Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

Dukel prided himself on being an emotional individual, but he held no mercy for xenos. The devastation wrought by the Genestealers upon this world was irreversible. The tendrils of Chaos had seized upon the ritual's psychic reverberations to breach the veil between the Warp and reality.

Darkness deeper than the void spilled into the world, saturating it with Chaos' malignant aura. The fear and despair of the surviving populace served as a feast for the daemons, who thrived on such emotions.

Under the pretense of liberation, xenos and unhinged psykers had toppled the world's governing structures. What they called freedom quickly devolved into hedonistic debauchery, drawing the gaze of Slaanesh to this cursed realm. The foul offspring of the Prince of Excess prowled among the populace, savoring their naive souls.

Once the Warp's barrier was breached, the resulting descent into chaos would be nearly impossible to reverse. The world stood poised to become another dominion of the Ruinous Powers.

Even Dukel, for all his power, could not save it. Though he dismantled the Warp gate, the taint of Chaos had already seeped into every corner. Blasphemous whispers echoed ceaselessly in the ears of the populace. The tentacles of the Immaterium twisted through the land, manifesting abominations that lurked within the darkness.

A sinister purple light bathed the heavens, warping the skies into a roiling mass of malevolent clouds. Occasional flashes of lightning revealed silhouettes that defied sanity.

The Imperial Expeditionary Forces acted swiftly. Bolter fire roared as the Emperor's warriors purged heretics and xenos alike in the Emperor's name. Cleansing the tainted world had become an unavoidable necessity.

Innocents, tainted by Chaos' insidious influence, became collateral damage. Bolter shells meant to defend humanity now tore through the corrupted remnants of their kin. The Space Marines' power armor gleamed faintly in the glow of flames as they delivered unflinching judgment.

Whether human, xenos, psyker, or cultist, all would face the Emperor's justice. The soil was soaked in blood, the rain mingling with crimson pools to wash away the filth of corruption. But it was not enough. Chaos mocked humanity's feeble resistance, spreading its taint as if to emphasize mankind's insignificance.

Small units of Space Marines advanced cautiously, scanning for signs of infection among survivors. Many untainted individuals were discovered, but few would escape the grim determination of the cleansing. Survival here was no victory.

Dukel stood apart, observing the carnage in silence. Blood pooled at his feet, its depth a grim testament to the cost of this war. His expression flickered with doubt. For the first time, he questioned whether his actions were righteous or misguided.

The Primarch wrestled with emotions he could not entirely suppress. Though he fed upon the strength of humanity's collective will, his own human sentiments remained a vulnerable chink in his otherwise unyielding armor.

Other Primarchs would not have hesitated. Guilliman, ever pragmatic, would have issued an exterminatus without a second thought. Sanguinius, noble and compassionate, might have hesitated, but even he would likely concede to necessity. Dorn, the stalwart sentinel, and Vulkan, the champion of humanity's welfare, might act differently—but even they might bow to the greater good.

Dukel reflected bitterly on these truths. His brothers' methods, while effective, felt devoid of hope for the Emperor's loyal subjects. Yet was his own approach truly better?

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Gris, the venerable sage of the Expedition. The man's hesitant demeanor betrayed the importance of his message.

"What is it, Gris?" Dukel asked.

"Your Highness, the Tech-Priests have recovered peculiar memories from several fallen individuals," Gris began cautiously. "In these memories, a towering figure appeared—one matching your stature. After slaying a tyrant who ruled over this world, he vanished."

"The locals call him the Tyrant-Killer and the Nameless Knight."

Dukel's eyes narrowed. "You suspect this figure is one of my brothers?"

Gris nodded. "Yes, my lord. Only a Primarch possesses such power."

Dukel's thoughts churned. A familiar name surfaced in his mind, dredged from the echoes of a past life. "The Lion," he murmured. "My elder brother, the Emperor's first son..."

The Lion, dormant for ten millennia beneath Caliban's ruins, had finally awakened. Dukel had detected no signs of his return, for the Lion's emergence was subtle—his formidable psychic aura veiled by injury and time.

He likely wandered the galaxy, disconnected from his kin. Perhaps he even roamed this tainted world, cloaked by the mystique of Caliban's forests, which could transcend the boundaries of space.

Dukel smiled faintly. "Gris, this is crucial intelligence. It has been ten thousand years since I last saw him. I wonder if my brother's blade has dulled?"

The sage, sensing the Primarch's lighter mood, replied with a grin. "You'll know when you meet him, my lord."

Dukel chuckled. "Indeed. And when I do, I shall spar with him to see how he fares."

Beneath the banter, Dukel's resolve crystallized. The era of the Primarchs was far from over.

More loyal brothers would return—Dorn, the Khan, Vulkan, and even Corax. The Lion's awakening was but the beginning. For now, however, he would focus on the battle at hand.

The blood of the Emperor ran in his veins. He was a weapon of unparalleled skill, and no force—mortal or divine—could deter him from his purpose.

The time for the Primarchs' resurgence was at hand.

...

Next 20 chapters are available at: Pat reon. com (slash) LordMerlin