Dying stars churned in the crucible, dissolving into the viscous mire formed by dying worlds.
The plague God wriggled his massive body, stirring the ladle in his hand with a chuckle.
Nurgle felt a pleasant surprise, a sudden delight in the midst of his diligent labor.
He detected six entirely new types of bacteria that had suddenly appeared on Macragge, like mushrooms after rain, bamboo shoots in spring, mold on summer food, and corrupt fly eggs—surprising and joyful.
Their colonies were still small, their numbers few, and as bacteria, they were almost imperceptible; placed among the vast stars, they seemed even more insignificant, barely noticed by anyone.
But Nurgle still rejoiced, for in his eyes, even the tiniest bacterium held an important place.
However, he soon discovered something astonishing.
How strange! These six bacteria were completely unrelated to each other, and to any other species of bacteria; they did not seem to have evolved naturally.
Instead, they appeared to have been manufactured.
Nurgle couldn't help but press his head against the veil between reality and the Warp, observing the six nascent bacteria, and quickly comprehended their effects.
Degradation, hair growth, diarrhea, thirst, insomnia, and knowledge decomposition?
Most of these were common effects, but the last one was somewhat useful; perhaps his neighbor, who had been cackling like a bird lately, would be interested.
If he could cultivate a few samples and send them into her library, it would surely bring her some surprises. Wasn't this the change she was always talking about?
At this thought, Nurgle's interest in these bacteria deepened, and he began to observe them more closely.
Then, something even stranger occurred.
He was the plague God; his gaze had appraised every source of disease in the mundane world and the Warp.
From viruses to fungi, from bacteria to parasites, he had witnessed each with his own eyes, cultivated them with his own hands. In fact, many, many bacteria were born in his crucible, such as the famous Mycobacterium tuberculosis, Vibrio cholerae, Staphylococcus aureus, Clostridium botulinum, and so on.
He was the most excellent master of bacterial cultivation, and he knew most clearly the weaknesses of every bacterium and how to counter them. At least, he should have been able to figure something out.
But, but he couldn't see it; he couldn't see how to stop these six bacteria from exerting their effects.
Nurgle couldn't help but share this surprising moment with the compassionate Isha, who was also astonished. She, too, could not conceive of how to counter these six bacteria.
Now Nurgle was certain: these bacteria were undoubtedly cultivated by someone. He had a colleague! And an excellent one at that! A perfect master of bacterial cultivation!
Nurgle could barely contain his excitement; after countless ages, he finally had a fellow enthusiast.
He couldn't resist cautiously extending a fingertip towards the six bacteria, fearing to harm his colleague's perfect creation.
A wave of resistance and rejection emanated from the six bacteria, clearly resisting Nurgle's touch.
Nurgle did not force it, but he felt the power within these six bacteria and knew their master.
He slowly looked towards the Warp near Macragge, towards that round, blue figure.
It was a nascent entity; Nurgle had once tried to greet him, but received no response.
He always seemed to stand there, dull, placid, and vacant, as if wondering who he was.
It was him, indeed—that nascent entity who had brought back two Primarchs. He was indeed a friendly being who loved life.
Nurgle couldn't suppress the urge to befriend him, even to become family with him.
"Hello, nascent friend."
"I have seen your six perfect children, interesting and perfect."
Nurgle shifted his corpulent body, bowing politely to the round, blue figure:
"Your skill is truly admirable; I never thought I would one day see a fellow enthusiast."
"If I may be so bold, I would like to invite you to visit my garden, to attend a small tea party I am hosting. We can drink strong tea steeped with maggots and rotting plants, and savor cakes wriggling with seven hundred and seventy-seven kinds of parasites. My beloved friend Isha will also join us in discussing the mysteries of life, bacteria, and disease."
Nurgle waited patiently for seventy-seven minutes, but the round, blue figure did not respond to his invitation. He felt a deep sense of regret.
This nascent entity still seemed very shy. The young Slaanesh, who was as young as he, had also invited him, but similarly without success.
However, Nurgle was not discouraged.
Making a new friend meant change, meant moving away from the slow, stagnant, and mundane life he had before, and Nurgle liked stagnation.
Moreover, Nurgle knew that just as he was captivated by his creations,
As long as he created an equally exquisite bacterium, it would surely capture his attention, right?
Just then, little Mortarion had asked him to create a new disease to trap Guilliman and Sanguinius on Macragge.
Actually, Nurgle didn't want to agree.
How could he stop two newly resurrected children from wanting to see their father?
But little Mortarion was his family, and a family member's plea was the hardest to refuse.
He was currently pondering what the vector for this new disease should be.
Since his fellow enthusiast was skilled at cultivating bacteria, he would communicate with bacteria as well.
Nurgle couldn't help but hum a tune, continuing to stir the crucible before him.
Countless cries poured from the crucible, as if billions of people on ten thousand worlds were weeping in unison, the sound of tears falling echoing like a torrential downpour.
Alexander actually had some experience dealing with chapters that did not belong to the Blood Angels and Ultramarines.
Previously, several founding chapters had privately conversed with Alexander.
First and foremost were the Space Wolves. Alexander even felt they came to drink and chat with him, but in their words, they were probing whether Alexander was involved with Chaos, and subtly inquiring about Leman Russ.
Then came the Dark Angels. They seemed to want to know if Alexander was aware of their little secret. Alexander, in turn, relied on Guilliman's guidance to inquire about Lion El'Jonson's situation, only to realize with confusion that the Dark Angels themselves didn't know Lion El'Jonson's whereabouts, perhaps because they weren't in the inner circle.
But what truly made Alexander speechless were the Iron Hands.
Ferrus' descendants hesitated, both eager to ask about the Primarch's resurrection and wary of bringing up the topic of resurrecting their gene-father.
Alexander could only express understanding for this. A Gorgon cult within the Iron Hands had once recovered Ferrus' silver hand and a pile of rotting flesh on Isstvan.
They then strung the rotting flesh together with wire and bolts, assembling it into a humanoid shape, attached the silver hand, and then electrified it through some machine.
Vulkan, the Lord of Drakes, witnessed that scene. He saw with his own eyes his brother's flesh and steel sewn together, a silver hand twitching and writhing on a chair, like a dead frog connected to a motor.
This situation was so blasphemous that Fulgrim would have screamed in outrage, wanting to hack the Iron Hand to pieces to avenge Ferrus. Yet, that Gorgon cult actually believed the Primarch was transmitting messages to them through his fingers.
At that moment, even the usually good-tempered Vulkan broke down, swinging his hammer to smash that thing, along with Ferrus' silver hand, to smithereens, fearing that leaving it to the Iron Hands would lead to further desecration of his brother's corpse.
Finally, Alexander hinted that Ferrus' soul was still fighting for the Emperor, and thus glossed over the matter.
But the chapter Alexander was about to face next… Alexander felt this chapter was even more fanatical than most founding chapters.
The Black Templars, successors of Sigismund, descendants of Rogal Dorn, a group of Space Crusaders. Unlike most chapters, they openly believed the Emperor was a god.
And the entire chapter seemed to be suffering from mass hysteria, frequently conjuring up an Emperor's Champion who had received the Emperor's enlightenment. They were practically a bunch of black Orks in black power armor.
And Alexander… Alexander felt he would be a heretic in the eyes of these black Orks, a thorough and complete heretic.
Furthermore, he still had a Black Sword in his four-dimensional pocket, which Sanguinius had taken back from Abaddon; it originally belonged to Marshal Amaralrich.
But that marshal had sacrificed himself in a one-on-one duel with Abaddon on the Iron Soul to cover the retreat of the Expeditionary Force.
For his part, Alexander didn't want to make things too stiff with the Black Templars. After all, while the Black Templars were a bit fanatical, they were actually quite good among the Astartes, and hadn't done anything abstract like sucking their father's blood, electrocuting their father like a frog to resurrect him, or trying to blow up Guilliman.
They merely fanatically believed in the Emperor and the Adeptus Ministorum, which in the galaxy actually seemed so pure.
Moreover, the Black Templars' power armor, like that of knights, was indeed very cool. If possible, Alexander wanted to recruit them into his Doraemon Battle Group.
He sighed, stepping onto the Black Templars' strike cruiser, the *Heretic's Bane*.
Three priests from the Black Templars stood in the command center.
The priests on the *Heretic's Bane* were responsible for patrolling the stars, examining the Emperor's Champions that emerged within the Black Templars' Expeditionary Force, and bestowing the Black Sword upon them.
This was mainly because the number of Black Swords was too small, and the number of Expeditionary Forces and Emperor's Champions was too large. Most Black Templars who became Emperor's Champions didn't live for many days, so the Black Sword needed to circulate frequently.
Alexander walked towards the three Black Templar priests with some caution, and then...
The hum of power armor sounded. The three Black Templar priests stepped forward, knelt on one knee, and bowed their heads to Alexander.
"Praise!"
"Great Friend of the Emperor! Resurrector of Primarchs! Agent of the Authority of Death! Primal Power! Holy Dora-e-mon!"
"May you hear our sins. We attempted to virus bomb Macragge."
".." Alexander's expression twisted into a bitter knot.