Chapter 79: Champion of the Shit Pit Butterfly Stroke

Zhou Yun stared at the sticky yellow pus on his fingertip and felt a wave of dizziness.

His stomach churned with pain, a strong urge to vomit rose in his throat, and his skin grew hot and red.

Disease.

Zhou Yun had contracted a disease.

It was the blade of the Scream Killer—the blade that had sliced his cheek—that had infected him.

It had infected him with the plague of Nurgle. The plague from Mog’s body.

Zhou Yun felt his legs weaken; he staggered back a few steps and collapsed against a metal pillar.

His discomfort deepened—muscles ached, bones trembled faintly, nerves made his limbs twitch, and his throat filled with thick phlegm.

Inflammation crept into his corners of his eyes; swollen pus-filled boils appeared on his skin, and fatty granules gathered into sores from his pores.

“I’m sorry, Lyne Rus.”

Margit’s voice carried deep regret:

“This disease isn’t fatal. Both I and Mog truly consider you a friend.”

Zhou Yun gritted his teeth against the pain surging from his lungs and glanced at Mog.

His throat was clogged with phlegm, making his voice hoarse:

“Is this how you treat a friend? With disease and plague?”

“I didn’t want to,” Margit shook his head slightly. “But you trusted us too little.”

“If you had trusted us like family, we would have been close friends long ago—able to save Asford together.”

Margit’s voice was utterly sincere, devoid of even a trace of deceit:

“Everything I’ve done is to save Asford.”

“Save?” Zhou Yun let out a mocking laugh from his throat.

“Save!”

Margit nodded solemnly:

“The Tyranid swarm is coming. How do you save Asford?”

“The Viceroy? The one the Emperor entrusted with guarding a planet?”

“The Blood Angels? The sons of the Archangel, death-angels born to protect humanity?”

“Or the Emperor himself? The great god who claims to love all humanity?”

“No!”

Margit’s tone sharpened abruptly:

“The Viceroy cares only for his own survival. The Blood Angels care only for their homeworld. Even the Emperor refuses to show a single shred of mercy to Asford’s people.”

“Only the angels are determined to save Asford—every single soul they wish to save, even if they are weak.”

“Since the Emperor won’t save the people of Asford, let us do it.”

As he spoke, Margit turned to look at the warp engine, his voice low:

“I’ve often said I would openly reveal my plan—to use this warp engine to open a gate to the Warp.”

“The divine army of the Father of All would enter reality and ultimately bring the entire planet back into the Father God’s domain.”

“There, everyone would live.”

Margit finished speaking and turned to look at Zhou Yun.

He found Zhou Yun’s slightly swollen eyelids revealing eyes that looked at him as if he were an idiot.

“So your salvation—”

Zhou Yun’s throat shifted a few times, easing his voice slightly:

“Is to have everyone infected with all kinds of random viruses, bacteria, and parasites, then all go swimming in the Warp’s shit pit?”

“Tell Thaumos, the Fourteenth Legion Lord, I have no interest in stealing his ten-thousand-year championship title in shit pit butterfly stroke.”

“You know the Father God’s domain well.”

Zhou Yun’s words made Margit’s eyelid twitch slightly:

“Then you should know that no matter how many viruses, bacteria, and parasites coexist, there is no true death in the Father God’s domain.”

“You should also know that in that flourishing realm, everyone will gain happiness and joy—forever.”

“As for shit pit butterfly stroke… that’s a personal hobby.”

“First, everyone’s happy and joyful? I have to object. Have you asked Captain Mortarion? I think he’s depressed.”

Zhou Yun lay beneath the metal pillar, staring blankly at Margit as he complained.

“It doesn’t matter. Once you personally experience the Father God’s blessing, you’ll know whether it’s truly happy.”

Margit shook his head, then stepped toward the roaring warp engine.

Margit raised his curved blade high.

Inside it was wrapped the triangular blade forged from the entire Old District Eight, sacrificed as a plague incubator.

“Seven Curses!”

Margit shouted, each syllable drawn from every ounce of his strength, draining every cell of energy:

“Seven Curses!! Seven Diseases!! Seven Blessings!!!”

Seven syllables echoed in Margit’s throat; seven diseases writhed upon his body.

In District One, plague zombies battled gene-thieves in the streets.

Many humans and gene-thieves in District One had been transformed by the endless tide of corpses into its own ranks.

These infected with the zombie virus had not died, yet they could hardly be called alive.

Like a single entity, they suddenly lifted their heads, motionless, gazing at the dome of District One.

In this deep hive-city where no sky could be seen, layers of dark clouds gathered suddenly from the “heavens.”

“Seven Curses!! Seven Diseases!! Seven Blessings!!!”

Rain poured down, black as ink, stinking as blood, filthy as feces.

Thick rain fell upon every plague zombie’s face, equally upon the few remaining gene-thieves.

The thick nectar swept across every living face, its terrible viruses eroding all life.

The sound of rain was deafening, like a thousand bells ringing, drowning out the agonized screams of those being infected.

“Seven Curses!! Seven Diseases!! Seven Blessings!!!”

Each raindrop carried countless diseases, sliding down their cheeks.

Each disease contained millions of lives, multiplying within their bodies.

Each life brimmed with boundless joy, laughing within their flesh.

Moments later, only plague zombies remained in District One.

They raised their hands, welcoming the rain that would rebirth all things.

The endless rain made their diseases worse.

“Seven Curses!! Seven Diseases!! Seven Blessings!!!”

In the highest heavens, within Nurgle’s flourishing garden, Nurgle spirits sang aloud.

They had succeeded—they were about to save a planet, bringing its people happiness.

A new group of members would join their happy family.

“Seven Curses!! Seven Diseases!! Seven Blessings!!!”

Rainfather Rotigus shook his yew branch, praising the Nurgle spirits’ hard work.

Plaguefather Kugath also lifted his head from tending viruses, clapping for the little Nurgle spirits.

Blight rejoiced in praise, Thaumos nodded in approval, but Mortarion remained gloomy.

“Seven Curses!! Seven Diseases!! Seven Blessings!!!”

Margit raised his curved blade.

The worms all over his body writhed with delight, viruses raged in joy, bacteria multiplied in gladness.

Margit drove the curved blade deep into the warp engine.

“Seven Curses!! Seven Diseases!! Seven Blessings!!!”

In a ruined building in District One, Jeanne slowly opened her eyes.

Her pupils glowed with a faint golden radiance—like a tiny sun.

(End of Chapter)