2nd Primarch

As time passed, the Great Unclean One's initial confidence began to waver.

"According to his current exertion level, I only need to delay another thirty seconds," Lymphatic muttered to himself, still brimming with confidence.

But thirty seconds later…

"Filthy creature, is running all you're good for?!" roared Dukel, his chainsword swinging in a violent arc, its teeth screeching against the air.

Lymphatic hesitated. "Could it be that the mortal has inhaled too little of Father's blessings? No matter... another minute should suffice."

But another minute passed, and two deep, gory wounds had been torn into Lymphatic's bloated form.

"Buzz!—"

"Run, run! Let's see how long you can keep this up!" Dukel laughed maniacally, his voice carrying the fervor of a hunter closing in on his prey. Like a twisted predator, the Primarch chased after him, unrelenting, the chainsword in his hands screaming with malice. The pursuit only grew more intense, faster with each moment.

No, it wasn't Dukel who was accelerating—it was Lymphatic who was slowing down.

The realization struck the Great Unclean One like a hammer. His massive, decaying form, blessed by Nurgle with unyielding vitality, was faltering. It was unthinkable. Impossible.

"Could it be the Emperor?" Lymphatic thought. "Has the False Emperor granted him a boon that shields him from Father's blessings? Yes... faith in the False Emperor grows stronger among mortals. Perhaps this... is possible."

Yet even as he rationalized, his confidence dwindled. "It does not matter," he reasoned. "Even the False Emperor's blessing cannot last forever. The temptation of Father's gifts will overwhelm him eventually. I just need more time."

Five Minutes Later

Each second stretched into an eternity. For Lymphatic, those five minutes felt as though they spanned aeons. The hulking demon looked on in disbelief at the Primarch still charging towards him with inhuman vigor.

"How? How has he not fallen?!" Lymphatic's mind raced, his confidence shattered. "That was the essence of the Seven Sacred Broths of Father Nurgle!"

Dukel's laughter echoed like thunder. "Run, you bloated sack of filth! I'm catching up! You'll need to do better than that!" With every bellow, a blazing torrent of psychic energy burst forth from the Primarch, scorching the battlefield. The flames incinerated Nurgle's lesser demons with contemptuous ease, clearing a path toward his quarry.

Despite his lumbering speed, Lymphatic's command over the battlefield kept the chase alive. Waves of plague zombies obstructed Dukel's path, their decayed forms dragging down even the mightiest of warriors. Yet it was only a matter of time before Lymphatic's defenses crumbled. For every zombie and Plaguebearer thrown in Dukel's path, ten were turned to ash by his relentless psychic onslaught.

"This hunt is nearing its end," Dukel growled, his smoldering eyes fixed on the faltering demon.

The Breaking Point

Lymphatic's monstrous frame bore the scars of their battle—seventeen brutal slashes from the soul-infused chainsword. Each cut carried with it an agony that no gift of the Chaos Gods could numb. The soul-fire that clung to the blade tore at Lymphatic's very essence, ripping apart the core of his immortality.

Eighteen slashes. Nineteen.

"Run!" Lymphatic's survival instincts roared. Fear, a feeling long alien to the Great Unclean One, began to creep into his decaying heart.

The Primarch's voice boomed once more: "Do you feel it now, beast? The weight of your failure?" The chainsword roared louder, a harbinger of death.

A Final Prayer

As Lymphatic's flesh sloughed off in chunks, his bloated body now reduced to a skeletal shadow of its former self, an unfamiliar calm washed over him. On the brink of annihilation, the battlefield's noise dimmed, and his mind turned inward.

"My dear Father," Lymphatic whispered, his voice trembling. "The end of life is yours to command, but what of death? I cannot return to your garden. Not even your gifts can save me now. I will no longer rest in your embrace."

A tear, black and viscous, trailed down the demon's grotesque face.

The End

Twenty-two slashes.

"Buzz!—"

With one final, thunderous roar, Dukel's chainsword pierced Lymphatic's body. The blade shredded through flesh and bone, its soul-fire consuming the Great Unclean One's essence. Lymphatic's gargantuan form collapsed, his bulk crashing to the ground with a sickening squelch.

Even as his existence unraveled, Lymphatic turned his gaze to Dukel. With a faint smile—half mocking, half resigned—he muttered, "You wield a power you do not understand, mortal. It is not a gift... but a curse."

Dukel scowled. "Chopped silly, are you?" He kicked aside the oozing corpse with disdain, his rage yet to subside.

Unforeseen Consequences

But as Lymphatic's essence dissipated, a massive surge of energy flooded into Dukel's body. The Primarch staggered for a moment, his senses overwhelmed. His muscles swelled with newfound strength, his psychic power blazing like a star. Somewhere deep within the Immaterium, the vast, cyclopean eye of Nurgle's essence snapped open, its gaze fixated on the Primarch. The gears of its unknowable will churned, spinning faster than ever before.

Dukel's victory had awakened something far greater than he realized.