Chapter Thirty-Eight: Preparing to Depart for Holy Terra

There was no way to truly resolve the Tear Plague among the patients in a short time. All the travelers could do now was isolate those infected and fit those with corroded eyes with bionic prosthetics to restore their sight. This was the very limit of what they could achieve.

“So far, the Nurgle Plague cannot be resolved. Fortunately, the infection is contained.” Wang Ming sat in Guilliman’s office, reporting on the containment of the Nurgle Plague. Although this counted as good news of a sort, Guilliman’s face showed none of the relief such news should bring; instead, it was clouded with worry.

Guilliman had visited the quarantine zone himself. Strangely, when he pushed open the heavy metal doors, every patient within miraculously recovered. The moment Guilliman appeared, the viscous, nauseating tears ceased to flow from their eyes, and the Nurgle mites within their bodies died instantly. His presence granted the patients peaceful sleep for the first time without the aid of medication.

Wang Ming and Fulgrim had also experimented, and found that wherever a Primarch appeared, the plague would abate. To the faithful of the Imperial Cult, the Primarchs were the Emperor’s genetic sons, rightful inheritors of his divinity.

This phenomenon only deepened people’s conviction in the divinity of the Emperor and his sons. The devout sang hymns in praise of the Emperor and the great sanctity of his Primarchs, exalting the three of them. Though such words always seemed to irk Guilliman and Fulgrim, Wang Ming paid them no heed.

“Why aren’t we allowed to go to the quarantine zone anymore? We could cure the Tear Plague,” Guilliman asked Wang Ming. For months, moved by the plight of the afflicted, Guilliman had frequently visited the quarantine zone, hoping to heal the soldiers and civilians through the so-called “Emperor’s divinity”—a power he himself scarcely understood.

But today, when Guilliman once again attempted to visit the patients, Wang Ming barred his way, directing him back to his office, saying there was something he needed to report.

“Do you really believe they are cured?” Wang Ming did not answer Guilliman directly, but posed another question.

“Seven hours after you left, the Tear Plague returned to the patients. You cannot cure them—this is merely Nurgle’s way of delaying you.”

Without waiting for Guilliman’s response, Wang Ming revealed the truth.

“While you were comforting the sick in quarantine, reports came in: on battlefronts overseen by mortal auxiliaries and Ultramarines, Chaos traitors have already begun a counterattack.”

Wang Ming described the situation in Guilliman’s absence.

Without Guilliman’s command, the Ultramarines and mortal soldiers could not maintain the same level of efficiency in warfare as the travelers. On worlds where the travelers were not present, Chaos traitors, led by Chaos Space Marines, had begun to strike back against Imperial lines.

“So, what should we do now?” Guilliman, ever rational and clear-minded, quickly grasped Wang Ming’s meaning.

Wang Ming rose from his chair, walked over to the desk in front of Guilliman, and placed an object upon it. Guilliman recognized it—a holographic projector, though the model was unfamiliar. Still, from the control panel and the projection lens, he could tell its function.

The projector activated, and a hololithic map of the galaxy appeared above the desk. Though it showed the galaxy as it had been at a certain point in time, not as it was now, it served well enough as a reference.

“Proceed to Holy Terra. You must not allow yourself to be ensnared by the vile schemes of Chaos. The current situation of the Imperium requires you,” Wang Ming said, pointing to a brightly marked spot on the starmap.