Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

Thanks to the timely arrival of the Expeditionary Fleet, this agricultural world narrowly avoided impending disaster.

The greenskins, or Orks, are undoubtedly a monumental threat to the Imperium. Their terrifying reproductive efficiency, if left unchecked, becomes a nightmare of catastrophic proportions.

In most cases, the Inquisition would issue an Exterminatus to purge all life on a world tainted by xenos.

On the battlefield, the Orks filled the air with their cacophony of chaotic and raucous noise.

A massive Warboss emerged from the throng of Ork Boyz, piloting a colossal, ramshackle war machine with a brutish "WAAAGH!" banner. It bellowed and stomped, looking menacingly at the distant Imperial defensive lines.

The crude war machine, nearly rivaling a Knight Titan in size, bristled with jagged tusks and grotesque spikes hammered into its frame. Its terrifying appearance matched the savagery of its pilot.

With a deafening roar, the Warboss rallied the mob. A green tide surged forward as the Warboyz stormed toward the Imperial defenses.

Inside the defensive perimeter stood a regiment of grim and silent soldiers. The Death Korps of Krieg.

Clad in their somber uniforms, with gas masks concealing their faces, they were avatars of deathly quiet resolve. Their eyes, hidden behind the lenses of their respirators, betrayed no emotion—only the cold certainty of their duty.

The Commissar strode purposefully within the lines, barking orders amplified by a mechanized loudspeaker. His laspistol fired into the air for emphasis, the cracks echoing above the din.

"Attention, all units!"

"NO CHARGES WITHOUT ORDERS!"

"I REPEAT: NO CHARGES WITHOUT ORDERS!"

"Listen, cavalry! Anyone who dares disobey this directive will be shot on the spot!"

Veins bulged on the Commissar's neck as he roared the orders. Such exhortations were a grim necessity before every battle. His role wasn't just to lead but also to keep his soldiers from breaking discipline.

The tension was palpable. The Commissar's duties extended beyond suppressing premature charges. He had to watch his back—any lapse in vigilance might result in a frag grenade rolled suspiciously close to his boots.

Without the Commissar's iron hand, the Kriegers would hurl themselves at the enemy with a suicidal zeal, no matter the odds. Each soldier fought as though born to die, willing to slay or be slain without hesitation.

"Maintain artillery fire!" the Commissar ordered over the vox.

Basilisks, Hydra autocannons, and rotary multilasers roared in unison, saturating the battlefield with punishing firepower. The plains were scorched by flamethrowers, explosions tore through the Orks' crude vehicles, and countless greenskins were obliterated.

Yet, more Orks emerged from the inferno, their ramshackle contraptions rattling onward.

The soldiers manning the defensive line silently affixed their bayonets. Their lifeless, hollow eyes glinted faintly behind their gas masks as they waited for the order to countercharge.

Suddenly, a thunderous impact shook the battlefield.

BOOM!

A massive figure descended like a meteorite, landing amidst the Ork ranks. The shockwave hurled Orks aside like ragdolls, many of them coughing blood as their chests caved from the force.

The landing zone—formerly a slight hill—had transformed into a massive crater.

Amid the rolling smoke and debris, the greenskin assault ground to a halt. The charging Orks froze, their brutish faces contorted in confusion and fear.

"What's dat?!"

"Looks proper scary, dat does!"

"Oi, when da dust clears, we krump it good!"

Before they could act, the smoke parted, revealing a colossal figure wading through their ranks with brutal efficiency.

The figure was the Primarch Dukel, an unstoppable juggernaut. His path was marked by devastation as he cleaved through Ork mobs with ease, leaving a trail of carnage.

Dukel had a single purpose: to reach the Warboss. The Orks that dared stand in his way were ruthlessly cut down, unable to mount any meaningful resistance.

Ork society revolves around strength. Without a powerful leader, their hordes collapse into chaos and infighting.

Within the defensive line, the Commissar seized the moment, his whistle cutting through the air like a clarion call.

The soldiers of Krieg, who had waited in restless silence, launched their countercharge. No war cries. No battle shouts. They surged forward like a black tide—cold, methodical, and relentless.

Bayonets flashed, and the melee descended into a storm of gore. Blood and viscera coated the battlefield as the Kriegers tore into the Orks with savage precision.

Among them, a rider whose torso had been crushed by an Ork brute crawled beneath the alien's feet. With a defiant growl, he detonated a melta-bomb strapped to his broken body, annihilating himself and the greenskin.

Such displays of grim resolve defined the Death Korps. Life held no meaning beyond its service to the Emperor.

This time, however, the Kriegers noticed something unusual. Their charge felt lighter, the pressure on their ranks diminished.

At the forefront, a towering figure blazed a path through the enemy lines, bearing the brunt of the greenskin onslaught.

For the first time, the soldiers of Krieg felt an unspoken certainty:

Even mortals can follow in the footsteps of a giant and reach the stars.

Dukel reached the Warboss—a towering behemoth whose size rivaled that of a Space Marine Dreadnought.

Ork Warbosses grow stronger with their hordes, their physical power swelling in tandem with their Waaagh! energy. This Warboss was no exception, standing as a brutal colossus.

But Dukel, empowered by the collective will of humanity, had no equal.

The Warboss bellowed, "Oi, humie, ya fink yer tough, eh?! Waaagh!"

Ignoring the brutish taunts, Dukel closed the distance in a single bound. Their force fields clashed, Waaagh! energy meeting psychic might in a titanic collision. The greenskin's field ruptured under Dukel's overwhelming power.

With a single devastating punch, Dukel sent the Warboss sprawling. The Ork's beady eyes widened in disbelief.

Before the alien could recover, Dukel planted a boot on its back and grasped its massive head with both hands.

CRACK!

With a sickening pulp, Dukel tore the Warboss's head from its shoulders, the spine dangling grotesquely. Blood sprayed in torrents as the greenskin leader's lifeless body collapsed.

The Waaagh! field shattered instantly. Disoriented and leaderless, the remaining Orks scattered in terror.

"Oi, boss is dead!"

"Leg it!"

"Dun look at 'im, or we're next!"

The Primarch stood victorious, holding the severed head aloft like a grim trophy. His imposing figure, framed by the headless Warboss, was a sight to behold.

Drones circled overhead, capturing the moment from every angle.

This was no mere battle—it was a carefully orchestrated display, designed to demoralize the Orks.

By spreading these images throughout greenskin-occupied worlds, the seeds of fear would be sown. The message was clear:

The Primarch is unstoppable. The Imperium is invincible.

...

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