Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

With the Primarch's declaration of war, the battle between the Necrons and the Imperial fleet erupted without hesitation. It was a brutal clash of near-equal strength. In sheer technological sophistication, humanity was no match for the Necrons.

The Imperium's past encounters with the Necrons had always come at an extreme cost, with entire battlegroups sacrificed just to temporarily silence a single Tomb World.

Every Necron is an artist of war, orchestrating the deadly efficiency of their mechanical legions, deploying waves of precision-based firepower, and unleashing devastating particle disintegration beams. In comparison, the Imperium's tactics often seemed crude—barbaric even.

That is, to raise void shields, accelerate to full speed, and ram the enemy with unstoppable force.

The sacred art of ship-ramming—the Imperial Navy's tried-and-true solution to all galactic monstrosities.

It was not strategy, but necessity. The Imperium's long-range weaponry was woefully ineffective against Necrons. Only faith and raw determination allowed human warriors to hurl themselves into the enemy, perishing with them in the Emperor's name.

And so, the Imperial Expeditionary Fleet adopted the same grim methodology.

The suicidal charge was the ultimate expression of loyalty and courage. Beneath its seemingly crude execution lay an unwavering resolve to annihilate the foe.

As the Expeditionary Fleet raised void shields, psychic barriers, and other force fields, a wall of Imperial warships darkened the stars. Then, with engines burning at maximum thrust, they surged forward in a full-speed charge toward the Tomb World of the Endless One.

Even this ancient being, who had endured countless wars, felt immense pressure.

Yet, what truly unsettled him was the sight of the Primarch standing at the bow of his flagship.

"Open the teleportation channel, Magnus."

"With pleasure."

For the first time since his captivity, Magnus did not resist his brother's use of his sorcery.

Faced with the ancient and malevolent Necrons, the Primarch and his fallen sibling once more found unity in their shared hatred of the xenos.

Runes of power manifested in the void, and the Daemon Primarch singlehandedly tore open the Necron's spatial blockade, creating a direct conduit to the heart of the enemy stronghold.

It was a narrow passage—only wide enough for one.

But one was enough.

With an earth-shattering boom, the Primarch surged through the rift. An instant later, he plummeted from the sky like a vengeful god, his colossal ironclad boots smashing into the throne atop the grand mausoleum. The metallic frame of the Necron construct crumpled beneath the impact, shrieking in protest.

Like a meteor strike, the kinetic force radiated outward, obliterating surrounding tomb guards and hurling Necron artisans hundreds of meters away.

Magnus gazed upon the devastation, eyes wide. "Dukel, your strength has grown again?"

Against the Adeptus Mechanicus' Titan Legions, the Primarch had held his own.

But against the Necrons, his power seemed... magnified.

The top of the mausoleum pyramid had collapsed into a crater. Standing at its center, Dukel loomed over the shattered remains of the Endless One's throne and body.

Yet the Primarch did not lower his guard.

"A substitute?" Dukel muttered, scanning the surroundings. "Necrons are troublesome. After all, how does one kill what is already dead?"

With Magnus' teleportation, Dukel had struck directly at the heart of the enemy's power. But he had only slain a copy.

"I am not dead. Our will endures forever."

The Endless One did not manifest, but his voice echoed across the battlefield.

The hum of ancient machinery filled the air as three great passageways rose from the surface of the pyramid.

From within, immense Canoptek Tomb Stalkers crawled forth.

They resembled the centipedes of Old Terra, but their forms were metallic, shimmering with phase-field distortions that allowed them to slither through solid matter as though swimming through water. Each was armed with devastating gauss weaponry and claws sharp enough to slice through ceramite like paper.

They had already positioned themselves at Dukel's flanks—lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike.

In the distance, the Endless One had materialized, maintaining a calculated distance from the Primarch. A simple yet telling act.

An experienced combatant.

Yet, he did not issue the attack order.

The Necron monstrosities stood still.

"Primarch of the Imperium," the Endless One intoned, "why persist in conflict? This is all a misunderstanding. I am willing to temporarily lend you those relics you so desire. Let us resolve this peacefully. What say you?"

He yielded.

Despite the advantageous position, the centipedes did not advance. It was a demonstration of Trazyn's sincerity.

Even the Imperial vox channels went silent. The war had officially begun, yet this Necron still wished to negotiate?

Did the Necrons value peace?

In truth, the Endless One had his reasons. While the battle's outcome remained uncertain, his calculations told him that every moment spent near the Primarch reduced his chances of victory.

Now, the Primarch stood before him.

Defeat alone would not be the worst outcome.

More concerning was the fact that Dukel had taken many of Trazyn's most prized artifacts during their previous battle.

And now, he had come for more.

Trazyn did not wish to lose another collection.

"I have long upheld the ideal of peaceful coexistence with the Imperium. I mourned the fall of Cadia. I have no reason to be your enemy."

The ancient being felt some degree of shame speaking such conciliatory words to a younger race.

But as the humans of old once said: A wise man adapts to the times.

Survival first. Vengeance later.

"Very well," came Dukel's sudden response.

"What?" Trazyn asked, uncertain.

"I said very well. Let us shake hands and make peace."

Trazyn felt relief.

But it did not last long.

For the Primarch then extended his hand and made a simple yet unmistakable gesture.

"What does this mean?" Trazyn inquired.

"It means," Dukel said matter-of-factly, "that you will return the Empire's stolen collections."

He continued, listing them off like inventory:

"The Imperium's STC templates. The Imperium's Eldar artifacts. The Imperium's fragments of the C'tan."

Each item bore the same prefix—Imperium's.

Trazyn fell silent.

A glitch in his logic systems?

Otherwise, why did his calculations suddenly refuse to generate a response?

STC templates? He could accept that those were related to the Imperium.

But Eldar artifacts?

Why not just declare the entire galaxy as Imperial property?

And then—

"Why do you seek a fragment of the C'tan?" Trazyn's voice darkened. "That power is beyond your control."

Dukel's response was as casual as it was audacious.

"Why? Because it rightfully belongs to the Imperium."

The truth? The C'tan shard was the key to Dukel's breakthrough in energy manipulation—an advancement he would never reveal to an alien.

But his brazen claim infuriated the Endless One.

"You dare insult beings older than your entire species! Primarch of Man, I care not for your purpose. I will not let you succeed! Even if I fall here, even if all my legions are annihilated, I will never relinquish the fragments of the C'tan to you!"

Under Dukel's command, the Hell Centipedes surged forward, leading the assault against the Primarch.

From within the vast necropolis, an endless tide of scarabs and Tomb Guards spilled forth, swarming toward their foe like a relentless flood.

"You senile relic, have you lost your mind?"

"If I defeat you, everything here will be mine!"

Dukel laughed, then charged.

A storm of gauss fire erupted from the assembled Necron legions, their emerald beams streaking through the battlefield like a monsoon of death. Countless melee constructs hurled themselves forward, their phase-blades crackling with eldritch energy as they sought to bar his path.

Dukel, wreathed in crimson flame, pressed on. His force field flared as it absorbed the relentless gauss fire, shielding him from disintegration. With a single devastating blow, he shattered the Underworld Centipede before him.

Boom!

Psyker might and raw physical force combined, reducing the mechanical construct to little more than debris. The explosion of shrapnel sent razor-edged metal fragments scything outward, tearing apart the Necron ranks like an artillery barrage.

Undeterred, the Primarch stormed toward the Endless One.

Above, the Imperial fleet waged its own war against the Necron forces. Explosions flared like miniature suns, illuminating the dark void as the battle raged. Under the aegis of void shields and layered defenses, the Imperium's forces held firm, their superior numbers allowing them to press the advantage. In a shockingly short span, vast numbers of Necron constructs were reduced to smoldering wreckage.

The Infinite One observed the unfolding battle, his systems registering a flicker of what could only be called anxiety. His calculations left little doubt—if the battle continued at this pace, his forces would be obliterated.

"This is not a fair war," the Infinite One mused, gazing upon the might of the Imperium's expeditionary fleet. Yet, he knew fairness had never been a factor in the galaxy's endless conflicts.

Desperation compelled him to unleash his most prized acquisitions.

Dark Eldar wyches materialized from the shadows, their blades gleaming with lethal grace—only to be butchered in an instant by Dukel's unstoppable charge.

Catachan Devils, twisted apex predators of death worlds, were unleashed—but they barely slowed the Primarch.

Then, as a last gamble, the Infinite One summoned one of his most formidable contingents: an entire Ork warband.

For a moment, the battlefield trembled with the impact of the brutal greenskins' arrival. But then, something truly absurd happened.

Dukel let loose an earth-shaking war cry:

"WAAAGH!"

The Orks, creatures born from the very essence of battle, should have responded in kind. Yet, an unnatural silence followed.

One by one, they hesitated. Then, in the most baffling display of raw terror the Endless One had ever witnessed, they simply... died. Overcome with sheer, instinctual fear, their hearts burst, their bodies crumpling lifelessly to the ground.

It was a sight beyond belief.

In his countless millennia of existence, the Endless One had never witnessed something so profoundly ridiculous.

And in that moment, he finally understood. Understood why this Primarch had once pursued an entire T'au fleet with a single frigate, why he had captured and turned those ships against their former masters.

But realization had come too late.

Engulfed in a fiery blaze, the Necron overlord experienced something unfamiliar: regret.

Had his arrogance blinded him?

Had his race, ancient and proud, grown too complacent, too dismissive of the younger species that now vied for dominance in the galaxy?

Somewhere in his databanks, he recalled the words written in a T'au commander's journal:

"Weakness and ignorance have never been obstacles to survival. Arrogance is."

A surge of energy flared beside him.

Dukel appeared before him in an instant, his power overwhelming.

Boom!

A single, world-ending punch struck the Necron lord. Living metal shattered, his necrodermis breaking apart as he was sent flying. His head, severed from his body, tumbled through the air before crashing onto the cold stone of the tomb-world.

For a few moments, the skull's glowing eyes flickered.

Then, with a final pulse, the emerald light died.

This had been his last physical form within the tomb-world. The end had come so abruptly that he hadn't even managed a final retort.

Next time, I will reclaim what is mine.

The thought barely registered before his consciousness was severed and transferred back to his distant true body.

For most Necron dynasties, defeat would trigger the tomb-world's self-destruct protocols. But the Infinite One—Trazyn the Infinite—was no ordinary overlord. His vaults contained artifacts of incalculable value, objects he would not risk losing.

Better to let them fall into enemy hands than to destroy them outright. After all, one day, he would steal them back.

With his will extinguished, the Necron defenses fell into eerie silence.

As the dust settled, the first to set foot on the battlefield was not an Imperial warrior mourning the fallen enemy—but the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Archmagos Gris and his entourage descended eagerly, their ocular sensors whirring with excitement.

To them, the battlefield was not a grim reminder of war—it was a treasure trove of divine relics.

"Great Lord of the Second Legion," Gris said, his mechadendrites twitching with anticipation. "Might we commence an archaeological survey?"

Dukel chuckled.

"Of course, Archmagos. This place is a hoard beyond reckoning. May we all find something that pleases us."

And so, the scavenging began.

The Adeptus Mechanicus uncovered an STC fragment, an artifact of immeasurable technological value.

The Imperial warriors found treasures fit for heroes.

And Dukel? He finally secured what he had long sought—a fragment of a shattered C'tan, a sliver of godhood itself.

Trazyn's collection had been vast. But now, it belonged to the victors.

As Dukel sifted through the spoils of war, his companion Efilar approached.

"Your Highness, shall we dispatch a reconnaissance fleet to continue the search for the Lion?"

Dukel waved her off with a grin, producing a single black crow feather.

"No need. I knew this battle would delay us, so I asked my brother to handle it. He is the greatest spy in the galaxy—no one escapes the eyes of the crows."

He clapped Efilar on the shoulder, gesturing to the countless relics surrounding them.

"Forget that dull old lion for now. We've won. Relax, find something you like."

For the first time in what felt like eons, Efilar allowed herself a small smile.

"Yes, my lord."