Warhammer: Open the door! Human League players!

Chapter 150 Triple Chaotic Power Assaults Him

Guilliman and Feralas, the two Primarchs, immediately led thousands of Imperial Guards and tens of thousands of Astartes warriors out of the palace.

With these two at the core, the overall situation on the battlefield was affected, and the army charged straight toward Abaddon, determined to kill him first.

According to Kaul's deduction, once Abaddon fully receives the blessings of the four gods, his fighting power will be comparable to Horus during the rebellion.

It could be even stronger.

Horus once possessed the terrifying power to easily slaughter Primarchs. Under such a threat, only the Emperor's personal presence could counter it, but such a situation is currently impossible.

After weighing the pros and cons, Guilliman quickly devised a strategy and led the entire army to rush to the enemy's location.

The battlefield where the two sides fought fiercely was the third sacrificial site for the evil god, a blasphemous holy place that had completely fallen under the authority of Nurgle.

Players also know that Abaddon is no longer the same as before, and they follow Guilliman's forces to the sacrificial site of the third evil god.

Khorne's gore is tolerable, but Nurgle's filth is enough to make one physically uncomfortable.

"Is this what Nurgle is?"

"What kind of bullshit benevolent father is this?"

"Damn it, who said transmigrating to Warhammer: Nurgle is the most comfortable? You can even transmigrate to Nurgle!"

This place is no longer the sacred land of Terra. The entire land is covered by layers of turbid and viscous miasma. Black, putrid water flows continuously along the cracked earth and ravines. Countless festering and swollen lumps and abscesses rise on the surface, pulsating and spitting out poisonous mist like living flesh.

The altar base was built up and compacted with the bones of millions of victims. Blackened blood accumulated in the gaps between the layers of dry bones, and thick, foul-smelling bodily fluids dripped continuously from the bone gaps, forming rotten, foul-smelling pools of blood on the ground.

The surrounding area was filled with countless broken and twisted sacrificial remains, and countless mortals who died in battle, traitorous soldiers, and captured Imperial believers were all tormented and nailed to the altar pillars by Nurgle's evil energy.

"Damn it, I feel like throwing up!"

"What's the difference between this and a cesspool?"

"My God, is this a strawberry tower made of corpses?"

The mutilated body was festering and oozing pus, infested with maggots. The swollen and decaying flesh was not yet completely dead. Under the pull of evil forces, a faint, endlessly wailing remnant soul still lingered. Every inch of air was filled with the stench of festering, disease, torment, and despair.

There is no rest in death here, only the eternal decay, perpetual torment, and cruel sacrifice unique to Nurgle.

Even though their feet were in the most filthy inferno of the warp, and even though the onrushing plague was enough to melt armor and corrode flesh, the Imperial Army did not flinch in the slightest.

Tens of thousands of Astartes formed an iron line, their heavy armor pounding over festering tumors and towering skeletons, producing a dull, heavy rumble.

Poisonous miasma eroded the plating of the power armor, putrid blood clung to the black boots, and the incessant, mournful wails of the undead filled the air.

It was the eerie hum of the writhing evil energy of the Netherworld, yet not a single warrior stopped, and not a single person panicked.

The explosive rifle rested firmly on his shoulder, the power axe gleamed coldly, and the sacred imperial prayer resonated deep within the communication channels of tens of thousands of warriors.

They walk in the deepest part of hell on earth, treading over decay, crossing over death, and facing eternal torment, using their mortal bodies to resist the corrupt power of evil gods.

Knowing full well that this place was a death trap, that the air was poisonous, the earth devoured lives, and that despair was ever-present, the warriors of the empire still pressed on relentlessly.

This is the tragic grandeur of the human empire, and also the most awe-inspiring display of the iron-willed dignity of the Terran defenders. The infernal realm could not extinguish the spirit of the sacred land's army, nor could decaying evil devour humanity's might.

This scene shocked the players.

"Is this the human empire?"

Watching those loyal soldiers, even as their bodies decayed, remain loyal to the Emperor as they marched toward the most filthy place of Nurgle sacrifice.

"It seems that it's not entirely beyond saving."

Drooling, he said, "Guilliman, we'll clear the way for you!"

"Let them do something more meaningful!"

Guilliman nodded; he understood that these Iron Men were the optimal solution on the Nurgle battlefield.

At this moment, the only force the empire could rely on was the Imperial Guard.

As for ordinary Astartes, they are no longer able to participate in the battles of the Sacrifice Grounds.

Fifty thousand mechanical humanoids are equivalent to fifty thousand company commanders, and their combat power far exceeds that of Astartes.

Ordinary Iron Golems cannot withstand the decay of Nurgle. Even metal can be twisted and corroded by Nurgle's demonic plague. However, the Human Alliance's mechanical humanoids can ignore most of the Nurgle's corrosion. Only high-level demons or Nurgle demons of the Greater Demon level can affect mechanical humanoids.

With the Human Alliance's mechanical humanoids clearing the way, the defensive line formed by the Nurgle demons on the battlefield was torn apart.

Abaddon, who was in the heart of the altar, was already surrounded by layers of ripples of divine blessing.

As the dual powers of Khorne and Slaanesh continued to flow into his body, his ambition, greed, and extreme thirst for power, which had been suppressed for thousands of years, broke through the shackles and expanded wildly at this moment.

Boundless lust for slaughter, a desire for domination, and an obsession that transcends all original entities completely filled his mind. He wanted to thoroughly understand the core essence of this Nurgle sacrifice array, absorb the decaying vitality and undying power accumulated over millennia in the holy land, complete his ultimate ascension to godhood, break free from all shackles, and ascend to a new realm of combat power capable of crushing all the heavens.

He stepped forward, pointing directly at the source of evil power at the very center of the altar.

Guilliman's eyes were icy cold, filled with a chilling killing intent.

There is absolutely no way we can let this go unchecked.

Guilliman immediately accelerated, his holy light surging, and he took a step forward alone, forcefully blocking Abaddon's path to ascension between them and the altar core.

This resolute obstruction instantly alarmed the demonic torrent on the other side of the battlefield.

Especially Angron, who stood at the forefront of the demon army.

As the most insane, bloodthirsty, and murderous warrior under Khorne's command, the King of Slash's mind is always filled with the instinct to fight, slaughter, and crush all enemies.

At that very moment, the oracle of Khorne from the depths of the warp crashed into his mind—a clear, domineering, and unquestionable supreme command.

At all costs, stop the Imperial Primarch and cover Abaddon's ascension to the Great Demonic Realm!

Khorne needs a fully formed Chaos Warmaster, comparable to Horus, and a peerless, deadly blade capable of tearing Terra apart and severing the glory of the Emperor.

A frenzied, bloodthirsty killing intent instantly filled Angron's soul, and his crimson eyes were filled with nothing but endless fanaticism for slaughter.

Just as he was about to charge forward in a frenzy, a thick, golden line of defense suddenly blocked his path.

Feralus Marus stood tall on the earth, his iron body solemn and his fighting spirit soaring.

Behind him, five hundred Terran Guardians formed an impenetrable array, their divine light piercing the heavens and earth. The Silver Primarch, leading the golden Guardians, used holy light to suppress all the filth of the surrounding warp, effectively blocking Angron's charge.

On one side is the bloodthirsty, manic Khorne, who only cares about killing; on the other side are the unyielding Primarch and the Holy Army, who stand firm and defend the Holy Land.

No extra words were exchanged, and no confrontation was necessary.

Angron raised his head and let out a ferocious roar that shook the entire area. The earth-shattering killing roar tore through the miasma and thick fog. The blood axe in his hand was wrapped with billions of killing intent and carried the terrifying power to shatter mountains and rivers. He ruthlessly cleaved forward!

Felus's expression was cold and fierce. He unleashed the full power of his Primarch form, his iron-blooded fighting spirit clashing with the raging demonic flames, directly confronting the strongest killing angel of Chaos.

Two top-tier combatants clashed violently, and an earth-shattering battle erupted instantly.

In the center of the battlefield, only Guilliman and Abaddon remained, facing off alone.

There was no probing, no maneuvering.

Guilliman's Imperial Sword, imbued with the brilliant golden light that had suppressed millennia of chaos, descended with terrifying force capable of crushing warships and tearing apart heavily armored legions. The reborn Guilliman was no longer the same. Forged by the Eternal Armor, tempered by endless battles, and refined by the laws of the warp, his physical strength, muscle power, psionic reserves, and combat instincts were now many times greater than those of his Primarch form during the Great Rebellion. He was now the Imperium's sharpest spear, a divine war god walking among mortals, his power far surpassing the original forms of all the orthodox Primarchs from ten thousand years ago.

For any Primarch during the Great Rebellion, being able to stand up to Guilliman at this moment would be an extremely unrealistic dream.

Faced with this unparalleled divine offensive, Abaddon did not retreat but advanced.

The Black Warlord held aloft the jet-black blade of destruction, his body shrouded in the thick, murky, and inexhaustible corrupted subspace energy of Nurgle, with layers upon layers of evil god force fields tightly binding his body.

The festering evil energy, the perpetual plague, and the power of immortal regeneration from the entire sacrificial holy site continuously poured into his body.

He had not yet fully completed the third blessing of Nurgle, yet he had already received a terrifying boost far exceeding the limits of mortals and far surpassing that of ordinary Chaos Demon Champions. The pitch-black battle blade and the holy sword collided with a deafening roar.

"BOOM!!!!"

The earth-shattering shockwave instantly swept across the entire filthy sacrificial battlefield. Tumors burst open, putrid water steamed, and bones shattered. The surrounding low-level Chaos minions and the charging Astartes warriors were all blown away by the shockwave, severely wounded and fleeing in disarray.

The first move, Abaddon takes it head-on.

His arm shuddered violently, his heavy armor cracked, and a tearing pain shot through his bones, but he stood firm and did not retreat an inch.

The second move: Guilliman combined his fist and sword, condensing golden light into a tangible torrent of destruction that crashed down head-on.

The Primarch's combat skills were flawless. Every exertion of power pushed the limits of both the human and superhuman, leaving no room for redundancy. Every strike was an absolute suppression.

Abaddon twisted his body, using the savage combat skills honed over millennia of warfare to parry, deflect, and counterattack. Black blade shadows crisscrossed wildly, and the negative energy of the warp clashed and annihilated the holy light of the empire.

He was bearing the brunt, he was blocking, he was fighting back.

If it were ten thousand years ago, even a regular Primarch at his peak could have easily crushed Abaddon of the old era with a single blow, leaving him no chance to even struggle.

At that time, the Warmaster was nothing more than a slightly stronger ant in front of the Primarch, and even looking him in the eye required a great deal of courage.

But now, he has withstood several of Guilliman's fierce attacks.

The third move, the fourth move, and the fifth move.

The overwhelming onslaught completely shut down Abaddon's escape routes, while the Primarch's power, amplified several times over, layered upon layer...

It erupted completely.

Finally, with a powerful, head-on shove, Abaddon's defenses completely crumbled.

A crisp, ear-piercing sound of metal breaking rang out as the Chaos Heavy Armor on his chest completely collapsed and cracked. His massive body, like a meteorite struck by a star, flew backward through the air with a muffled thud, traversing dozens of meters of the battlefield before crashing heavily into the dilapidated sacrificial platform.

Rock fragments flew, putrid mist surged, and dust filled the air. The filthy ground, compacted by flesh and bones, was smashed into a deep crater.

Abaddon crashed to the ground, his armor riddled with cracks, his body numb, his blood churning, and a scalding, metallic taste rising in his throat.

He lost.

In just a few dozen moves, he was completely defeated and brutally knocked down.

But he did not die.

After a long while, amidst the swirling dust and decaying mist, the black figure that had stood for millennia in chaos slowly propped up its broken body, leaning on its blade with one hand, and stood up straight again with difficulty but determination.

Within those crimson eyes, there was no dejection or defeat, only burning fervor and extreme ecstasy.

He knew perfectly well what this meant.

He lost the moves and the battle, but he won the transformation of himself.

He was facing an enhanced Guilliman whose power far exceeded that of all the Primarchs from ten thousand years ago, making him one of the most powerful forces in the entire galaxy today.

But he, a Chaos Warmaster of mortal origin, a warrior who could only look up at the Primarch's back, met, blocked, and even counterattacked the Primarch's fierce attack head-on within a few moves.

He was knocked down, but not instantly killed, not crushed, not completely wiped out.

This is a qualitative change.

At this moment, Abaddon was absolutely certain that he had firmly established himself at the lowest level of Primarch power.

not only that.

Compared to the original Primarchs of the Great Rebellion who were unrefined, without any divine intervention, and were simply creations of the Emperor, his current physical resilience, endurance, resistance to attacks, and combat prowess in dire situations have surpassed those of the original Primarchs from ten thousand years ago.

His opponents were simply too strong.

It is a completely new primordial entity that has undergone generational shifts, sacred reshaping, and multiplied its power many times over.

It's not shameful to be defeated by such a force.

This only proves that the Black Legion's warriors have finally broken free from the shackles of mortals and champions, and truly stepped into the realm of gods and Primarchs.

The wind whipped his tattered black cloak, and the decaying life force of the Nurgle sacrificial site slowly flowed behind him, soothing his wounds and repairing his cracked armor and body. Abaddon raised his head, staring intently at Guilliman ahead, his fighting spirit soaring.

He can still fight.

But his transformation has only just begun.

The shattered body exudes a powerful ability to corrode in subspace, a blessing from Nurgle.

The blessing granted him the ability to ignore his injuries and find joy even in pain.

Aches, itches, and swelling.

Despite being severely damaged by Guilliman, Abaddon became increasingly excited.

The partial blessing bestowed upon Nurgle upon him these abilities.

The eeriness of Slaanesh, the carnage of Khorne, and the body of Nurgle—these three forces intertwined, giving Abaddon an indescribable pleasure.

The torn body continued to intertwine and heal.

This is still an incomplete blessing of Nurtle.

He stood in Nurgle's blessing, mocking Guilliman's incompetence.

"The era of the Primarchs has ended!"

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