Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Frailty of Mortals

“Stop! Disinfect! Disinfect!” In a camp for the Ultramar auxiliary forces, several transmigrators, clad in biohazard suits custom-made for Astartes physiques, halted a supply truck as it entered the camp. The truck was opened, and a specially formulated disinfectant was sprayed over the supplies; the driver climbed out, standing aside with arms outstretched to receive the same treatment from the transmigrators.

This disinfectant had undergone special preparation, including prayers offered over it by Living Saint Celestine and devout members of the Ecclesiarchy. In the universe of 40k, mysticism truly held sway.

Such routines had become commonplace in recent months. Several months prior, Wang Ming had told Roboute Guilliman of a prophecy from his legion’s so-called “think tank.” According to Wang Ming, this “think tank” foresaw a plague spreading throughout the Ultramar system, and to prevent its devastation, he needed Guilliman’s cooperation.

(In truth, the transmigrator legion had no such think tank.)

Guilliman listened to Wang Ming’s account and agreed to his plan. Though he still harbored some distrust toward Wang Ming, matters concerning Ultramar’s security were his utmost concern. Besides, every action of the transmigrator legion was under the watchful eyes of the Ultramarines, and Imperial reinforcements had already arrived on Macragge.

Guilliman also believed that Wang Ming was incapable of betraying the Imperium; the fearless way the transmigrators had fought against the forces of Chaos was still vivid in his memory.

Only once the supplies had been thoroughly inspected and cleared was the truck allowed to proceed into the auxiliary camp.

Throughout the camp, loudspeakers installed by the transmigrators played the “True Words of the Emperor” around the clock, bolstering the faith of the Ultramar auxiliaries. The wars raging on worlds surrounding Macragge had been brought to an early end thanks to the transmigrators’ arrival, and they immediately set about implementing quarantine and prevention measures.

By both material and mystical means, the transmigrators struggled to halt the spread of Nurgle’s plague. Yet, despite their efforts, they could not eradicate it entirely. Many auxiliaries, Astra Militarum troopers, and even civilians still fell victim to the contagion.

Those infected were immediately isolated by the transmigrators, who employed every means at their disposal to halt the infection and attempt cures. Both advanced medicines and fervent faith in the Emperor were brought to bear, but with little result. The transmigrators could only watch helplessly as mortals before them were ravaged by Nurgle’s Weeping Plague, powerless to intervene.

For the first time, the transmigrators truly felt the despair of mortals in the 40k universe. After months in this world, a sense of impotence began to settle in their hearts.

They could face death without fear, wield overwhelming firepower, and defeat Chaos on the battlefield, but they could not save even a single mortal from the grasp of the Ruinous Powers.

Even with the Golden Age medical equipment and pharmaceuticals Wang Ming had provided, they were utterly powerless before the might of the Dark Gods.

They felt as though the gods of the Warp were toying with them, delighting in their helplessness, displaying their boundless power before their very eyes.

“Sir, will I ever see again? My eyes hurt so much.” In the quarantine zone, a little boy asked the transmigrator sitting beside him. His eyes had been completely corroded by the Weeping Plague days earlier; only a few hours ago, an automated surgical robot had removed the ruined orbs.

“Of course, Little Roy, you’ll see again soon. You just need to wait a little longer. The others are on their way back from Macragge with new prosthetic eyes. When they arrive, you’ll be able to see once more.” The transmigrator comforted him, injecting painkillers into his veins.

“Sleep for a while. When you wake, you’ll be able to see again.”

The drugs eased his pain and induced sleep; in these days of suffering, only medication could grant the patients any rest. Under the effect of the sedative, Little Roy drifted off, though the sleep was so light that even a slightly loud noise could wake him. The medication could only dull the pain, not remove it entirely.

The transmigrator watched the boy fall asleep, then tiptoed to the next bed.

One by one, the patients received a brief respite through medication, but each time they awoke, they were once again tormented by Nurgle’s Weeping Plague.

The air of the quarantine zone was thick with the scent of disinfectant, but it could do nothing to dispel the contagion within.