Chapter 439

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Protagonist:

Lin En

Lena

Phelps' charging footsteps fiercely paused, his turbid eyeballs suddenly contracting.

Silent Sisters.

Untouchables.

In an instant, all doubts had their answers.

No wonder the other side dared to remove the Pastors, defend purely with mechanical troops, and the Rust Plague's effect was greatly reduced, plague bacteria unable to spread, even mechanical units not rapidly corrupting and losing control.

The Untouchables' force field is itself the natural nemesis of Warp power.

The Rust Plague was never simple chemical corrosion; its core is the Warp curse blessed by Nurgle.

As long as within the Untouchable Field, all plague effects dependent on the Warp would be suppressed, even completely fail.

"No wonder..." Phelps' voice from behind his mask deepened a degree, for the first time truly feeling troublesome.

He did not fear powerful firepower, nor defensive lines like city walls, let alone mortals' flesh and blood bodies.

But Untouchables are a rule-level counter, directly disabling the plague power the Death Guard most rely on.

Without plague assistance, twenty-two warriors wanting to frontally hard-clash seven Terminators plus seven Silent Sisters, plus rear mechanical firepower, win probability plummeted.

Dominic raised the Power Sword in hand, the sword blade humming.

He did not speak, merely coldly watching this group of rotten traitors before him, his eyes holding no fear, only bone-deep hatred and battle intent.

The Silent Sisters then synchronously stepped forward one step, pale silver Untouchable Field suddenly expanding, soundlessly enveloping the 22 plague warriors.

"Ugh-ah!"

Almost the instant the force field enveloped their whole bodies, a plague warrior let out a pained muffled groan.

Not injury pain caused by external force, but something rooted in the soul depths being forcibly torn away.

The Nurgle whispers lingering in the mind for ten thousand years, like a severed radio, suddenly vanished.

The surging plague heat flow, from every inch of bone and muscle, rapidly receded.

Writhing rotten flesh, swollen pustules, pus flowing along armor gaps, all ceased activity.

Those Rust Combat Armors fused with flesh and blood, at this moment like a heavy shackle, grinding bones painfully.

The first to react was a veteran standing on the flank.

He stiffly lowered his head, looking at his own pair of arms covered in rotten flesh and abdomen with intestines hanging down, and the pitted rust and mold spots on his armor.

Smelled that stench of rot on himself too thick to dissolve.

Turbid yellow eyeballs, slowly recovered their original deep brown.

Clarity, bit by bit, returned to his eyes.

Following came memories sealed for ten thousand years.

Barbarus' perennial poison fog, the legion training camp's cold stone steps, the Emperor's arrival that day with golden light penetrating the cloud layer, comrades' battle cries fighting side by side during the Great Crusade...

And Horus' betrayal, Typhus' sinister smile, that plague sweeping the entire legion, endless plague.

That was the year that changed the Fourteenth Legion's fate.

Primarch Mortarion raised the banner of rebellion, yet was schemed against by his most trusted company commander Typhus.

That plague personally sent down by Nurgle dragged the entire legion into endless torture.

Warriors' flesh rotted in the plague, armor and bodies growing together, day and night enduring bone-eroding pain.

Finally, Mortarion in desperation bowed his head to the God of Plague, the entire legion thereafter becoming Nurgle's servants.

They went from the Emperor's Death Guard, to walking plagues, to the monsters they once most despised.

Nurgle's blessing distorted their cognition, letting them gradually accept rotten bodies, even viewing deformed corruption as a benevolent father's grace.

But when the Untouchable Field severed their connection to the Warp, when Chaos' delusion was forcibly torn open, the godhood and memories suppressed for ten thousand years, like a breached flood, surged back.

"No..."

"How could it become like this..."

A hoarse voice squeezed out from that warrior's throat, carrying unbelieving trembling.

He raised his hand, wanting to touch his own face, fingertips touching only everted rotten flesh and writhing maggots.

"No, no, no!!!"

A miserable roar blasted open in the corridor.

Like a chain reaction, one plague warrior after another stopped their movements.

The Warp aura on them rapidly faded, godhood breaking free from ten thousand years of Chaos ignorance, turning back into those from Barbarus, proud Fourteenth Legion warriors.

But what they saw, was their own unrecognizable bodies.

Was their own ten thousand years of hands stained with kin's blood.

Was their own lives already fallen into the abyss, unable to turn back.

"Calm."

Phelps' voice sounded, carrying deliberately maintained calm.

He was the only one among the twenty-two who did not lose composure.

As a former First Company senior member, he was never forced to accept the plague.

He craved power, craved superiors' recognition, craved to survive in chaotic times and stand higher.

Nurgle's blessing was not a curse to him, but a Gift, the price he paid for power.

He accepted it, and gladly so.

"This is the Benevolent Father's grace, the source of our strength," he said in a deep voice, trying to soothe his companions on the verge of collapse.

"Ten thousand years have passed; we are long since not who we were. Accept the status quo, seize this Warship, and the Benevolent Father will grant us more..."

"Shut up!"

A furious Roar cut him off.

A Tall Plague Warrior fiercely Turned Around, his dark brown Eyeballs filled with Bloodshot, full of pain and hatred.

He had once been a sergeant of the Seventh Company, distinguished in the Great Crusade, and what he hated most were Xenos and Chaos Traitors.

"You Traitor! Maggot!" he Roared, his voice Trembling with utmost fury.

"It's you! It's Typhus! You dragged the Legion into the Abyss!"

"We are the Emperor's Death Angels! Not the Plague God's lackeys!"

"Look at what we've become!!"

More and more Warriors joined in the cursing.

Pain, Despair, hatred, regret... countless emotions erupted in an instant, shattering their ten thousand years of Numbness.

Someone knelt on the ground, pounding the metal deck with rotting Fists, letting out stifled sobs.

Someone stared blankly at his own hands, repeatedly murmuring the names of fallen Comrades.

Someone looked up at the vaulted ceiling, as if wanting to see through layers of Steel, to glimpse his long-lost homeland one more time.

They would rather have died on the Battlefield of the Great Crusade, rather have died in the Cannon Fire of the Horus Heresy, than linger on for ten thousand years in such a state.

"The Benevolent Father's grace..." Phelps still wanted to say more.

But the answer he got was a dull Bomb Gun blast.

"Bang!"

A Warrior shoved a Bomb Gun into his own mouth and pulled the trigger without Hesitation.

The Bomb exploded inside his Skull, blowing his head to pieces along with his corrupted soul.

His Body crashed to the ground, finally freed from endless torment.

As if a switch had been flipped.

"Bang, bang, bang—"

Continuous Gunshots rang out one after another.

One Death Guard Warrior after another chose the most decisive way to end their own lives.

They blasted their own Skulls with Bombs, severed their own Necks with Power Axes, using the most horrific self-annihilation to apologize to the Emperor, to bid farewell to their Legion.

They would rather cease to exist entirely than remain Nurgle's puppets, than live on wearing these rotting Shells.

Nineteen Gunshots.

Nineteen veterans who had survived the Great Crusade, the Horus Heresy, and the Thousand Years of Chaos Expedition fell silent forever.

Only three people remained on the field.

Phelps, and two Warriors with blood-red eyes, Staring dead at him.

"You Seduced us," the Warrior on the left gripped his Power Axe, the Axe Blade Trembling slightly with rage.

"You led us down this path."

"You deserve to die."

The Warrior on the right let out a low Roar; both Simultaneously Started their jump packs, one left one right, carrying Torrential hatred and Despair, lunging at Phelps.

Power Axe and Power Hammer cleaved the air, carrying the momentum of mutual destruction, aimed straight at Phelps's Skull and chest.