Today's Enemy
A gray torrent met a green tide.
Phantom warriors collided with bloated sons of decay.
There were no screams. No clashing steel.
A Death Guard swung his rust-choked plague blade at a gray-armored specter. The weapon passed straight through the apparition.
The spirit did not flinch.
It stepped forward, pressed its bolt pistol against the traitor's chest—
Bang.
No gunpowder roar.
A white, burning psychic round detonated inside the armor.
In the next heartbeat, pale flame burst from the Death Guard's eye lenses, mouth grille, and armor seams.
He did not even scream.
He collapsed into a heap of dry ash.
It was not a battle.
It was judgment.
---
"Let's move," Sicarius said, instincts honed by centuries of war urging him forward. He raised Talassarian Tempest, power pack flaring blue as he prepared to charge.
Cole lowered his halberd in tandem.
"Wait, Uncle Sicarius."
Eileen's hand pressed against the ceramite of his greave.
She stood steadily now. Old Huang had wisely expended only siphoned warp-essence from fallen traitors—second-hand corruption converted into fuel. It had taxed her far less than divine invocation would have.
Her eyes were calm.
"Robert told me… you clean up your own mess."
She looked toward the center of the battlefield, where Garo advanced through falling ash.
"Uncle Garo said he's waited a long time for this. He called it… cleansing the house."
"He won't want anyone interfering."
Sicarius regarded the crimson right arms of the gray warriors—the ancient sigil of the Fourteenth Legion before corruption.
Slowly, he powered down his blade.
"You are correct, madam," he said quietly. "This vengeance belongs to them."
---
At the battlefield's heart—
"Destroy them! Devour him!" Typhons roared, exhaust stacks belching thick black fumes.
A black tempest of daemon flies surged toward Garo, a living wall of rot capable of stripping flesh from bone in seconds.
Garo did not raise his blade.
The white flames around him swelled outward.
Hatred ten thousand years old.
Hatred for betrayal.
The swarm struck the perimeter of that light—
And combusted.
Millions of flies ignited instantly, reduced to drifting cinders before touching the ground.
Garo walked through the inferno untouched.
"Your insects resemble you, Karas," he said calmly.
"Noisy. Filthy. Meaningless."
"Die!!" Typhons bellowed, swinging the Manreaper with both hands. Warp-strength and diseased muscle surged together.
The scythe came down in a plague-wreathed arc.
Clang!
Garo blocked it effortlessly.
The impact echoed like a cathedral bell.
Typhons' arms shook violently from recoil. The scythe would not move another inch.
"Is this the strength betrayal granted you?"
Through the crossing blades, Garo's burning eyes met Typhons' decaying gaze.
"Even in the Great Crusade, your blade fell short of mine. After ten thousand years as a monster, you have only diminished further."
"Shut up!" Typhons snarled, attempting to wrench his weapon free.
Garo twisted his wrist.
The Sword of Liberty slid down the scythe's haft—
Ssshhhk—
Holy flame carved cleanly into Typhons' left shoulder.
Nurgle-blessed ceramite split like parchment.
A severed arm spun away, trailing blackened ichor.
Typhons screamed.
Before he could stagger back—
Crack!
Garo's kick shattered his knee.
The massive traitor collapsed heavily, the plaza trembling beneath him.
He tried to rise.
The white-flamed greatsword pressed against his throat.
"This blade," Garo said quietly, "is for those who kept their oaths on Istvan."
The tip burned deeper.
"This cut is for the fleet you damned in the warp."
"No… brother—!"
Typhons trembled.
For the first time in ten thousand years—
He looked small.
"Karas," Garo continued, voice cold as voidspace, "you once enjoyed granting 'blessings.'"
The sword flashed.
Shhk—!
Typhons' single, horned crest—mark of Nurgle's favor—was severed cleanly.
It fell and rolled across the ground.
"Now you are not even a complete monster."
Typhons clutched his bleeding brow, rolling and shrieking.
"It hurts! It hurts!!"
"I am favored—I do not feel pain!"
"This is not pain," Garo replied, planting a boot on his chest and pinning him down.
"This is the glory you discarded. Burning your soul."
He raised the Sword of Liberty high.
"Are you ready to face judgment? There will be no escape pod this time."
Death loomed.
The once-arrogant First Company Commander of the Death Guard lay broken in filth.
He did not want to die.
Not like this.
Not erased.
"Grandfather!!!" Typhons screamed toward the sickly sky.
"Father! I am your most devoted herald! Do not let me die!"
"I am essential to your great design! Save me!!!"
The cry tore through the veil between reality and warp.
Silence fell.
The poisonous clouds stopped moving.
Dust hung suspended midair.
The battlefield froze.
Then—
A wet, resonant sound rolled across the heavens.
Like a planet hiccupping.
A vast, indulgent chuckle followed.
"Hehehe… my little Typhon…"
The sky seemed to sweat corruption.
"You are always so troublesome…"