Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

Since the Primarch led his crusade into the Tau systems, the war had raged for more than a Terran month. Dukel personally commanded the Destroyers, executing precise decapitation strikes against the enemy command structure. Senior Tau officers fell one by one, assassinated with ruthless efficiency. Their mighty fleets, once symbols of progress and defiance, spiraled into chaos, and their vaunted mechs and warships were reduced to ruin.

Victory tilted inexorably toward the Imperium. The Primarch demonstrated his warcraft through action, proving the futility of Tau resistance. Imperial morale soared, while within the Tau worlds, despair took root, suffocating their defiance.

"Whether we admit it or not, all signs point to the inevitable end of our race. The Greater Good is the most enlightened philosophy in the universe, yet we lack the strength to protect it. Perhaps, among these dark stars, civilization is but a feeble dream. Only barbarism and conquest endure in this galaxy."

—Danwa, a minor Tau administrator, in his final journal entry before the fall of the Tau Empire.

Danwa sighed as he set down his pen and closed his notebook. Raising his head, he gazed at the golden-hued sky of T'au, his expression heavy with sorrow.

T'au's sky had not always been golden. Once, it was blue and vibrant, much like any other habitable world. But that changed when the invaders came. Their presence corrupted the heavens, turning day and night into an unrelenting blaze of gold—an unnatural, oppressive glow that the Tau people came to loathe.

The radiance was thick, cloying, almost viscous, as if the sky itself had been painted with molten gold. Danwa's eyes burned from exhaustion. Thirty days had passed since the war reached their world. Thirty days without respite. The light denied him sleep, and the relentless tide of battlefield reports crushed any lingering hope.

In recent nights, an image haunted him: the double-headed eagle of the Imperium, its presence growing ever more tangible in his mind. He understood—it was no illusion, but an unyielding will, pressing upon him, demanding submission.

Many had already broken. Xenos auxiliaries and traitorous Tau alike had knelt before the Imperial war machine, defecting en masse. Though the battle in orbit raged on, the surface had become a battlefield of its own. The rebellion against the Tau leadership grew, expanding beyond sporadic uprisings into fully armed insurrections.

Thirty days under the oppressive golden sky had driven many to madness. Tau turned against Tau, cities burned, and entire regiments fell apart under the weight of demoralization. The traitors, those who saw salvation in the Imperium, first marched in protest. Then, they rioted. Now, they waged war.

The collapse had begun.

Danwa did not hate them. He understood. He had not yet yielded, but how much longer could he resist?

Even as their worlds fell, the Fire Caste generals filled the airwaves with falsehoods. The media parroted tales of defiant victories, of hope, of strength. But the truth was unmistakable. Wreckage rained from the sky like a relentless meteor shower, each burning shard a silent testament to the lies.

Danwa, a fourth-rank administrator of the Water Caste, had spent decades navigating the bureaucratic machine of the Tau Empire. His position afforded him a clearer view than most—he saw the Ethereal caste's feigned composure, their unseen terror; the Fire Caste's desperation as their armies crumbled.

Today, for the first time in decades, he abandoned his post. A deep, unshakable instinct told him to return home. He summoned his wife and children, prepared their favorite meal, and sat with them.

He held his wife close, gripping her as if she might slip away like the war-torn world around them.

"What's gotten into you?" she murmured, shifting uncomfortably in his embrace.

"Nothing," he replied, managing a small smile. "I just realized—you're as beautiful as the day we met."

"You're acting strangely," she said, glancing toward their children. "And they're watching."

Danwa chuckled. "I'm just making up for lost time."

Yet, as he looked skyward, his heart sank again.

"Danwa, the war in orbit worsens by the hour. Why hasn't Commander Shadowsun returned?" his wife asked, worry creeping into her voice.

"Perhaps she has more pressing matters."

"But they say she provoked these invaders. That this is her fault."

Danwa said nothing.

She looked at him sharply. "Danwa... do you think we will win?"

"We will," he lied, tightening his grip around her shoulders.

Neither spoke further. Together, they stared at the thick golden sky.

With each passing breath, the image of the double-headed eagle loomed larger in their minds, pressing upon them, seeping into their very thoughts. They dared not question it. They dared not acknowledge it.

At that moment, they only wished to hold one another and savor a fleeting peace.

Fate had no intention of granting it.

A spark flared in the sky. Then, with a thunderous roar, the firmament ignited. Crimson fire cascaded across the heavens, consuming the world in an apocalyptic inferno.

From the ground, titanic plumes of fire surged upward, merging with the flames above. The heat tore through the atmosphere, whipping the planet into a maelstrom of destruction. Civilization was erased in an instant.

The land cracked open, revealing chasms of molten fury. Once-proud oceans boiled away, their vapor rising in ghostly tendrils. T'au was dying.

Danwa barely felt the agony of his drying flesh. He watched, transfixed, as the world perished. He did not scream. He did not run.

Kneeling figures dotted the inferno, traitors who had forsaken the Tau Empire in their devotion to the Imperium. They had seen power manifest before them and, in their desperation, declared it divine.

But no god answered them. No salvation came.

Only then did they understand. The Imperium had no need for them. The destruction of their world was not an act of punishment or justice—it was casual, indifferent, inevitable.

Danwa released his wife's withered corpse, her body collapsing into the scorched earth. With the last of his strength, he opened his journal, his parched fingers trembling as he scrawled his final words:

"We were young. Arrogant. We mistook our progress for power, our ideals for invincibility. But in this galaxy, strength alone dictates survival. If not for the whims of fate, we would have perished long ago."

"Weakness and ignorance are not the true cause of annihilation. Arrogance is."

His vision blurred. He placed the notebook in a secured case before his body slumped forward, the final embers of life fading from his gaze.

Dukel stood on the bridge of his cruiser, staring down at the burning ruin of T'au. The oceans were gone. The surface boiled. Life, once abundant, withered into nothingness.

"Let us depart," the Primarch commanded.

"Your Highness," Efilar asked, watching him closely. "Was there anything in this world that mattered to you?"

Dukel did not answer.

Dukel gazed upon the scorched remnants of the world beneath him, his golden eyes reflecting the dying embers of the once-proud civilization.

"Nothing. My instincts told me this world was... off. I wanted to test it with fire," he mused aloud. "Now it seems that fire was exactly what it needed."

"If he cannot walk out of the flames, he is not worth your concern," Efilar said, his tone measured.

Dukel nodded in agreement. But then, his gaze snapped to the horizon. Amidst the inferno, a column of darkness—thick, unnatural, ink-black—rose against the crimson flames.

In that darkness, the Primarch sensed something disturbingly familiar.

"Psychic power? No... something impure."

A frown crossed Dukel's face. Something within him stirred, a memory long buried, its seal loosening ever so slightly. And then, a name—ancient, erased from all records—rose unbidden to his lips.

"Randan."

His voice barely carried over the howling winds, yet the presence in the darkness seemed to hear. It shifted, coalescing.

"Great Lord of the Heart, after so long, I finally meet you again. It is an honor that you still remember us."

Dukel's golden eyes narrowed, curiosity glinting within them. Few would ever call him that. Only those tied to the Heart Network—the esoteric web of minds—occasionally whispered the title of Mind Master. And yet, here were xenos uttering it.

"Oh? You know more than you should," he remarked, taking a measured step forward. "Tell me, was it you who led me here? Did you send Yingyang? Who is guiding your hand?"

"Great Lord of Mind, to realize our ambitions, we must gather our allies," the shadowed figure responded.

Dukel exhaled sharply. "I see."

He did not bother to ask who their supposed 'ally' was. In this galaxy, conspiracies and manipulation inevitably traced back to one entity.

Tzeentch.

"Captain, bring the ship down," Dukel ordered through the vox.

"Your Highness, this darkness cannot be trusted."

"That's fine," Dukel replied dismissively, offering no further explanation.

In truth, he had already made up his mind. The moment this being approached, he would kill it.

Secrets held by agents of the Changer of Ways were worthless. Even if they had knowledge he desired, they were, ultimately, filth. And filth must be cleansed, not indulged.

Manure coated in chocolate was still manure.

As the engines roared, his fleet advanced toward the shifting darkness. But before they could close the distance, a new force intervened.

A burst of light tore through the atmosphere—faster, more precise than his own forces. Verdant leaves spiraled downward, and within moments, an ancient forest erupted into existence, swallowing the darkness whole.

Dukel's psychic voice boomed across the battlefield.

"LION! DANTE?! What in the name of the Throne are you doing?!"

The dark figure within the shadows had been waiting, patient, assured of its control over the situation.

Then, the world around it shifted.

Towering trees materialized where there had been only ruin. The twisted remnants of the battlefield were consumed by an overwhelming, verdant presence. It was not part of the plan.

"Wait! This—this wasn't—!"

The figure barely had time to react before an armored gauntlet, hard as ceramite and swift as a lightning strike, erupted through its back with a sickening crack.

The being convulsed, its form flickering between shadows and reality. But the hand that held it did not falter.

The Lion had come.

And he did not come alone.

Dante, standing to the side, leveled his bolter at the writhing entity.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Gunfire ripped through the clearing, muzzle flashes illuminating the dark.

Above them, a voice—furious, unrelenting—descended from the heavens.

"LION! DANTE?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

Both warriors looked skyward as a crimson comet streaked toward the forest, moving with terrifying speed.

Dante swallowed. "Uh... Lion? I think His Highness Dukel was planning to unravel some grand mystery here. If we did something... excessive, he wouldn't kill us, right?"

The Lion, unshaken, hoisted the broken, twitching body of Randan's emissary. His sculpted, marble-like face betrayed no hesitation.

"I don't know. But we should leave. Now."

Without another word, he turned and sprinted into the depths of the woods.

"Wait! Don't leave me behind!" Dante yelled, glancing at the incoming red blur before bolting after him.

When Dukel arrived, the altar was empty. The presence was gone. The only trace left behind were two dried leaves, resting where the darkness had once been.

Dukel bent down, plucking one from the ground, his expression unreadable.

"They ran?"

He frowned, turning the leaf over in his fingers.

"...Was I too loud?"

With a sigh, he channeled his psychic will into the leaf, sending a mental message across the void.

Dukel: Lion, I know you can hear me.

A moment passed. Then another.

Finally, a response.

Lion: Message received. I will not reply.

Dukel clenched his jaw.

"Fine. I'll ask him in person."

With the leaf as his conduit, he locked onto the Lion's location.

Finding the Lion would be far easier than finding the remnants of Randan.