Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

Almost all within the Imperium believe that after the Emperor ascended the Golden Throne, He has endured ten thousand years of torment and isolation. This is not entirely true. The torment is real—but loneliness? Far from it. If anything, it is a cacophony so relentless that peace is a distant memory.

For ten millennia, the ceaseless prayers of humanity across millions of worlds have shaped the Emperor's spiritual realm, forming a maelstrom of human will—selflessness, sacrifice, ambition, greed, betrayal. Every facet of mortal consciousness, from the noble to the depraved, exists within His mind, endlessly clashing, forming alliances, waging wars, spiraling into madness. The entirety of mankind's past and present is eternally reenacted in the vast cluster of sentient thought.

His Majesty's spiritual world is anything but silent.

Yet amidst this turmoil, the Emperor's rationality remains—an unyielding bastion in a storm of insanity. He observes the chaos with cold detachment, the ever-churning tides of humanity's thoughts pressing upon Him like an endless weight.

He does not share their joys. He does not share their sorrows. He only finds them noisy.

His sorrow sits beside Him, watching in tearful silence.

"When will this end?" it asks. "When will we be free of this near-eternal torment? These ceaseless, foolish echoes… I grieve for them every second."

The rational Emperor is silent for a long moment before finally turning His gaze upon His sorrow.

"Get away from me, you wretched thing," He says, His voice devoid of emotion. "I do not wish to see you—just as I do not wish to see Them."

The Emperor's sorrow only grows heavier.

The Emperor opens His mouth, intending to cast His sorrow away, to demand that it remove its golden throne from His sight. Ever since His ascension, His spiritual sky has remained unchanged—shrouded in eternal, oppressive haze.

But in that moment, a new light pierces the gloom.

Above, a vision manifests—radiant, overwhelming.

A golden Aquila, vast beyond measure, spreads its wings across one-third of the sky, flooding the Emperor's realm with searing light. The brilliance spills forth, drenching His domain in a torrent of divine luminance.

For the first time in an age, the madness pauses. The storm stills. The countless echoes of His fragmented will fall silent.

And then—

"He is here."

"Who is coming?"

"My son."

"The pioneer."

"The betrayer."

"Who is he?"

"Who am I?"

"Hope restored."

"I am not a god."

Millions of voices speak in unison, each pronouncing its own truth. The immense discord of thought reverberates, a cacophony of wills in conflict.

The rational Emperor says nothing.

Instead, He takes advantage of the momentary distraction, extending His will beyond the confines of His realm.

Imperial Palace, Throne Room.

Within the sanctum of the Imperial Palace, Constantin Valdor, Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, stands vigilant, ever faithful to his sacred charge. Suddenly, a flood of abstract knowledge—more sensation than words—bursts into his mind.

The shock is instantaneous.

His skull feels as if it has been hurled into the churning core of a plasma reactor, twisting and writhing under incomprehensible force. Even this demigod among men, peerless in duty and will, staggers beneath the weight of it, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Then, just as swiftly as it came, the presence recedes. The pain fades, but the message lingers—vague yet undeniable.

An order. From Him.

He is to go to the Eternity Gate. Someone is waiting.

A shiver of realization courses through Valdor's being. For ten thousand years, the Emperor has been silent. In the early centuries, He had occasionally sent whispers—fragments of divine revelation. But as the millennia dragged on, even these dwindled, until no Custodian had received a word from Him in thousands of years.

Some had begun to doubt.

But now…

"The Emperor lives."

The words echo in Valdor's mind, a truth so profound it nearly shatters his composure. He clenches his fist, steadies himself.

But who could command the Emperor's attention after so long?

There is no time for speculation. He is a Custodian, and Custodians act. Without hesitation, Valdor moves, his auramite armor gleaming as he strides through the hallowed halls of the palace. The grandeur of the Imperial edifice blurs past as he makes his way to the immense, sacred doors.

For the first time in centuries, the Eternity Gate creaks open.

Pilgrims gathered outside fall to their knees in stunned reverence, eyes wide with disbelief and awe. They weep, their prayers answered in a manner they never dared to dream—to witness the Gate itself open before their very eyes.

Valdor, however, pays them no heed. His gaze is fixed upon the towering figure before him.

A being nearly three times the height of a mortal, clad in armor that radiates authority. Despite his size, he moves among the pilgrims with effortless grace, and—most strangely—the masses part for him unconsciously, as though blind to his presence.

But Valdor sees.

He recognizes the figure at once.

The Primarch has returned.

Doubt vanishes.

Stepping forward, Valdor bows his head in respect. "Your Highness, Lord Dukel, the Emperor's servant greets you. You remain as mighty as you were ten thousand years ago."

Dukel regards him. "You know me?"

Valdor nods. "I once marched beneath your banner. Then, I was but a humble recruit."

Dukel offers a small nod. "Lead me, Custodian."

Yet Valdor does not move immediately. His gaze shifts to the colossal figure standing beside the Primarch—a towering warrior, wrapped in armor that conceals every aspect of her identity. Even through the heavy plating, Valdor senses something… off.

No Primarch has ever appeared so slight.

"Who is this warrior?" he asks.

Dukel's expression does not change. "That is confidential."

A silence passes before Valdor steps aside. "Then follow me."

As they walk, Dukel surveys the palace halls. "Where are the others?"

"At their posts. Shall I summon them?"

"No need."

They ascend the steps to the Golden Throne.

Before him, before them all, lies the Emperor.

Or what remains of Him.

Though Dukel had steeled himself, the sight still strikes deep. The sorrow that wells within him is too vast for words, an ocean of silent grief pressing upon the chamber like a weight beyond measure.

Valdor falters, overwhelmed by the raw presence of it.

"Leave us," Dukel commands softly.

Valdor hesitates.

"This is His will."

With a final bow, Valdor departs, leaving only the Primarch and the warrior before the broken husk of the Master of Mankind.

"My master, do you grieve for your father?" the armored figure asks.

Dukel does not turn his gaze from the Throne.

"I have no time for grief," he replies. "The greatest deceiver in the galaxy lies before us. He built the grandest dream, made us fight for it, yet withheld the most crucial truth."

His voice is quiet, but resolute.

"Thousands of years have passed. Not only have our ideals failed—they have become a mockery."

Dukel donned his heavy steel boots and ascended the steps toward the throne. His cloak dragged against the carpet, the rustling sound echoing through the silent hall.

"We cannot rest. In this dark galaxy, there is only war. Vigilance must be eternal."

He recalled his past—his life as a slave, toiling in the shadows of the Dark Galaxy.

With a sharp clang, Dukel drew his weapon—the Sword of the Mind. It bore similarities to the Blade of Pain, equipped with a mind-sensor, yet it lacked any infused energy.

For now, it remained an ordinary creation.

Raising the blade, he watched the silent hall reflect its cold steel gleam.

"Your Majesty, I am your sworn champion, your loyal heir, come to deliver you. Grant me your strength—for our ideals, for the revival and survival of mankind."

Dukel's voice was heavy with purpose.

As he spoke, nearly infinite psychic energy, infused with the Emperor's lingering will, surged into the Sword of the Mind.

Across Holy Terra, behind the Golden Throne, Behind every statue of the Emperor, Miracles were manifesting.

A vast ring of flames ignited, resembling a burning crown of thorns.

Infinite power surged into the once-ordinary blade, now the Sword of the Soul, burning with golden fire.

The sword's edge began to melt from the unimaginable energy, transfiguring into a weapon truly worthy of the Emperor's cause.

Even Dukel felt the weight of divinity pressing upon him. The Emperor's power flowed relentlessly into the blade, the golden flames intensifying. He stepped forward, his gait heavy but unstoppable.

Aisha followed closely behind, her gaze upon Dukel filled with awe and devotion.

This was her master—beyond his inhuman form lay a noble soul, willing to fight for the Imperium, even for all life in the galaxy.

He had no obligation to do so. With his power, he could have survived even if Terra were to become a second Eye of Terror. And yet, for the sake of mankind, he bore this burden and walked this path.

His fearless resolve stirred something deep within Aisha, igniting unspoken praise in her heart.

Then—

A sharp puff! resounded.

Aisha looked up—

Dukel had plunged the sword into the Emperor's chest without hesitation.

An instant later, a tide of raw psychic energy erupted from the wound, an explosion of unfathomable force. The storm of unleashed power rippled outward, obliterating everything in the hall.

Even the Imperial Guard in their Adamantium-clad armor would have perished instantly in its wake.

Dukel bore the brunt of the storm. His long black hair danced in the turbulence, his formidable form unyielding against the maelstrom.

"Aisha, now is the time! Fulfill your mission!"

"As you command, my Lord."

Aisha fought against the storm's fury, her power armor shielding her from the initial onslaught.

But the specially crafted suit lasted mere moments before it was torn apart. Emerging from its shattered remains, her form shimmered—her slender, gauze-draped figure glowing with ethereal power.

She pressed forward, her every step a battle against the tempest.

Finally, with great effort, she reached out—her pale, delicate fingers touching the Emperor's broken form.

Endless life energy surged from her, pouring into the Emperor's body.

Like a miracle, the withered corpse—bound to the Golden Throne for millennia—began to stir with renewed vitality.

Outside the chamber, Waldo, Captain of the Emperor's Guard, heard the detonation within.

Without hesitation, he turned back, disregarding all etiquette—his only concern was his duty to the Emperor.

What he saw shook him to his core.

The Primarch, the Emperor's own son, had driven a flaming sword into the Master of Mankind's chest.

And beside him—

An impossibly tall Eldar abomination, her blasphemous hands upon the Emperor, conducting some vile sorcery.

Rage boiled within Waldo.

The wound in the Emperor's chest bled psychic fury, annihilating everything within the hall—except for the two culprits.

For the first time in his life, Waldo's mind blanked. His spear slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the stone floor.

"No!!!"

Grief and fury consumed him. He didn't stop to question the situation—there was no need. Betrayal was self-evident.

He seized his weapon and lunged at Dukel—

Only to be hurled back by the storm's force.

"H-how…"

His body slammed into a pillar, agony shooting through his shattered bones.

He could not stop them. The Primarch's strength was beyond him.

Despair gnawed at his resolve—until a thought struck him.

The Lion and Guilliman.

Yes—only they could halt this madness!

Ignoring the pain, Waldo staggered to his feet and fled the chamber.

He had to reach them—

Before it was too late.

Dukel walked through a realm of endless ash.

His armored boots crunched against the desolate ground, leaving deep imprints in the dust of fallen dreams.

By using the Sword of the Mind as a conduit, he had entered the Emperor's psychic domain, severed from all outside perception.

Within this spectral world, he carried the Emperor's blessing—the greatsword in his grip ablaze with golden fire.

This was the last gift of the Master of Mankind.

Before him lay a court of the dead—corpses enthroned in countless golden seats.

These were the echoes of past Emperors, as numerous as the ideologies that once divided mankind.

He strode through this graveyard of sovereigns, bathed in the pale glow of extinguished dreams.

"Father."

For the first time since arriving in this world, Dukel spoke the word with solemnity. Not for himself, but for a promise—

"Father, I am here."

His voice echoed through the void.

The skeletal figures upon the thrones turned their hollow gazes toward him.

"Father, I come to fulfill the judgment that was denied ten thousand years ago! The judgment of the Savior of Mankind—the Holy Emperor!"

Dukel let his power surge freely in this realm, unshackled by material constraints.

A cacophony erupted.

A million voices—

A hundred million proclamations—

All speaking at once.

"My son."

"Second son."

"Commander."

"Pioneer."

"Abuser."

"Redeemer."

"Judgment."

"Reckless fool."

For a brief moment, the cacophony of voices—countless echoes of the Emperor—fell silent.

Dukel's piercing gaze swept across the thrones of the spectral rulers. His eyes burned with righteous fury, daring any of them to respond. None did. Yet, as his sight passed over one in particular, the golden throne beneath it trembled.

Dukel's grip on the hilt of his sword tightened.

"It's you, isn't it?" he said, voice sharp as a blade. "You're the one who called me reckless?"

Still, the gathered emperors did not speak. Yet the golden throne quivered more violently, as if in response.

Dukel did not hesitate.

Raising his flame-wreathed sword, he launched himself forward, cutting through the air like a comet.

Shock rippled through the gathered figures. For the first time, these echoes of the Master of Mankind shared a unified emotion—surprise.

Then, steel met gold.

A thunderous crash echoed through the immaterial realm as Dukel struck with relentless fury. Twenty-two blows fell in an instant, each swing carving deep into the throne's frame.

The massive structure shattered. The ancient corpse seated upon it crumbled into dust.

From the ruin, an overwhelming surge of power erupted—raw, primordial essence spilling forth. Dukel absorbed only a fraction, yet even that was enough to push him beyond previous limits.

The last time he had taken such power was from Kairos Fateweaver, the most cunning of Tzeentch's Greater Daemons.

Yet the energy he now claimed dwarfed that by a magnitude beyond measure.

Feeling the surge coursing through his very being, Dukel exhaled, his expression cold, resolute.

"So it was the Emperor's dark half," he murmured.

His grip on the sword tightened as he spoke, conviction solidifying in his voice.

"I have always shown mercy. Even the Goddess of Life once praised my kindness, likening it to the stars themselves."

His golden flames flared brighter.

"Only darkness could hate such light. And I—" his voice rang with unshakable resolve, "—shall see all darkness purged from existence!"

His oath echoed through the ethereal winds, reverberating across the halls of the spiritual plane.

Dukel stood unshaken, wielding the Sword of the Emperor's Judgment. The Lord of the Second Legion. The burning heart of loyalty incarnate.

Loyalty.