Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

In recent days, the Primarch had not personally ventured out to console the surviving citizens of the Imperium.

Yet, when the tall and imposing Space Marines and the resolute Adepta Sororitas marched through the devastated world, the populace greeted the Emperor's angels with tears of reverence and hope.

"The Emperor's angels have come; all suffering shall end."

Their unwavering faith converged on Dukel, becoming an inexhaustible source of strength for him.

In the Immaterium, the news of Lymbas' defeat and the Withered Legion's obliteration rippled through the Warp. Nurgle, the Plaguefather, felt the loss of his fragments. For once, the Lord of Decay was silent.

He banished his children from the Garden of Nurgle and sat alone in the mire, stirring his cauldron in brooding solitude. Even Isha, the captive goddess of the Aeldari, did not see him during this time.

This was a rare and unprecedented setback for the great being. Though weakened—albeit slightly—Nurgle could not show weakness, for even the predator of the forest knows better than to bare its vulnerabilities.

This did not mean he was resigned.

Far from it. The loving father turned his focus toward the original cause of his pain, like a wounded beast lurking in the shadows, licking its wounds while preparing for the next hunt.

This was Nurgle at his weakest—and his most dangerous.

On a desolate world in the Warp, Mortarion, the Death Lord, learned of Lymbas' annihilation. A strange, low laugh escaped his lips, his mirth laced with malice. The demise of a fellow servant of Nurgle seemed to amuse him.

The corrupt daemon flies swarming the world buzzed joyfully, their diseased forms glinting in the toxic haze. Green miasma spread like a pestilent tide, and Nurglings cavorted gleefully in the poisonous fog.

"My brother," Mortarion murmured, his voice barely audible through the corrupted air. "You always find ways to shine, even in silence."

Since ascending as Nurgle's chosen Primarch, Mortarion had turned away from the trivial affairs of the material realm. To him, the real universe was a dull and pitiful place.

The great game of the Chaos Gods held far more intrigue.

It wasn't until the whispers of his loyalists informed him of his Primarch brothers' resurgence that his interest in the physical world rekindled. Yet even before he could act, fate presented him with something far more intriguing.

Number Two had surprised him.

"I am not like you," Mortarion intoned, his voice carrying a quiet venom. "I do not indulge in corruption—I command it. It serves me, not the other way around."

A sinister smirk crossed his pallid face. "Win, brother. Keep winning. Relish every triumph. Perhaps, when the final hour comes, you will understand who truly won."

Nurgle's silence was both unexpected and fitting.

The Plague God was not known for swift vengeance. As the orks themselves loved to boast, even when Gork and Mork—those brutal and cunning greenskin gods—had assaulted Nurgle, the Plaguefather had done little to retaliate.

The tale of Gork smashing Nurgle with a club and Mork delivering a sneak attack at the Garden's gates had become a legendary yarn among the orks. Yet, despite this affront, Nurgle had taken no noteworthy revenge against the greenskin deities.

In the days that followed, Dukel met with the Fabricator-General Gris to discuss the feasibility of various technological breakthroughs.

When the Primarch proposed capturing greenskins for research purposes, the Great Sage of Mars nearly fainted.

The study of xenos technology was an unthinkable heresy to both the Ecclesiarchy and the Adeptus Mechanicus. Such a project would ordinarily require surviving the scrutiny of the Inquisition, years of deliberations, and countless votes.

However, as Dukel elaborated on the potential of greenskin genetic technology, Gris had no choice but to acknowledge the idea's brilliance.

Driven by his insatiable thirst for knowledge, the Fabricator-General reluctantly agreed to collaborate with Dukel's research.

Half a month later, the Nanlis galaxy was purged of all Chaos forces.

After a brief respite, the expeditionary fleet set course once more, guided by coordinates provided by Commissar Kane.

The greenskin orks are a peculiar species.

Though plant-like in their biology, they are as mobile and aggressive as any beast. From a single fragment of their fungal matter, an entire horde can sprout, flourishing in environments most life would find inhospitable.

Thus far, they are the only species capable of matching the Tyranids in sheer numbers.

The ancient Old Ones had engineered the orks as living weapons of war, embedding within their genetic makeup the capability to adapt and thrive in any conditions.

This genetic legacy allows the orks to leapfrog technological stages with astonishing speed, particularly when conflict serves as a catalyst. Their latent genetic programming, paired with the Waaagh! energy—a psychic gestalt field created by their collective belief—warps reality itself.

If an ork believes a vehicle will function, it often does. If they paint it red, it truly becomes faster. This power extends to their crude starships, cobbled together from scrap yet capable of traversing the void.

Guided by Kane's coordinates, the expeditionary fleet arrived at an agricultural world designated as Euro.

The plains were overrun with orks. Hulking green-skinned beasts and ramshackle war machines moved in chaotic unison.

Crude buggies, gargantuan war bikes, and towering battle wagons rumbled forward in a cacophony of Waaagh! cries.

Psykers known as Weirdboyz screamed incoherent chants, while Gretchin and Squigs darted among the horde, their small forms adding to the chaos.

As the orks advanced toward the Imperial settlements, their crude armor glinted with mismatched colors, and their weapons—while appearing rudimentary—carried a lethality born of their brutal simplicity.

To the orks, humans were both prey and playthings.

The Imperium responded without hesitation.

"Boom!"

Orbital macro-cannons, lance batteries, and plasma bombardments erupted from the void, tearing into the ork horde with devastating force.

The Expeditionary Fleet's initial salvo shattered the ork vessels in orbit, scattering debris and corpses into the cold expanse of space. The greenskin tide roared defiantly, their Waaagh! unbroken even in the face of annihilation.

The war for Euro had begun.

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