Nix knew the Poison Gas Detonator wouldn't be able to wipe out the Nurgle daemon army, but he hadn't expected Ku'gath to so easily transmute that destructive blast into his own power.
What made it worse was that the other side clearly understood his intentions. The mass in the sky had been transfigured, and the stagnant "Plague-Cloud" began to surge in the opposite direction, shrouded by the intensifying toxic mist and new corrupting spores, like a filthy wave bursting through a levee, once again spreading towards the Liberators' camp.
"Tch, this really is troublesome..."
Nix's eyes narrowed, but instead of flinching, he spread his arms wide.
"However, I don't have a testing ground here!"
"Magnetic field rotation—250,000 horses!"
"Ten million lumen output—full open!"
Boom—!
It was not an explosion, but a profound "ignition" deep within Nix's being. All the psychic energy passed on by the Emperor to Nix was invoked, and a blinding golden current erupted from Nix's body, instantly illuminating him like a descending deity.
This light was not static, but focused upon him, transforming into countless pulsating arcs and flowing power field runes, spreading outward in an explosive wave.
"Abomination of Nurgle, the Liberator does not accept you!"
The golden power field swept across the edge of the camp, over the fortifications, and suddenly rose and interwove in the void several kilometers away, ultimately condensing into a hemispherical, colossal energy barrier that stretched between heaven and earth.
On the surface of the barrier, golden current visible to the naked eye and pure flame flowed rapidly, as if it were a living thing, self-sustaining, emitting a furious roar as it formed a bulwark against the approaching rotting plague cloud outside.
The moment the barrier formed, the filthy plague tide also struck with a thunderous crash. Two forces of opposing natures clashed with overwhelming power, and their intersection erupted with a piercing, tearing sound and the light of energy annihilation. The golden barrier stood firm as a rock, isolating all the toxic mist and corrupting spores of Nurgle.
"Ah... Barely enough."
Nix maintained his stance, both palms thrust forward, exhaling deeply as fine beads of sweat dripped from his temples. He felt the ebb and flow of power within his body and the strain on every part of the barrier, whispering to himself:
"Thank the small family heirloom the old Emperor left when he departed, otherwise I'd have been scraped clean from this world."
He held his breath, but his gaze was already fixed on another battlefield in the distance. There, the final battle between Mortarion and Necare, father and son deciding their fate, was already unfolding amidst the ruins and poisonous flowers atop the mountain.
In the mountain-top ruins, the sound of clashing scythe and sword was like a heavy drumbeat for this fateful confrontation. Mortarion's adamantium scythe silently traced arcs of death, each swing carrying the strength of the mountains and accumulated fury.
Necare, however, was as steady as a rotten cornerstone; his longsword, polished from the bones of some unknown giant, could always parry or deflect the lethal strikes in the most precise and devastating manner.
Initially, it was like a battle amplified to a giant's scale.
Mortarion was familiar with all his foster father's combat habits, and Necare understood all the limits of his foster son's strength.
Scythe blade and bone sword bit and separated, and the spraying sparks flickered in the scattered spores.
They shattered the crumbling floor tiles, pursued, dodged, and attacked through the ruins of what was once the Throne Hall, appearing evenly matched, as if returning to those times when Necare had unilaterally trained Mortarion in slavery.
But soon, Mortarion's instincts as a Primarch began to detect discordant notes.
In one uncertain exchange, his scythe had clearly anticipated all of Necare's usual evasion angles, thrusting towards his chest with the explosive power of his primarch body. Necare's massive body slid sideways, almost defying inertia, letting the scythe's tip merely graze his ribs, as if the very air actively pushed him aside.
"Ah...?"
Mortarion attributed it to luck and experience.
Immediately after, he seized a tiny flaw exposed by a whip-like sword strike, swinging his scythe like a tomahawk towards the joint of his opponent's supporting leg. The impact came, but it was extremely dull, as if striking an ancient tree root deeply embedded in a swamp—most of the force was absorbed and dissipated by some intangible substance. Necare's body only trembled slightly, but the heavy counter-striking sword was already roaring back with even greater force.
Subtle anomalies accumulated gradually. Mortarion felt the whirlwind of his attacks sometimes inexplicably pause for a moment, as if he were cutting not through air, but through rotting swamp. Necare's trajectory sometimes changed unnaturally, as if an invisible pair of hands touched his body at critical moments.
Once, Mortarion was even sure his scythe had cut through flesh and blood beneath his opponent's shoulder armor, but upon closer inspection, he only saw a rapidly closing wound, with traces of psychic energy but no blood, only a few scattered green spots.
"This is psychic energy..."
Mortarion already had the answer in his heart. This was not something he was unfamiliar with, considering his own combat limitations and countless battle experiences. In every movement of his foster father, there was a more substantial and repugnant force.
Decisions were made in an instant. Mortarion feigned a full-power frontal assault, and at the last moment when scythe and sword were about to clash, his body twisted sideways with incredible agility and speed, and the butt end of his scythe, like a venomous scorpion, stabbed towards Necare's relatively weaker waist and abdomen defense. This strike was sudden and insidious, surpassing all previous attacks.
Necare did not block with his sword—it was already too late.
He simply lowered his eyelids and looked at Mortarion, spitting out a few cold, inhuman syllables.
Time seemed to stretch. Mortarion's lethal strike hit a translucent dark green barrier that had suddenly appeared just before touching Necare's broken body.
The powerful strike was like falling into extremely viscous gelatin—its speed plummeted, and the force was frantically dissipated and absorbed. Intense ripples appeared on the barrier's surface, reflecting Necare's calm face and the inhuman psychic flame burning distinctly in his eyes.
The flame spread rapidly, erupting from every wrinkle around his eyes, mouth, nose, and even his skin—no longer like tiny specks of light, but as if enveloping his skeletal form, his heavy sword, a substance coiling around his massive body.
The air filled with the unique hum and pressure of empyrean energy that made people shudder. The gravel and decaying plants at Necare's feet began to slowly levitate against gravity, slowly spiraling around him.
He was no longer just a xenos tyrant fighting with martial skill and strength alone. The dark light of psychic power poured through him, reflecting him as a terrifying entity emerging directly from the abyss of the Empyrean. With a sweep of his heavy sword, an invisible force field crashed into Mortarion's hastily raised scythe like a heavy hammer, sending him skidding backward, the soles of his boots plowing deep trenches in the flagstones.
Necare's voice rang out atop the mountain, mixed with the vibration of his form and an immense malice that struck directly at the heart, with nothing left to conceal:
"You have learned everything I taught you, Mortarion. To fight, to survive, to dominate, and even to hate. But you have always refused to understand... what truly drives this universe. Power. Now look upon this, feel it. This is my true inheritance, and it is also the inescapable shackles."
The pressure of psychic power spread like a material tide. The illusion of a close-quarters duel was completely shattered; the battle had shifted to another dimension. Mortarion gripped the haft of his scythe. Facing the dark green light, he felt not only a powerful enemy, but also a complete subversion of his past thinking, and an absolute instinctive revulsion towards... and a deep-seated familiarity with the stench of decay within this power...
"Nurgle..."
Mortarion understood that the true battle was about to begin.