron Warriors—Medrengard—came under assault from Selene's own IV Legion Astartes, led by Perturabo himself aboard the colossal Chaos Mechanicus battleships.
The homeworld of the traitorous XV Legion, the Thousand Sons—Prospero's successor, the Planet of the Sorcerers—was besieged by the full fleet of Grand General Budo's II Legion, the Punishers.
The homeworld of the traitorous III Legion, the Emperor's Children—Harmony—fell under the brutal attack of Angron's XII Legion, the World Eaters, under Selene's command.
The homeworld of the XVII Legion, the Word Bearers—the Daemon World Sicarus, domain of the Daemon Primarch Lorgar—was discovered and surrounded by Koz's main fleet returning from the Webway.
The entire Eye of Terror burned.
...
Throneworld—Holy Terra.
"The Golden Throne... Emperor..."
"Father..."
Step, step—
Footsteps echoed, uneven yet heavy with purpose.
With senses far beyond mortal comprehension, Jaghatai Khan and a group of silent, grim Custodians ascended to the Throne Hall. He could feel it clearly—the divine essence of his father, the Emperor, was fading. Dying.
The Great Khan of Chogoris slowly knelt, his expression unreadable. He reached out, touching the Emperor's skull-like face—frail, brittle, like dried, cracked flesh.
From the body shimmered faint motes of starlight—the mark of an immortal about to depart.
"Constantin," Khan murmured, "look at him. He almost looks... peaceful, doesn't he?"
Jaghatai had never considered himself close to the Emperor. Sentimentality had no place in his life. Where Guilliman, Fulgrim, and Horus had pursued glory and remembrance, Khan had always sought only purpose—his hunts, his battles, his freedom.
That was how he had lived, and how he thought he would die.
But now, seeing the Emperor fall with a faint smile of serenity, Jaghatai realized that no one—not even the divine—was untouched by the mire of the burning galaxy. Not his father. Not himself.
In this single instant, death's quiet seemed infinitely precious.
Yet he knew—peace was never meant for the Emperor. Destiny, divinity, and the eternal cycle would not allow it. Soon, the Master of Mankind would awaken again, reborn into war.
Peace was not his to keep.
"That was another lifetime," Constantin Valdor replied quietly. The returning Captain-General's voice carried a note of weary contemplation. "He was too selfless to gamble, too bound by duty to abandon his post."
"Victory may come," he added softly, "but I wonder—who will be left to taste its sweetness?"
"Hmm."
The tone made Magnus, seated upon the Golden Throne, lift his head. The violet-red Honkai particles shimmered across the hall. His predatory eyes gleamed with confidence and dominance.
"That," Magnus said, "depends on your choices."
Without speaking, Khan's fingers brushed once more across his father's rapidly crumbling face, now turning to ash and dust.
Clang—!
One by one, the Mechanicus life-support implants, energy conduits, and augmetic cables embedded in the Emperor's body detached and fell to the steps below. The clatter echoed through the Throne Hall like a song—a melody from an ancient age, a requiem for a bygone era.
To Khan, it was the sound of release. The final hymn of a titan freed from endless burden.
He whispered:
"Father... may your work be fulfilled."
—
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