The Garden of the Grandfather had never been so silent.
The once‑boiling pustules of joy and the playful squeals of Nurglings were now hushed. Even the most rambunctious Nurgling curled up deep within the carpet mould, daring not make a sound. The entire garden was submerged in deathly stillness, in anxious anticipation. All putrescent eyes were fixed upon the colossal figure before the cauldron — He who was eternally benevolent, yet now shrouded in shadow.
"...The child who was to join us forever... has been barred from the door."
Nurgle's voice was like a sigh rising from the depths of a swamp — gentle, yet it set every listener's spores aquiver. His swollen, rotting fingers slowly parted the air, tearing through the garden's fecund flesh, unfolding a rift of miasma and memory that led directly to the marked world — Barbarus.
"Ku'gath, my most faithful son. Go and retrieve your brother."
Ku'gath, the Great Unclean One, said little. He shuffled into the rift.
The Grandfather's gaze did not waver. As though recalling something, He slowly turned to another favoured child.
"Rotigus, my child... Go with Ku'gath. Attend to him, and ensure my children return home safely."
Above Barbarus, the toxic mist had become a sea of tyranny.
Nyx and Mortarion both clearly sensed it: the gaze that had long been fixed upon this place had now transformed into seething wrath. The concentration of poison gas across the entire world was rising at an unprecedented rate. Lethal miasma was swallowing the valleys. Among the human slaves newly liberated and arriving at the Reaper camp, the death toll had begun to climb at a terrifying pace.
Time was being compressed by poison — almost to the point of non‑existence.
"The plan must move ahead."
Nyx's voice cut through the last trace of hesitation. He looked at Mortarion. "We no longer have a choice. Whether the future is betrayed or not — that will be decided by our own will... But now, we must survive."
Mortarion stared at the giant syringe — nearly as tall as Nyx himself — gleaming with cold light. He remembered how, when Nyx had recounted this procedure to another brother, his expression had shifted. He had thought it merely another of Nyx's jokes.
"...I am ready."
The Primarch's voice was low and steady.
"For Barbarus. For humanity."
"Mortarion."
Nyx's eyes flickered with something close to gratitude. "You are worthy of the name Primarch."
*SHLK——! *
The needle tip — impossibly smooth — pierced the Primarch's hide, a hide comparable to high‑grade ceramite in durability. The next second, a suction roar like a full‑power hydraulic pump. Mortarion's blood was forcibly extracted in surging waves, funnelled into a transparent phial.
The speed and scale of this extraction were sufficient to instantly kill an entire Astartes. Only a transcendent life‑form like a Primarch could remain steady and conscious under such violent exsanguination.
By the time Mortarion had finished donating blood under Nyx's commendation, he looked as though he might fade away at any moment.
"Brother Bug — nutrient substrate, full speed!"
Receiving Nyx's order, Bug seized a canister of the Squig‑derived nutrient solution Nyx had cultivated and poured it directly into Mortarion's mouth.
This rapid rehydration gave Mortarion, who had been on the verge of bleeding out, a second wind. The problem was that the ten‑day supply Nyx had prepared was now all down Brother Bug's hatch — and Mortarion felt his stomach on the verge of detonation.
Ten minutes later, this 'torture' — comparable to the agonies of the Dark Eldar — finally concluded. Nyx gazed at the phial of blood in his hands and smiled contentedly.
"Do not worry."
He turned to his gasping brother, his voice carrying undeniable certainty. "With these 'seeds', I swear I will cultivate enough warriors for you... Oh..."
Mortarion's ordeal was over. His chosen company commanders were next. Their true suffering was only just beginning.
With Mortarion's preliminary consent and Nyx's 'invitation' — a blend of charisma and authority — these battle‑hardened warriors, one by one, entered Nyx's transformation chamber.
They lay in silence upon the cold operating slab. All except Typhon.
At the last moment, Typhon propped himself up on his elbows and shot a sharp glance at Nyx.
"Lord Nyx."
His voice was even, but suspicion flickered in his eyes. "Before this begins — may I know what you intend to do with us?"
"Grant you power."
Nyx's answer was concise, direct. His hands busied themselves with instruments that glinted coldly. "Enough to fight — even to crush these xenos. Enough to truly liberate Barbarus."
"Fight xenos?"
Typhon's brow furrowed. "We can already do that. With the weapons you've given us."
"No."
Nyx turned. His eyes blazed gold. "I am not speaking of sacrificial, luck‑dependent combat. This is transcendence. Overwhelming. You will truly become... Mortarion's 'sons'."
"...Sons?"
Typhon's suspicion deepened.
"What do you mean by—"
"Tch."
Nyx seemed to lose patience with further explanation. He clicked his tongue softly, raised a hand, and gestured. "Too much talk. Brother Bug — the punishment awaits. Please 'take care of him'."
The moment the words left his mouth, Brother Bug materialised from the shadows — from nowhere — seized Typhon bodily, and, despite his fierce resistance, pinned him to the operating slab.
"What are you doing?!"
Typhon roared, struggling until the slab itself trembled. What shocked him even more was that, at the moment of activation, the scant psychic energy from the xenos blood within his body seemed completely isolated, locked away. It offered no response.
"Nyx!"
He twisted his head, glaring venomously at the silent Primarch beside him. His voice trembled — a tinge of betrayal bleeding through.
"You've finally stopped hiding? You've always considered those of us with xenos blood a隐患 — and now you've finally found an excuse to 'purge' us, haven't you?! Lord Mortarion! Is this... Is this how you just stand by?!"
Mortarion's lips moved. A flicker of complexity crossed his eyes. He looked at Nyx.
Nyx merely shook his head slightly — a sign that he need not speak. Then he approached Typhon's operating slab, looking down at the enraged warrior. His voice was almost icily calm:
"Are you done shouting? My criteria for classifying 'xenos' has always depended solely on whether one's self‑perception and external form have completely diverged from the human lineage. Where you belong — that is for you to decide, not me."
He paused. The corners of his mouth curved into the faintest arc — an expression that sent a chill down Typhon's spine.
"Besides. I do hope, after this operation officially commences, you will maintain your current 'tough' demeanour."
Tough? Typhon sneered inwardly. He had fought for survival in Barbarus's toxic mist and slavery. What pain had he not endured? What scars still remained? How could he fear Nyx's tactics?
The very moment he was still formulating his retort, however — a cold sensation made him freeze. His trousers were instantly lowered.
"You...?!"
For the first time, Typhon's voice trembled. This was not merely the shame of exposure, but fury at the unknown — and at the obviously, extremely indecent method of handling. "What are you doing?! I warn you! A soldier may be killed, but not humiliated!"
That final shred of bravado was swiftly pierced by the terror of cold air upon bare skin. His entire body went rigid. He could not suppress a pathetic, defensive gesture.
...Could this villain Nyx really have such a habit?! And right in front of the other experimental subjects and Mortarion — a strange machine was approaching Typhon's lower body?!
Before Typhon could react again — or curse — Nyx's finger had already depressed the prominent start button on the control panel.
"Nyx, you %&*... UGH! Nngh... OW—OW!!"
Typhon's invective instantly transformed. It became a distorted, piercing, utterly uncontrollable howl. He felt, with visceral clarity, that his consciousness and his dignity were being forcibly extracted by this accursed machine — vanishing together with his gene‑seed.