Chapter 310: We Plan to Drop a Virus Bomb on Macragge

The dying star stirs in the crucible, dissolving into a viscous sludge formed from a dying world.

Nurgle wriggles his massive body, chuckling as he stirs the spoon in his hand.

Nurgle felt delight—a sudden joy in the midst of diligent labor.

He sensed six entirely new bacteria had emerged in the galaxy.

Like mushrooms after rain, bamboo shoots in spring, mold on summer food, and rotting fly eggs, they suddenly sprouted on Macragge, astonishing and delightful.

Their colonies were still tiny, their numbers few; as bacteria themselves, they were imperceptibly minute, and against the vastness of the stars, seemingly insignificant, nearly unnoticed.

Yet Nurgle rejoiced, for in His eyes, even the tiniest bacterium held a vital place.

But soon He noticed something peculiar.

How strange—these six bacteria had no relation to one another, nor to any other strain; they did not seem to have evolved naturally.

Rather, they appeared to have been manufactured.

Nurgle pressed His head against the veil between reality and the Warp, observing the six new bacteria, and quickly understood their functions.

Degradation, proliferation, diarrhea, thirst, insomnia, and disintegration of knowledge?

Most were mundane effects; the last one held some utility—perhaps that neighbor who always cackled like a bird would find it interesting.

If He could cultivate a few doses and send them into His library, it might delight Him. Wasn't this precisely the change He always spoke of?

Thinking this, Nurgle grew even more curious about the bacteria, beginning to observe them with greater care.

Even stranger things occurred.

He was the God of Plague; His gaze had judged every pathogen in the material and Warp realms.

From viruses to fungi, from bacteria to parasites—He had witnessed them all with His eyes, nurtured them all with His hands; indeed, many bacteria, such as the famed tuberculosis bacillus, cholera vibrio, golden staph, and botulinum clostridium, had been born in His crucible.

He was the greatest bacterial cultivator, and knew better than anyone the weaknesses and countermeasures of every strain. At least, He should have been able to discern some pattern.

But He could not—He could not fathom how to stop these six bacteria from exerting their effects.

Nurgle could not help but share this astonishing moment with the understanding Ishtar; He too was astonished, unable to devise any way to counter the six bacteria.

Now Nurgle was certain: these bacteria had undoubtedly been cultivated by someone. He had a peer! And a brilliant one! A perfect bacterial cultivator!

Nurgle could barely contain his excitement; after countless ages, He had finally found a kindred spirit.

He cautiously extended a fingertip toward the six bacteria, fearful of harming His peer's perfect creation.

A wave of resistance and rejection surged from the bacteria—clearly rejecting Nurgle's touch.

Nurgle did not press, but He sensed the power within them, and knew their master.

He slowly turned His gaze toward the Warp near Macragge, toward the round, blue figure.

It was a newly born entity; Nurgle had once tried to greet Him, but received no reply.

He seemed always dazed, dull, vacant, standing there as if questioning who He was.

Indeed, it was Him—the newly born one who had returned the two gene-seed Primarchs. He too was a loving, life-affirming being.

Nurgle could not suppress the urge to befriend Him, even to become family.

"Hello, new friend."

"I have seen your six perfect children—fascinating, flawless."

Nurgle shuffled His bloated body forward and bowed respectfully to the blue, round figure.

"Your art is truly admirable—I never imagined I would one day meet a fellow of my own kind."

"If I may be so bold, I invite you to visit my garden, to attend my modest tea party—we shall sip thick tea steeped in maggots and rotting plants, feast on cakes wriggling with seven hundred seventy-seven parasites, and my dear friend Ishtar shall join us to discuss the mysteries of life, bacteria, and disease."

Nurgle waited patiently for seventy-seven minutes—the blue, round figure gave no reply. He felt deep regret.

This newborn seemed still shy; even the youthful Slaanesh had invited Him before, with no success.

Yet Nurgle was not discouraged.

Making a new friend meant change—meant stepping away from the slow, stagnant, dull life He once cherished.

Moreover, Nurgle knew: just as He himself was drawn to the creations of others,

if He crafted a bacterium equally exquisite, would it not surely catch His gaze?

Coincidentally, little Mortarion had asked Him to create a new disease to trap Guilliman and Sanguinius on Macragge.

Nurgle had not wished to agree.

Two newly resurrected children longed to see their father—how could He stand in their way?

But Mortarion was family; a family's plea was hardest to refuse.

He had been hesitating, unsure what medium to use for this new disease.

Since His peer excelled in cultivating bacteria, He would communicate through bacteria too.

Nurgle could not help humming a tune as He stirred the crucible once more.

Countless wails poured from the crucible—as if billions across ten thousand worlds wept in unison, the sound of falling tears like a downpour.

Zhou Yun had some experience dealing with non-Sanguinary and non-Ultramarine chapters.

Several Founding Chapters had previously spoken with Zhou Yun in private.

First came the Space Wolves—Zhou Yun even thought they had come to drink and chat with him, yet their words subtly probed whether he was involved with Chaos, and cleverly inquired about Leman Russ.

Then came the Dark Angels—they seemed to want to know if Zhou Yun knew their secret. Zhou Yun, in turn, used Guilliman's guidance to probe for information on Lion El'Jonson, only to find the Dark Angels themselves knew nothing of Lion El'Jonson's whereabouts—perhaps because they were not inner-circle.

But what truly unnerved Zhou Yun was the Iron Hands.

Fulgrim's sons hesitated—eager to ask about the Primarch's resurrection, yet fearful of mentioning the resurrection of their gene-father.

Zhou Yun understood this; a Gorgon cult within the Iron Hands had once recovered Fulgrim's silver hand and a pile of rotting flesh on Istvaan.

Then they strung the rotting flesh together with wire and bolts, assembling it into a humanoid form, attaching the silver hand, and powering it with some machine.

The Lord of Fire, Vulkan, witnessed it—he saw his brother's flesh and steel stitched together, the silver hand twitching and jerking on the chair like a dead frog electrified.

Even Fulgrim would have cried out in blasphemy, wanting to cut the Iron Hands to pieces to avenge Fulgrim. Yet the Gorgon cult believed this was their Primarch transmitting messages through his fingers.

At that moment, even the ever-patient Vulkan broke—swinging his hammer and smashing the abomination, along with Fulgrim's silver hand, into ruin, lest the Iron Hands continue to desecrate his brother's corpse.

Zhou Yun eventually deceived them by suggesting Fulgrim's soul still fought for the Emperor.

But the chapter Zhou Yun now faced—honestly—he felt this chapter's fanaticism surpassed even most Founding Chapters.

The Black Templars, successors of Sigismund, sons of Rogal Dorn—a group of Space Crusaders who, unlike nearly all other chapters, openly believed the Emperor was a god.

And the entire chapter seemed afflicted with mass hysteria, constantly inventing "Imperial Crowns" they claimed were divinely inspired—utterly like black-clad Orks in power armor.

Zhou Yun, frankly, felt he would be seen by these black Orks as a heretic—a complete apostate.

Added to that, his fourth-dimensional pocket held a black sword—taken from Abaddon by Sanguinius, originally belonging to Marshal Amalrich.

That marshal had sacrificed himself holding the rear for the expeditionary force, dying in a one-on-one duel aboard the Iron Soul against Abaddon.

Zhou Yun himself did not wish to provoke the Black Templars too severely; though fanatical, they were among the better Astartes, having never engaged in the absurdities of blood-worship, electrocuting their gene-father like a frog, or attempting to bomb Guilliman.

Their fervent devotion to the Emperor and the Ecclesiarchy seemed almost wholesome by galactic standards.

Moreover, their knightly power armor was undeniably impressive—if possible, Zhou Yun wanted to recruit them into his Doraemon Chapter.

He sighed and stepped aboard the Black Templars' strike cruiser, Heresy's Doom.

Three Black Templar priests stood in the command chamber.

The Heresy's Doom's priests traveled among the stars, reviewing the Imperial Crowns emerging from Black Templar expeditions, and bestowing the black swords upon them.

This was necessary because black swords were scarce, while the number of expeditionary forces and Imperial Crowns was vast—most who became Imperial Crowns died within days, so the swords needed constant rotation.

Zhou Yun approached the three Black Templar priests with caution, then—

The power armor hummed as the three priests stepped forward, knelt on one knee, and bowed their heads to Zhou Yun.

"Praise!"

"Great Friend of the Emperor! Resurrector of the Primarchs! Viceroy of the God of Death! Prime Mover! Sacred Doraemon!"

"May you hear our sins. We attempted to bomb Macragge with a virus bomb."

"." Zhou Yun's face twisted into a bitter grimace.

(End of Chapter)