Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 875 They were all captured and taken to the Nurgle Workshop (sadly).
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"Aren't you going to help them?"

Clarks—or rather, a raven guard, wearing a helmet, spoke in a tone as soft as black feathers brushing against the night wind.

It might contain the body of Adalic Vannas, but Pallas isn't sure; he can only say that Vannas is the most likely candidate.

"Uh."

Pallas, dressed in a floral shirt, beach shorts, sunglasses, and a straw hat, answered while lying on a beach chair.

Then he took a sip of his iced mint sparkling lemon tea from his cup—coconut water was in such short supply lately that he had to settle for this.

“This is the Destiny Steel,” the young Phoenix pointed out. “There are always people here who won’t stand idly by.”

“Really?” Clarks’ avatar said. “I suspect you don’t want to leave this holographic beach to change into your armor, then come back to be disinfected and killed, and then change into your beach clothes again.”

“Uh,” Pallas said in a somewhat embarrassed tone, “Well, I was just being lazy and didn’t want to go through all that trouble… Okay! I admit I think the fact that they want to drink blood makes me feel like they should suffer a bit.”

"Actually, I quite like them. They're a cute bunch of kids, and they're really tough."

Riemann Russ said.

The wolf king, with his two big hairy legs exposed, was casually wearing a pair of gray-blue beach swim trunks with bright yellow letters that read "Kraken Inside," and was sunbathing his furry body in the artificial sunlight, with only his head remaining in the shade of the parasol.

"Especially after I felt something was off about Fateline, so I specifically asked you to show me the video of their Chapter Master's feats, I think Gabriel Seth is quite to my liking. I think it would be nice to have a son like him; we could wrestle together in the hall of Wolf Fang Fortress or hunt together all the time!"

"But Ramizam actually told me that the Flesh-Tearers and the Space Wolves had a pretty bad relationship—I mean, the kind of relationship where they've killed each other more than once."

Pallas pointed out, "He said it seems like only their tenth company commander has the best relationship with your offspring."

"So what?" Ruth said dismissively, taking a sip of his mead Long Island Iced Tea with ice cubes in his hand. "As long as I get back to Wolf Fang Fortress, everything will be alright—can it get any worse than Space Wolves and Dark Angels?"

It was very likely that the person in the Vanas shell began to let out a soft, chuckling laugh.

Ruth glanced at him.

"Don't bring in those Comorian pointy-eared nasty accents, or I'll be tempted to take them out on you, Ecovacs."

"Ah. I'm sorry," the avatar of the Dark Raven Lord said softly, "There's nothing I can do, because the cosmic lines are layered, and I separated them too much..."

"That's why Dorn has always only allowed you to use a separate network for surveillance, but not your numerous Shadow Eyes to directly access this intranet for monitoring."

Ruth said, "Dorn will not allow you to share footage directly with the internal database here until you can make sure you are completely free of any alien race influence, especially those pointy-eared ones."

“That’s good, isn’t it, brother?” Raven replied. “Exactly. You’re here watching the surveillance footage from the lower levels that I provided, and Magna won’t know you’re watching too. It’s a satisfying little feeling of having control.”

"you are right."

The Wolf King wiped his face. "Having a second, clandestine channel always provides people with a greater sense of security."

"Ah oh."

Pallas, who was watching, sat up straight and made a sound that was somewhere between disgust and admiration.

"This is the first time I've seen what the legendary scourge of our ship looks like... Can I say it's better than I expected?"

"...To be honest, it's actually it." The avatar of the Dark Raven Lord commented, "But it's not surprising. Looking at it this way, since the last incident, it really is the only one that best meets the requirements here and is also the kind of level that won't make Nurgle lose face."

"You recognize it?"

"Hmm... Of all the Great Unclean Ones, he may have appeared in the real universe for the least amount of time, but he has left the deepest impression on everyone."

"How many of them are there? Can they really be alright?" Pallas couldn't resist the good upbringing he'd received on the Destiny Steel. "Maybe we should prepare for teleportation first..."

Ruth and Clarks exchanged a strange glance.

“It’s alright,” Ruth said finally. “Don’t forget our brothers are watching too.”

“In fact,” Clark’s avatar added, “I actually hope that after you read this, you won’t have any strange impressions of the Great Impure Ones that could cause problems in combat later.”

Foghrim Pallas gave him a puzzled look.

“Keep watching,” said the avatar of the Lord of Ravens. “Ruth was right about one thing: recently, one of our brothers on the ship has been bleeding money from Baal’s wallet because of all the problems he’s causing. It’s bleeding to the point that even the Blood God has to turn a blind eye to it. So don’t worry too much about them.”

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The unborn approach the light.

It's getting closer.

In the blink of an eye, the Flesh-Tearers lost nearly half their manpower and were thrown into the abyss.

But they were still roaring and fighting.

Looking down from the pipes Eisenhorn has climbed, using his relatively small size and weight, at the platforms and bridges where the battle is taking place, he can see that the mist in the abyss below has now been illuminated and dispersed.

He could vaguely see that what lay below was by no means an escape route—there were seven other undead beings diligently and busily catching the unconscious victims being thrown down onto the conveyor belts and pipes covered in green sludge and other things, placing them onto the conveyor belts of this horrific processing workshop.

Each of them appeared sick, rotten, and decaying, but they would never decay to clean bones and endless, ignorant silt, and they were all much smaller than the one the butchers had encountered.

The demon that reached the upper level where they were was particularly striking. It was a plague with legs, a terror etched into the very instincts of living beings.

The most terrifying part of this demon is that, apart from its horns, it doesn't have many other abnormal features. It has human-like hands, feet, and fingers, its legs and knees droop due to the expansion and loosening of its skin, and its torso resembles a corpse that has been soaking for too long.

Therefore it is so ancient that the judge gained this insight when he looked at it.

It is the oldest related entity, as depicted in the primitive and widespread worship woodcuts on Terra and other planets.

It has a single horn and a pair of antlers, an inflated belly from which bluish-purple intestines and other internal organs protrude. It is the kind of demon most likely to be worshipped as an evil god, and the line between it and the gods has become blurred.

As it hummed a cheerful tune, casting its large hand into the abyss to throw the thirty-second unfortunate victim and turned toward the judge's gaze, Eisenhorn saw that the thing's spine was actually completely cracked open by decay.

A yellowish spine, very similar to but thicker than that of a human, was exposed to the air, covered with a slippery liquid. Beneath the green plague skin was purplish-red flesh. The cracked flesh did not continue to slide down, but trembled with its movements, like a string of lilies of the valley trembling its flowers.

From behind, it looked more like a crouching toad-like demon with its back covered in yellow blisters, almost oblivious to the futile attacks of the flesh-tearers that rained down on it—it had no armor, so it took all the hits.

Unfortunately, none of the Flesh Rippers were carrying any molten metal or flamethrower weapons, and Eisenhorn's own psionic staff was nowhere to be found—incidentally, the Flesh Rippers' intelligence library specializes in psionic techniques such as "how to fight more efficiently in melee combat" and "how to make melee weapons sharper"—which is clearly a significant disadvantage when facing this type of enemy.

Therefore, the places where the Great Impure One is shattered by bombs or other attacks can always quickly swell and recover, with rotten flesh and decaying skin growing back vigorously. However, no weapon that attacks it can withstand the next attack—it will instantly turn into a jelly-like substance with a rusty color and slowly drip from the holder's hand because it is too close to it.

Even the floor here was no exception; the ground had become as soft as a swamp, with threads of slurry that could be stretched out. The walls had quietly warped and deformed, like soggy soda crackers, and the pipes that were sturdy when he climbed up now looked as soft and fragile as omelets that had been soaked in cream soup for too long.

The shredders below had no chance of escape—there was only one corridor, and the surrounding floors and walls had become like vertical swamps, capable of swallowing anything that tried to break them, including the remaining weapons and fists that had lost their terracotta.

Jumping down would land you right in their demon workshop.

"Welcome, my dear little guests! It must be so lonely working here all the time! A warm welcome to you all!"

When faced with the "encirclement" of the last fourteen flesh-tearing men, it grinned, its mouth as wide as its face, and opened its arms to them like an innkeeper welcoming guests. Its long, intestine-like tongue, dripping with pus and blood, licked the helmets of the two unfortunate victims it had just grabbed, licking away all the terracotta in one go, as easily as licking the meat sauce off a spoon.

Remaining in a state of refusing to die, the soul forever experiences the sensations of the body in eternal decay, enjoying this feeling of perpetual decay and sharing this feeling with all things around it with genuine joy—that is it.

Amidst an unnatural calm born of extreme horror at witnessing the appearance of the Great Impure Being, the judge was still able to maintain a sliver of consciousness, whether lucid or not: This Great Impure Being's teeth, though yellow, were all human teeth, quite neat, and without cavities…

Just as this wet and heavy thought flashed through his mind, Apollos was seized by it.

He was still roaring, but his black armor was almost completely rotten and fallen off, revealing his pale and scarred flesh. He was struggling desperately in the devil's hands, like Persephone, the abducted figure in an ancient sculpture.

The priest was the most violent and persistent attacker, and he also left the most wounds on the unclean.

But all this was in vain. The demon was too powerful. He grabbed Apollos and led him to the edge of the bridge, seemingly intending to take his last spoils and leave.

Apollos's frantic struggle had subsided, and he saw the priest appear soft and submissive in the hands of the Great Unclean One, his head displaying the illusion of submission that could only be seen in the High Priest when unconscious.

Eisenhorn even suspected that it was the magic array engraved inside the ship that prevented them from going insane or turning into something worse the moment they witnessed it.

Was this considered indirect rescue?! He thought, a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Should I escape back, get caught again, and then beg the ship's owner for help?!
When this thought flashed through my mind.

The demon, who had been looking down at the abyss with his back to him, suddenly turned around and grinned at Eisenhorn, who was hiding in the ceiling.

"I can't leave you here alone, it's very dangerous here, my lovely little guest."

The eyes of this great unclean being are... very... human-like... so strange... kind... friendly... gaze... no!
The Inquisitor gripped the rose knot tightly, trying to harness it for resistance. His psychic Inquisitor's strong will wavered as the pits on the rose knot pierced his palm.

"Hurry up and come over. Otherwise you won't be able to stay with your friends."

The benevolent demon shook its head, and the lifeless body of the Flesh-Tearer High Priest swayed slightly beneath its arm with its movement, as harmless as a pale lily.

"What's wrong? Is it a little guest who went upstairs but is too scared to come down? Oh dear, oh dear, what should we do?"

The kind and cheerful workshop owner below looked at the stiff judge high above with a hint of trouble or distress.

"How about this, I'll reach out and catch you here."

It...he...smiled again at the judge, a warm and sincere smile that was incredibly infectious.

"Come on, come on, my little guest, don't be afraid, jump down, I'll catch you."

Eisenhorn felt the rose knot in his hand was extremely cold, and it was gradually overflowing between his fingers, like a frozen dough that had been warmed up and was becoming soft and boneless.

He felt a primal, genetic fear creeping from his legs up to his waist and abdomen like ice...

"Come on. I'll catch you."

The cheerful and robust fat workshop owner was so sincere that he even made a muscular gesture toward him and then extended his large palm.

"Trust Papa G'aap, he'll catch you."

The nickname "Devil" echoed in Eisenhorn's ears.

Before he could change his mind and struggle in mid-air to refuse to land, the Lord of the Rotten Abyss, the Sac of Maggots, the Wind of Grimace, and the Swollen Scarbea Sarax reached out and grabbed him, then turned and leaped into the abyss with the last two guests.

As the light mist dissipated, the walls, floors, and other surfaces gradually returned to normal, remaining as spotless as before.

(End of this chapter)