Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

Most—no, all—of the Primarchs were aloof and paranoid.

Eighty percent of them, led by Lorgar, were confident they could defeat 80% of their brothers.

The remaining 20% believed they could conquer all their siblings.

Magnus the Red and Number Two now clearly belonged to the latter.

Magnus' body swelled with raw power, his form expanding as unimaginable energy coursed through him. During the Great Crusade, ten millennia ago, he had used this ability sparingly, often favoring his psychic might. Yet, when necessary, he had made himself a towering colossus, capable of tearing apart an Ork Warlord-class Gargant with his bare hands.

Now, ten thousand years later, he had ascended far beyond his former limits. The unfiltered energies of the Immaterium surged into his being, elevating him into an incomparably majestic giant. His shadow blotted out the warp's unnatural light, storms roared with his exhalations, and his gaze burned with the fury of cosmic lightning. Wings, vast and ethereal, unfurled to obscure the shifting skies of the Immaterium.

But Magnus' pride soon turned to dread.

No matter how vast his form became, no matter how powerful the currents of his psychic might, he could not surpass the figure of the brother standing before him.

The Thousand Sons, Magnus' sons and inheritors of his psychic gifts, had seen much during their aeons of existence. The immaterial horrors of the warp and the ruinous schemes of daemons had inured them to fear. Yet now, their collective understanding shattered.

Before them stood two colossal figures, gods in all but name, locked in a confrontation that defied mortal comprehension. The Sea of Souls beneath them heaved and raged, its boundless depths churned by their mere presence. Warp storms screamed past like fleeting gusts, and the anguished cries of daemons became a symphony to their duel.

The warp itself quaked.

Two devastating surges of energy slammed into the immaterium's fabric like titanic hammers, their psychic aftershocks stirring a tsunami that swept across its endless expanse. In the mortal realm, every psyker—whether on the Black Ships, cowering in hive spires, or leading armies—felt a jolt of terror ripple through their minds.

The gods of Chaos themselves took note.

Tzeentch paused, intrigued, as the chaotic energies swirled unpredictably. Khorne bellowed in delight, his brass throne trembling with anticipation. Nurgle chuckled, his noxious gardens thriving on the tension. Slaanesh, eyes gleaming, leaned forward to revel in the spectacle.

Yet for the combatants, none of that mattered.

Magnus' lone, cyclopean eye burned with dozens of kaleidoscopic hues. He saw the truth he had tried so hard to ignore.

"This is impossible. Number Two... how could you wield this power?"

Dukel, the enigmatic second Primarch, stood before him, unwavering. His scarlet cloak, a tapestry of countless victories, billowed behind him. Spiritual flames, shifting between reality and the immaterium, danced around his form. His gaze burned with an intensity that Magnus could scarcely endure.

"Magnus," Dukel said, his voice calm yet cutting, "your illusions won't save you. I am the symbiosis of all things, the end of all things. I am the First Walker and the Architect of Unity. In this space beyond the mortal realm, our true selves are laid bare. You see now the depths of what we are."

Magnus' expression hardened, his defiance undimmed. "Then tell me, brother, will you pledge yourself to the gods, as I have? Together, we could command the galaxy."

Dukel smirked. "I did not come to beg. Unlike you, I will not crawl at the feet of these parasites. I am the light of human will, and I will incinerate the filth of Chaos with my flame."

His tone turned venomous. "You, Magnus, are as pitiful as a worm and as blind as a fool. You are not even worthy of being my enemy."

Magnus laughed—a wild, hollow sound. "You've lost yourself to madness, Dukel. You never awakened from the fall. You're delusional!"

Dukel's response was to draw his weapon—a monstrous chainsword, its serrated teeth blazing with warp fire, its name echoing in the warp: Devil's Weeping Blood.

"I'll show you the strength of true conviction."

Magnus answered with a feral grin, his staff flaring with azure light as runes and storms coiled around its length. "Then come, brother. I promise, you'll find no disappointment here."

The battle that followed transcended mortal comprehension.

The Thousand Sons could only cower as the energies unleashed by their masters threatened to obliterate everything. Entire structures crumbled as storms of psychic power and burning flame clashed. Even those miles away from the epicenter were hurled to the ground by shockwaves, their power armor cracked and useless.

Dukel's chainsword cleaved through Magnus' formidable psychic barriers, each blow carving jagged wounds across the Crimson King's enchanted flesh. Magnus retaliated with psychic storms that roared like planetary detonations, yet Dukel pressed on, unstoppable.

In the climactic moment, Dukel seized Magnus by his horned head, wrenching him from the sky and slamming him into the shattered ground. The warp quaked from the impact, sending cracks across the Great Pyramid of Tizca.

When the dust settled, the Thousand Sons dared to look upon the battlefield.

Magnus lay broken, his crimson armor cracked and his once-proud wings torn. Dukel stood over him, one of Magnus' wings in his grasp, his chainsword raised. The fires around him burned with the brightness of a million suns.

"Rise, Magnus. Fight me again if you can."

Magnus could not.

...

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