[In the sixth week, your expedition approaches the front lines.]
[You notice the landscape changing around you, subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.]
[Trees lie fallen everywhere, their bark blackened and rotten. Green vines creep across the corpses of the forest, writhing slowly even when there's no wind. They seem almost alive, almost aware.]
[Recent rains have pooled in low areas, but instead of clear water, you see stagnant swamps. The stench rising from them is overwhelming, a mix of decay and something worse, something chemical and wrong.]
[The changed terrain slows the expedition to a crawl.]
[Your Leman Russ handles it well enough. Sixty tons of armor and machinery doesn't care much about mud. But the rest of the expedition isn't so fortunate.]
[Civilian believers begin dying in droves.]
[The swamps are bottomless in places. Men and women simply vanish beneath the surface without time to scream, swallowed whole by the festering mud.]
[Others brush against the contaminated water. Where it touches skin, flesh begins to rot immediately. They die screaming, their bodies liquefying while they're still conscious.]
[War Apostle Mathieu recognizes the crisis.]
[He climbs atop his war-train and stays there for days, delivering sermon after sermon. His voice carries across the column, amplified by vox-casters. He speaks of faith, of the Emperor's protection, of the strength found in devotion.]
[Perhaps it's genuine divine intervention. Perhaps it's simply stubborn human will. Either way, the battered expedition makes it through the swamp zone.]
[The casualties are staggering, but you survive.]
[In the seventh week, you enter a fog-shrouded wilderness.]
[Something about this place feels familiar. You've been here before, or somewhere very like it. The memory tugs at you, just out of reach.]
[You don't have time to pursue the thought.]
[The moment the expedition enters the fog, the enemy attacks.]
[Plague zombies surge from all directions, countless thousands of them. But they're not alone this time. Plague Bearers march among them, the true backbone of the Plague Alliance. These daemon infantry carry rusted blades and makeshift weapons fashioned from human bones.]
[Nurglings leap from the Plague Bearers' shoulders, cackling with glee. They're living bombs, bouncing toward your forces with suicidal enthusiasm.]
[The battlefield erupts into chaos.]
[Lasguns hiss and crack. Faithful zealots scream their devotion as they charge. Battle Sisters' bolters boom with rhythmic precision, each shot finding a target.]
[You work your heavy bolter with mechanical efficiency, your face an expressionless mask. The weapon barks again and again as you sweep it across the advancing Plague Bearers. Bodies explode under mass-reactive rounds. Corrupt flesh sprays across the fog.]
[Your tank's engine roars constantly. The treads crush everything in your path, grinding daemon and zombie alike into paste.]
[Then the battlefield changes.]
[A figure emerges from the fog. Massive. Mountainous. Every step shakes the ground.]
[Ku'gath the Plaguefather, Great Unclean One of Nurgle, has arrived.]
[The Cadian Armored Regiment's already-depleted numbers suffer immediate catastrophic losses.]
[One Leman Russ veers too close. Ku'gath's belly splits open, revealing a cavern of rotting intestines and digestive acids. The tank is swallowed whole.]
[You watch through your vision slit as the tank's armor begins to melt. Green juice pours through every gap and seam. The screams of the crew inside cut off quickly. Small mercy.]
[Another tank meets the same fate. Then another.]
[Colonel Odrameyer's voice crackles over the vox, strained but steady. "All tanks, this is Actual. Prepare for coordinated fire. We're bringing this bastard down."]
[Your commander immediately angles the Leman Russ for optimal firing position. The tank pivots, tracks churning mud and corpses.]
[Your gunner loads a fresh shell with practiced speed, then begins adjusting the turret angle. His movements are precise, calculated. He's done this a thousand times.]
[You ignore the searing pain in your hands. The heavy bolter's barrel has been firing continuously for so long that the metal is hot enough to burn. The smell of cooking flesh fills your nostrils. Your own flesh.]
[You grit your teeth and keep firing, clearing the infantry threats surrounding your tank.]
[Time stretches. Every second feels like an hour.]
[The Leman Russ tanks show increasing damage. Plague Bearer weapons, crude as they look, can penetrate armor given enough strikes. Your tank's hull is scarred with cuts and dents.]
[Your hands are agony now. The burns are deep, severe. You can see exposed muscle in places.]
[The heavy bolter's ammunition counter drops toward zero.]
[Then, finally, the coordinated barrage launches.]
[Every remaining Leman Russ fires simultaneously. The sound is apocalyptic, a thunderclap that drowns out everything else.]
[Shells hammer into Ku'gath from multiple angles. His massive body shudders. Wounds erupt across his greasy flesh, huge craters of damaged tissue.]
[For a moment, you think you've won. That the concentrated fire has killed even a Great Unclean One.]
[Then the wounds begin to close.]
[Flesh knits back together. The holes seal. Within seconds, Ku'gath is whole again, barely even slowed.]
[You inhale sharply, reality crashing down on you.]
[Conventional weapons won't kill this thing. Artillery won't kill it. Even concentrated fire from an entire tank regiment won't kill it.]
[Your heavy bolter clicks empty. The last round expended.]
[You stare at Ku'gath as he resumes his rampage, casually crushing Imperial soldiers and ripping apart vehicles.]
[A crazy idea forms in your mind. It's suicidal. Absolutely insane. It probably won't even work.]
[But it's the only idea you have.]
["Commander!" you shout. "Full speed ahead! We're charging that thing!"]
[The silent commander doesn't hesitate. Doesn't question. Doesn't even pause to think.]
[He wrenches the controls hard. The Leman Russ pivots sharply, tracks screaming. Then he floors the accelerator.]
[The engine roar becomes a scream. You're thrown back in your seat as the tank surges forward, building speed, crushing Plague Bearers under your treads.]
[Your gunner catches on immediately. He loads one more high-explosive shell, the last one in the magazine. He adjusts the turret angle carefully, raising the barrel slightly. The narrow tube extends forward like a lance, aimed directly at Ku'gath's center mass.]
[You reach into the empty ammunition storage with your burned, ruined hands. Your fingers close around something you'd loaded during resupply, almost as an afterthought.]
[A melta bomb. Military-grade anti-armor explosive. Designed to vaporize tank armor at close range.]
[You pull it free and clutch it to your chest, your face showing no emotion despite the pain.]
[Your charging Leman Russ catches Ku'gath's attention. He's impossible to miss now, a sixty-ton projectile barreling directly toward him.]
[The Great Unclean One drops the half-melted tank wreckage he'd been using as a toy. His massive head turns toward you. Recognition sparks in his eyes.]
["YOU!" Ku'gath's bellow shakes the air itself. "I SMELL YOU! THE STENCH OF MY FATHER'S ENEMY! YOU, SALTY PUPPET, YOU DESTROYED MY DIVINE PLAGUE! GIVE IT BACK! GIVE ME BACK MY CREATION!"]
[You take a deep breath.]
[Confusion flickers through your mind, followed immediately by understanding.]
[The vision. The nightmare where you walked through fog and found Ku'gath at his crucible. That was real. Or real enough. You were there somehow, and you did something. Destroyed something important to him.]
["Ah," you murmur, a small smile touching your lips. "So that's what happened."]
[Ku'gath charges.]
[His massive bulk accelerates toward your tank with terrifying speed. The ground cracks under his weight. His belly splits open again, that cavern of dissolution ready to swallow you whole.]
[The distance closes. Fifty meters. Twenty. Ten.]
[Your gunner waits, nerves of steel, finger on the firing mechanism.]
[Your commander keeps the accelerator pinned, driving straight into the monster's maw.]
[The timing has to be perfect.]
[Five meters.]
[The gunner fires.]
[The commander floors it one more time, coaxing every last bit of speed from the straining engine.]
[The high-explosive shell detonates inside Ku'gath's belly at point-blank range. The explosion tears through rotten flesh, creating a massive wound.]
[The Leman Russ doesn't stop. Can't stop. It's going too fast.]
[The tank, with its raised barrel acting as a spear, drives directly into the wound. The narrow gun tube penetrates deep into Ku'gath's body cavity, punching through intestines and organs that shouldn't exist.]
[The impact is catastrophic. You're thrown forward, then sideways, then up. Your head cracks against metal. Stars explode across your vision.]
[You taste blood. Your own, for once.]
[Your hands, moving on instinct alone, find the hatch above you. You spin the release wheel with ruined fingers and shove it open.]
[You pull yourself up and out, emerging from the tank that's now embedded halfway inside a Greater Daemon of Nurgle.]
[You stand on the hull, facing Ku'gath's head. His eyes burn with infinite hatred. His massive jaws open, revealing rot and darkness beyond.]
[You smile at him.]
["The Emperor sends His regards," you say clearly, "you disgusting fat bastard."]
[You leap from the tank, pushing off with your legs. Your burned hands hold the melta bomb.]
[You soar toward Ku'gath's open mouth, toward certain death, toward whatever comes after.]
[And you thumb the activation stud.]