Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

Ophelia VII Armament Hall

When Dukel stepped into the armament hall, the guards on duty immediately saluted him with the precision and discipline befitting their station.

The sound of gears grinding into motion filled the air as the heavy metal door slowly opened.

The hall was a treasure trove of artifacts: samples of power armor from various legions, weapons seized from Chaos Daemons, and even ancient relics from the Golden Age of Technology.

It was a sanctuary of technology intertwined with reverence, its walls adorned with intricate murals steeped in religious grandeur.

The murals depicted the Emperor leading the Primarchs in their great crusade—conquering the galaxy, extinguishing heresy, and expanding the Imperium's dominion.

Dukel's gaze lingered momentarily on a particular mural. Among the twenty-one Primarchs depicted behind the Emperor, two figures had their faces blurred, deliberately erased as if they had never existed.

He recognized the omission immediately—himself and the Eleventh Primarch, the forgotten brothers banished from Imperial history.

An indescribable feeling stirred within Dukel as he beheld the calculated erasure of even the faintest traces of his identity.

After a brief pause, he turned and continued down the hall.

The floor, composed of a highly polished and reflective stone, mirrored his figure as he walked.

Lining the hall were power armors displayed in ceremonial arrangement, each belonging to one of the eighteen loyalist legions. They stood like an honor guard, silently welcoming visitors.

From the sleek, agile armor of scouts to the massive, imposing Terminator suits, the display was a testament to the Imperium's martial might.

Dukel paused in front of a blood-red power armor, instantly recognizing it as the armor of the Blood Angels.

Ten millennia ago, during the Siege of Terra, the Blood Angels, under their Primarch Sanguinius, had defended the Imperial Palace with unyielding devotion.

Sanguinius had given his life for the Emperor.

It was he who stood against the tide of Chaos, holding the line against Horus and his traitors until the Emperor himself intervened.

The memory of Sanguinius's sacrifice was vivid. The angelic Primarch had foreseen his death but faced it without hesitation, meeting his end on Horus's flagship.

Even the Chaos Gods had roared in fury at his demise, their schemes momentarily disrupted by the loss of such a luminous soul.

The blood-red armor before Dukel was a solemn reminder of that sacrifice—a testament to the purity and selflessness of Sanguinius.

At the end of the hall, an armament workshop awaited him. The Mechanicus priests and servitors, their bodies heavily augmented, stood in readiness.

The two priests, their human forms nearly entirely replaced by mechanical enhancements, performed the Imperial salute.

Behind them stood the culmination of their labor: a new suit of power armor, designed and refined by the renowned Magos Gris.

This armor, a fusion of Golden Age technology and modern Mechanicus ingenuity, was the most advanced wargear the Imperium could produce.

Forging power armor was no small feat—it could take decades to craft a single suit. Advanced iterations, however, built upon existing templates, could be developed more efficiently.

Dukel removed his ancient armor, a relic of the Great Crusade, and prepared to don this state-of-the-art masterpiece.

For any warrior, the prospect of new power armor was as enticing as beholding a work of art. Even the Primarchs, paragons of discipline, were not immune to its allure.

Gris, anticipating Dukel's arrival, had prepared a suit perfectly tailored to the Primarch's stature.

"Your Highness, are you ready?" one of the priests asked, his voice a distorted mechanical rasp emanating from a speaker embedded in his abdomen.

"Proceed," Dukel replied, spreading his arms to reveal his muscular form as he stepped into the designated fitting area.

The servitors moved forward, their motions precise and purposeful, carrying the black under-armor lining. This layer, designed to interface with the wearer's neural signals, provided enhanced protection and responsiveness.

Piece by piece, the armor was fitted. The boots, each weighing hundreds of kilograms, were secured first.

Next came the breastplate and dorsal armor, so heavy that specialized robotic arms were required to lift and position them.

Dukel tapped the surface of the armor experimentally. Even with 30% of his formidable Primarch strength, the material remained unblemished.

This was no ordinary armor. Its advanced design dispersed kinetic energy upon impact, rendering even military-grade weapons far less effective. Such resilience allowed its wearer to charge unflinchingly into the fiercest of battles.

As the final plates were secured and the armor tightened around him, the Mechanicus priests began their ritual prayers.

"Praise the Omnissiah, praise the Machine Spirit," they intoned, sprinkling sacred machine oil over the armor's joints and servos.

These rituals were not merely symbolic; in the Warhammer universe, the Machine Spirit was very real, and such invocations often coaxed machinery to function beyond its designed capacity.

While the priests chanted, Dukel tested the armor's capabilities.

Equipped with a comprehensive life-support system, advanced medical protocols, and integrated sensors, the armor was a marvel of engineering.

Its fiber bundle system replicated and enhanced the wearer's movements, granting immense strength and agility. Despite its weight, the armor felt light and responsive.

Dukel was impressed. To show his approval, he granted Gris access to additional knowledge from the Golden Age, further enriching the Mechanicus's capabilities.

As Dukel's understanding deepened through his connection to the Mind Network, he provided insights that left even the great sage awestruck.

Ophelia VII, Temple Square

The square, the largest in the Second Holy Land, was vast enough to accommodate Emperor-class Titans and starships.

News of Dukel's recent actions—arresting corrupt dignitaries and personally trying them—had spread like wildfire.

Thousands of citizens thronged the square, eager to witness the Primarch's justice.

From the platform, Dukel surveyed the sea of humanity, their fervent cheers echoing through the square. Space Marines and Battle Sisters stood proudly by his side.

He smiled, satisfied.

This day would strengthen their faith and deepen their devotion.