Upon the bridge of the battleship 'Terminus Est'—a chamber thoroughly encrusted with putrid biological tissue—Typhus stared through the colossal, one-way observation window at the glowing ball of plasma fireball slowly dispersing in the distant void.
The brilliant glare that erupted in that single instant had briefly eclipsed even the faint shimmer of nearby stars. To ordinary mortals, it was the flash of utter annihilation; to Typhus, however, it was a deeply gratifying sign.
"Not bad," Typhus's voice echoed across the bridge like rusted gears grinding together, carrying a rare note of genuine approval. "The Grandfather's warriors ought to be like this. Even if it's one against ten thousand, they must fight to their very last breath—bleeding out every last drop of blood for their conviction, or to spread despair."
He turned, his massive body—long since fused into one with his Terminator Power Armour—emitting a dull, heavy rumble. In the dim, sickly light, his disfigured face appeared exceptionally horrific.
"I have made up my mind."
Typhus raised his signature Manreaper, pointing its tip toward a distant set of coordinates on the star map. "Order the entire fleet to change course immediately and make for the nearest Mandeville point. We are heading to the homeworld of these 'Helldivers'—Perditia."
This command sent a wave of commotion through the Death Guard officers present on the bridge.
A Death Guard captain, dripping with yellow pus across his entire armor, couldn't help stepping forward. He offered a low, cautious counsel: "But, Lord Typhus, if we do this now, our plan to spread the plague throughout this sector will be forcibly cut short... We've only just sown the seeds and haven't even waited for the harvest."
"Such matters can be done whenever; there is no need to rush them right now," Typhus waved a hand with supreme impatience, as though brushing away a troublesome fly. "The mortals on that planet possess exceptional potential—they are, quite simply, the most perfect growth medium. Allowing these mortals to receive the blessings and join our ranks before we act is merely sharpening the axe before chopping wood."
A fanatical light flickered in his eyes. "Imagine it: if we transform this entire bunch, just how grand will our Legion become?"
Since Typhus had put it in such absolute terms, none of the surrounding Death Guard were foolish enough to voice further objections. After all, within the ranks of the Death Guard, second only to their Primarch Mortarion—who had long since ascended to Daemonhood and rarely managed daily affairs anyway—Typhus's word was absolute truth.
The plague fleet slowly began its turn, its massive engines belching sickly green trails of flame as it glided toward the system's outer edge.
In truth, however, every high-ranking Death Guard present knew full well that Typhus's decision—under the guise of "building up the Legion"—was a thorough, uncompromising screw-over directed straight at the Chaos Warmaster himself: Abaddon.
Indeed, the Plague Fleet's presence here was no random whim of Typhus wanting to spread the Grandfather's grace; it was the result of a filthy deal struck with Abaddon.
According to the original plan, Typhus was supposed to engineer a massive plague and widespread panic throughout this sector. As his reward, he would claim every living soul in the sector as a sacrifice to Nurgle, along with whatever else he could seize. Correspondingly, as vast swathes of the sector fell, the Imperium would be forced to pull back its defensive forces to cut its losses—abandoning outer sectors and concentrating the bulk of its elite fleets and manpower onto the first, most crucial line of defense: Cadia, guarding the Eye of Terror.
Had Abaddon's scheme played out, a total victory for Typhus here would have thrown the Imperium into chaos. Then, when Abaddon launched his 13th Black Crusade, he would face an isolated Cadia along with a thoroughly distracted Imperial defense.
And now?
Typhus had arrived, taken a quick stroll, and accomplished virtually no substantial destruction.
Aside from a few cruisers and a handful of unlucky planets, the main Imperial naval forces in this sector remained largely intact, and the plague had barely spread across any meaningful range. And now, Typhus was simply patting his dust-covered hands and pulling out to mess around with Perditia—
Which meant the Imperial defense network in this sector remained completely operational.
If Abaddon still intended to proceed with his plan for the 13th Black Crusade to destroy Cadia, he wouldn't just be facing a fortress world armed to the teeth—he'd be charging straight into a fully intact sector line with immense strategic depth!
Furthermore, because Typhus had effectively poked the hornet's nest, the Imperial Navy would undoubtedly be on high alert, deploying even more forces in this direction. When the time came, Abaddon wouldn't just face a brutal ground war; he'd also have to go toe-to-toe with an Imperial fleet fighting tooth and nail for void control.
'Abaddon is going to go stark raving mad,' a Death Guard thought privately, a gloating smirk curling up the corner of his rotting mouth.
After all, watching that insufferably arrogant "Warmaster" eat dirt was one of the few simple pleasures Chaos Space Marines enjoyed. As for Abaddon's grand cause? That was the Black Legion's business. What did it have to do with the Death Guard?
"Full speed ahead," Typhus sneered at the tiny blip labeled 'Perditia' on the star chart, wearing the grin of a hunter sighting its prey. "Let us not keep our 'recruits' waiting for too long."
---
On the outer fringes of the Perditia system, an orbital defense station codenamed 'Watcher-7' hung alone in the silent void.
This was the absolute edge of the system. On ordinary days, aside from the occasional drifting asteroid or the faint signals of passing smuggler vessels, you couldn't spot a single soul out here. The dozen or so Helldivers stationed here were slumped bored over their control consoles—some chatting on the game forums, others using the station's repair arms to play a makeshift game of Jenga.
"How much longer do we have to AFK on this trash mission? I want to go back to the frontlines and commit some war crimes," one player grumbled, tossing a nut back and forth in his hands. "There isn't even a single mob to farm here."
"Count your blessings. It's boring, but at least the AFK merit points are steady—"
Before the squad leader could finish his sentence, a piercing alarm blared through the cramped command room. Red warning lights spun frantically, casting pulsing shadows across everyone's faces.
"What's going on?! Mob spawn?!"
Every player snapped to attention instantly, pouncing onto the observation screens. They assumed it was just a few pirate ships or lost Xenos—easy target practice for free loot.
However, the moment they caught sight of the feeds returned by the Auspex, their excited expressions froze completely. All the noise vanished in an instant, leaving the command room so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
Tens of thousands of kilometers away from the station, at the edge of the Mandeville point's gravity well—a threshold utilized only by massive fleets performing Warp jumps—the veil of reality was violently torn open.
There was none of the usual grandeur that accompanied the translation of an Imperial fleet into realspace. Instead, an oozing, sickly yellow-green fog poured out. The mist spread furiously through the vacuum as if endowed with life, and immediately following it, massive, suffocating warships glided slowly out from the Warp rift one after another.
What a fleet it was.
Pus dripped from rotting armor plates, giant gun ports resembled festering sores, and swarms of fly-like objects circled the warships like clouds. At the very center of the armada, a super-capital battleship that looked as though it were constructed out of stacked corpses and scrap iron—the 'Terminus Est'—loomed like a death-bearing moon, blotting out the starlight behind it.
"Holy... holy fucking shit..."
A player managing the fire control system gestured with a trembling hand at the dense cluster of red hostile contacts filling his monitor—so many that they threatened to burst the radar screen. He sub-consciously gripped the control stick for the defense station's main battery—an ancient, twin-linked Macro-cannon—and swallowed hard.
He turned his head toward the equally stunned squad leader, his voice carrying an almost unnoticeable whimper as he asked: "C-Captain... is my cannon gonna work?"
The squad leader snapped back to reality, staring at the player as if he were an absolute idiot. He glanced at the Macro-cannon's stats, then looked out at the Nurgle battleship in the distance—a vessel easily a hundred times larger than their entire station.
"Your cannon isn't gonna do jack shit boy!!"
The squad leader roared, his composure collapsing as he slammed his palm onto the comms console: "You're trying to poke an elephant with a toothpick! Stop worrying about your damn pea-shooter! Notify Perditia immediately! Sound a Level 1 Combat Alert!!"
His fingers trembled wildly as he scrambled to adjust the comms frequencies, cursing non-stop under his breath: "Fuck! Is the game dev out of his mind?! We're literally at the edge of the starter village! Why is a fleet of this scale coming here?! Are they trying to blow up the server?! A max-level raid boss just spawned right in our faces!!"
"And another thing! Get on the forums and post right now! Title it: 'Our base is getting raided! Come back ASAP!' Make sure it's bolded and in red!!"
"Tell them to bring everyone! AND I MEAN EVERYONE! EVERY-LAST-ONE!"