It is so quiet and warm here...
Consciousness seemed to sink into deep water, yet there was no sensation of suffocation or oppression. Typhon felt as though he had returned to the amniotic fluid of his mother — all pain and weariness quietly dissolved, melting away within this warm embrace.
But he opened his eyes quickly. In the darkness, Typhon dimly remembered that he still had tasks and a mission to fulfil. He could not afford to linger here.
Following the vague directives in his heart, Typhon began to move within this boundless serenity. He knew not how long it took, but at the edge of this warmth, he beheld a world suffused with a soft, green light.
An inexplicable sense of belonging surged in his heart — as though this place was where he was meant to be. Without much hesitation, Typhon stepped into the green light.
Beneath his feet: warm, moist soil. All around him: countless flowers in full bloom, each of different form, colour, and intoxicating fragrance. Swarms of bees with unusual colourations buzzed and flitted among the blossoms, industriously gathering nectar.
Such a beautiful scene — like a fairy realm — had never been witnessed in barren Barbarus. Yet the specific memories of his homeworld were already fading, growing dim. All Typhon clearly remembered now was his name and an urgent sense that he must 'return'.
He did not pause for the flowers. He walked on.
As he marched, countless emerald‑green creatures emerged from beneath the petals and from the soil. They were adorable in appearance, like the legendary living spirits of the fae. They chirped and chattered around Typhon, twirling and singing carefree songs, as though inviting him to play with them.
Typhon smiled apologetically and waved his hand. He did not stop.
The deeper he went, the more he realised he was not alone in this beautiful garden. Many 'people' — human‑like figures — were scattered around him. Some chased and played with the fae; others gathered plump fruits from trees and placed them in their mouths; still others simply slept in the shade of the boughs. Every face was filled with pure, almost vacuous contentment.
"A very good life, is it not, Typhon?"
A gentle voice spoke beside Typhon. It belonged to a tall, slightly portly middle‑aged man in an old green coat. His face was kind, his smile generous, his eyes tender as a child's — the moment Typhon saw him, the word 'Grandfather' arose unbidden in his heart.
"...Yes..."
Typhon replied softly.
"Do you like it here, my child?"
The Grandfather asked again, his voice full of comfort.
"...Joy... Am I... happy?"
Typhon felt a faint trance. The temptation of tranquility vaguely aligned with some deep‑seated desire within him.
"I see your confusion, my child. Just follow what you feel inside. Look — everyone here is very friendly."
The Grandfather's voice gently guided him, as though parting the mist before his eyes.
...He is right. I should stay... A voice rose from the depths of Typhon's heart. But this thought came too naturally — it did not feel like his own choice.
"It is alright. Everyone has moments of confusion in life. Come — I have a bowl of soup that will answer all your questions. Drink it, and you shall truly become part of this place. You may rest here, forever."
The Grandfather produced, from nowhere, a small bowl. Within it was a thick, dark green broth, lightly steaming.
The moment the bowl appeared, every gaze in the garden — whether human or fae — blazed with anticipation, with longing. Yet none stepped forward to compete. This 'gift' was Typhon's alone.
...Drink...
...Drink…
...DRINK!
The voice in his heart grew more insistent, louder. But in this moment, Typhon's vigilance awakened: was all of this not too convenient? As though an invisible hand were pushing him forward.
Yet resistance seemed futile. His hands, unbidden, took the warm bowl. His gaze fell upon the soup's surface. Within, strange scenes seethed — he saw the decay and rebirth of life; he saw rotting bodies transform into fertile soil, nourishing bizarre, vibrant flowers. Decay and creation intertwined, presenting a unique and singular 'beauty'.
Beneath the gaze of countless waiting eyes, Typhon raised the bowl to his lips — and drank, head tilted back.
...He drank it! He actually drank it!
Suddenly, the entire green garden erupted in warm applause! Every living thing danced, sang, celebrated the arrival of a new member of the family.
Yet Typhon felt neither the expected belonging nor joy.
A burning — yet not malicious — torrent abruptly erupted from the depths of his chest. From the 'Saint Egg' — which had been transformed — it surged directly into his mind!
(Ah? Isn't this supposed to be 'gene‑seed'?)
(Cough... In any case, the Saint Egg is connected to the brain!)
In that moment, Typhon — his Saint Egg transformation now complete — received the hard‑won 'right to choose'. This was the right Nyx had fought for him: the right to 'see the truth'.
The first thing to assail him was an indescribable stench — as though it had seeped into his very marrow, tainting even the soul of all things with rot and mould. And the source of this stench was the so‑called 'Grandfather' before him.
Typhon slowly raised his head.
Where was the middle‑aged man? Before him now stood a bloated, distended daemon of Nurgle, grinning at him with suppurating lips, his expression malevolent. His colossal frame was covered in swollen, festering sores; yellow‑green slime incessantly oozed and dripped from his form. Every most intolerable, most repulsive manifestation of the human body that Typhon could conceive — he found embodied in this monster.
Then he saw his surroundings.
Those fragrant flowers? They were clearly deformed plants, sprouting from accumulated filth, their stems and leaves coated in thick, green‑slimed mucus, their forms distorted into grotesquerie. Among them hovered not bees, but fat, fist‑sized flies, their bodies gleaming with oily green iridescence, the drone of their wings mingling with the stench of decay.
Beneath his feet: moist, soft, writhing. He looked down. He stood upon a carpet of fungus that constantly exuded slime. Beneath the fungal carpet, countless Nurglings — miniature likenesses of the great daemon before him — huddled together, gazing up at him with their clouded eyes, chirping and laughing happily. A chill ran down Typhon's spine.
...And those things that looked like 'people'...?!
Typhon whirled around.
The 'people' who had been dancing moments ago now revealed their true forms: they were heavily decomposed corpses. Countless Nurglings burrowed through the fissures in their eyes, mouths, noses, and torsos — as though the bodies were mere skins for the daemons' amusement. The 'people' who had been eating 'fruits of the tree' were gnawing upon indescribable lumps of filth, writhing with maggots. And those who had been 'sleeping' beneath the trees... were now fully calcined white bones, their flesh and skin sloughing away.
Typhon nearly roared aloud: Nyx! Why did you have to unveil all this ugliness before my eyes, to its most extreme limits?!
He felt as though Nyx had, with cold fingers, forcibly pried open his eyelids — pressing his face, for the first time, against the reality of the world. So cruel. So filthy.
...And that soup... I just drank... WHAT WAS IN IT?!
This thought pierced his mind like an icepick. Typhon lowered his head in horror, staring at the empty bowl in his hand.
A small amount of dark green broth still pooled at the bottom. And in this viscous residue, he could clearly see — several still‑writhing maggots, and fragments of what appeared to be human remains, slowly sinking and floating within.