2nd Primarch

"Just go ahead!"

The Primarch had no patience for idle talk with the Great Demon. To him, the Great Unclean One before him resembled nothing more than a colossal mountain of filth. Conversation was a waste of time.

Dukel stepped forward without hesitation.

He raised his chainsword high and brought it down with unrelenting force, as if wielding a sledgehammer.

The attack was simple, brutal, and swift—its effectiveness undeniable. Even the mighty Plague Lord showed a flicker of fear.

But Lymphbas did not panic. His massive, bloated form moved with startling speed, spiritual energy surging as he retreated.

Roar!

From the poisonous fog, plague zombies spewed forth foul, murky liquid.

The corrupted bile, infused with the Great Demon's psionic energy, was potent enough to taint even Imperial tanks.

"After ten thousand years, Your Highness is still so reckless," Lymphbas said with a smug tone. "Dodging in mid-air is impossible."

Chi chi chi chi—

Before he could finish, the noxious substances he unleashed were scattered by an invisible force field. Wisps of black smoke curled before the Primarch and dissipated into the air.

It had no effect.

"I see... this is a force field technology I have not encountered before," Lymphbas muttered in astonishment.

Still, the Great Demon remained calm. What was insurmountable to others might yet be within his power to overcome.

Boom!

Dukel's blow struck the ground with overwhelming might. Though his attack missed its mark, the earth itself trembled under the impact.

The ground shook like an earthquake, throwing the plague zombies into disarray. Even the poisonous fog seemed to ripple in the aftermath.

All nearby Nurgle demons and Imperial warriors instinctively withdrew, creating a vast space for the titanic clash.

In battles between demigods and Greater Daemons, mortal interference was little more than a death sentence.

Despite the missed strike, Dukel showed no frustration. On the contrary, his excitement only grew as he surged toward the Great Unclean One once more.

Ignoring the plague zombies in the fog, he swung his chainsword with ruthless precision, aiming for the demon.

The zombies, unsteady from the shaking ground, were powerless to stop him.

But in the next instant, spiritual energy coalesced in Lymphbas's grotesque hand. His fat fingers extended forward.

One of the plague zombies tilted its head back and vomited a torrent of green, rotting fluid.

The vile liquid exploded upon contact with the air, transforming into a dense, green mist that blanketed the battlefield.

"Your Highness Dukel, hold your breath!" a Space Marine shouted from a distance.

Nurgle's demons lacked the ferocity of Khorne's warriors, the seductive allure of Slaanesh, or the labyrinthine cunning of Tzeentch.

Yet their nearly indestructible resilience and devastating biochemical plagues had left the Imperium with bitter scars.

"This is a rich broth lovingly crafted by my father," Lymphbas said with a grotesque grin. "I rarely enjoy it myself—it's usually stored in the mouths of my children."

As he spoke, his bloated body retreated, widening the distance from the Primarch.

More plague zombies spewed their rancid bile—seven in succession—forming a suffocating miasma.

To entertain Dukel, Lymphbas had spent centuries' worth of carefully hoarded toxins. But far from feeling regret, he swelled with pride. Generosity, after all, was the first virtue his loving father had taught him.

The poisonous mist corrupted everything it touched. The earth twisted, walls groaned, and the air itself seemed to cry out in agony.

Even the Space Marines' power armor, with its advanced filtration systems, faltered before the miasma. They fell back, unable to withstand the oppressive atmosphere.

Only Nurgle's demons thrived in the foul air, breathing deeply, their faces alight with ecstasy.

"How could I keep such a feast to myself?" Lymphbas said, licking his lips with a thick, rotted tongue.

For Nurgle's followers, this was a moment of unparalleled joy.

Bang!

But just as they reveled in their putrid banquet, a figure tore through the miasma.

The Primarch emerged, his form cutting through the poisonous fog.

Lymphbas's grin widened. "Your Highness, you've tasted my father's broth—even a whiff is unforgettable."

"I imagine you can't resist its effects now," he added mockingly.

For a Primarch, holding one's breath was trivial. But the aroma of Nurgle's concoction was no ordinary poison. Its allure seeped into the very soul.

Dukel said nothing, his chainsword roaring as it struck Lymphbas, carving a meter-deep gash into his putrid flesh.

Foul blood and ichor spilled from the wound, but the Great Demon merely turned and fled.

Teleporting short distances with psychic power, Lymphbas avoided the brunt of the Primarch's onslaught.

Zombies hurled themselves at Dukel, their decaying forms shredded by his relentless strikes.

Despite the chaos, Dukel pressed on, leaving ever-deeper scars on the Great Unclean One.

Still, Lymphbas smiled, his entrails dragging behind him. "Your Highness, surely you feel it—the change within you? My father's gift works its wonders."

"You'll come to cherish this nectar, to crave it. Until then, exercise all you like. The more you fight, the more it takes hold!"

But Dukel had no interest in his taunts. He swung his chainsword with increasing ferocity, reducing walls to rubble and shaking the battlefield.

"You dare lecture me, you vile maggot?!" Dukel snarled, his blade cleaving through rotting flesh. "I'll carve you into pieces and burn the scraps!"

Though half his body was gone, Lymphbas remained cheerful. "Such bravery, Your Highness. You'll make a fine offering to my loving father."

"My father's gifts will bloom in your soul, and soon you'll join our family. Free from pain, free from suffering... forever."

Dukel only roared, his chainsword buzzing as it bit deep into his foe again and again.