Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

The immeasurable will of the Emperor stirred a tempest in the Warp, sending ripples of agony through all psychic entities caught in its wake. Even a Primarch was not exempt from the searing pain that radiated through the immaterial realm.

Dukel had never delved deeply into the complexities of psychic energy. Throughout past campaigns, he had treated it as nothing more than a potent weapon—one to be unleashed with overwhelming force to obliterate his enemies. To him, finesse was secondary; brute power could achieve miracles.

Against past foes, this philosophy had served him well. The near-limitless reservoir of energy within him had always been enough. But here, against the innumerable manifestations of the Emperor's will, his crude methods were proving ineffective.

Each facet of the Emperor's will, regardless of which aspect it embodied, possessed a mastery of psychic power far beyond Dukel's own. In this realm, sheer force was insufficient.

Fortunately, he wielded another kind of power—the indomitable strength of the mind, the distilled essence of human will. Though distinct from psychic energy, it was enough to anchor him within this spiritual battlefield, allowing him to press forward against the Emperor's will.

Dukel had already toppled four golden thrones, each one occupied by an Emperor whose presence radiated immense power. As the thrones fell, their energies—each equivalent to a full card of the Emperor's might—dissolved and were absorbed into Dukel's being. Through an efficient process of conversion, his mind's power surged to unprecedented heights.

The amplification of his will sharpened his instincts to an extraordinary degree. He no longer needed conscious thought to identify his next target; his intuition alone guided him toward the thrones that needed to fall.

This was a profound evolution.

In this idealistic plane of existence, one might doubt technology, plans, prophecies, or even the reasoning of one's own mind—but intuition was never to be ignored.

At a distant corner of this realm, the Emperor's rationality sat upon his throne, watching as Dukel shattered one throne after another. His lips twitched involuntarily, and a thought emerged in his vast consciousness:

At this rate, I am no god... but Dukel may very well become one.

For lesser gods in the Empyrean, ascension to true godhood was an arduous, near-impossible process. Even Slaanesh's birth had required millennia of unrestrained excess among the Eldar. But for Dukel... it was difficult, yet not impossible. The Emperor found himself feeling something he had not felt in a long time—unease.

"At this pace, nothing he achieves should be surprising," the Emperor's rational mind muttered. The sheer speed and efficiency of Dukel's destruction unsettled even Him.

And yet, He was powerless to intervene. Every ounce of energy He could muster had been channeled into the Sword of Mind, merging with Dukel's will to forge a weapon capable of shattering the very essence of Chaos.

If even He was so constrained, those of weaker will could do nothing but tremble in fear.

Just as the Emperor had resigned Himself to further losses, an unexpected shift occurred.

Dukel, wielding a sword wreathed in golden flame, approached the next grand throne. He leveled his blade at the seated Emperor, yet his opponent did not flinch. The vacant eyes staring back at him were filled with cold disdain—contempt for the mere Primarch who dared challenge Him.

"Arrogance," Dukel whispered, recognizing this fragment of the Emperor's will for what it was.

Without hesitation, he brought his sword down.

"Legend speaks of seven sins given to mankind by a so-called God. And of these, pride is the greatest. It must be purged."

The burning blade, imbued with the power to unmake, descended.

Yet, for the first time, his target reacted.

"There is no true god! And no god has given anything to mankind!"

The words thundered across the realm.

At that precise moment, the sword halted—a molecule's breadth from impact. The high-temperature flames licked at the Emperor's essence but did not consume.

The password was correct.

Dukel lowered his sword and moved to the next throne. Again, he tested the will before him.

"There is no true god in this world, and I am not one!" roared the Emperor.

Correct. The blade turned to another.

"The one who claims godhood shall be cast down beneath the feet of mortals!" bellowed another fragment.

Right. Another throne fell.

"I am not a god! I am not a god! I am not a god!" the cries rose in unison, swelling into a deafening crescendo.

Like a spark igniting a munitions stockpile, the declaration detonated within the Emperor's will. A tide of belief surged forth, an unstoppable wave of conviction. More and more facets of the Emperor's fractured psyche converged, their voices joining in singular purpose.

Dukel stood amidst this vast ocean of will, observing the division that had suddenly become apparent within the realm.

Among the countless voices, there were those of greed, envy, and arrogance—qualities deemed contemptible. Yet, Dukel understood that these flaws, too, were part of the Emperor's humanity.

His mission was not to purge these imperfections but to strip away the Emperor's divinity, to dismantle the deification that had shrouded Him.

He did not seek to judge these flawed aspects, just as he did not seek to cleanse himself of his own darkness. For the enemies of the Imperium were many, and some battles required the embrace of shadow.

Flaws, after all, were a necessary part of being human. And humanity was what he aimed to preserve.

He turned from the sea of voices and fixed his gaze upon the silent ones, the remnants of deification still clinging to their thrones.

Raising his sword, he issued a challenge.

"Why do you remain silent? I am a reasonable man. I do not impose my will upon the Emperor. Speak freely."

One voice, defiant to the last, answered.

"I am a God!"

Bang!

Dukel did not hesitate. He lunged, his sword cleaving downward.

Another golden throne collapsed.

Meanwhile, outside the throne room, chaos reigned.

"What?! Dukel brought xenos to assassinate the Emperor?!"

The Lion and Guilliman recoiled in disbelief as the palace guards delivered their urgent report.

They wasted no time, setting out immediately. Led by the Imperial Custodians, they navigated the secret passageways beneath the palace, emerging outside the throne hall.

The sight that greeted them was grim. The Imperial Guard had formed a tight perimeter, their faces marred by fury and guilt.

They felt shame for allowing the Second Primarch to pass so easily, for failing to prevent the so-called traitor from reaching the Golden Throne.

But they also burned with anger—why must the Emperor's sons, once again, raise their blades against their own father?

And yet, they were helpless. The throne room was engulfed in a psychic storm so fierce that no warrior, no matter how loyal, could break through.

Desperate, they sought solutions. But each attempt met with failure.

Hope was fading.

Then, the arrival of the Lion and Guilliman rekindled a flicker of faith.

"Make way!" The voice of Valdor, Commander of the Custodes, rang out, hoarse yet resolute. "Every second wasted is a second we fail the Emperor."

The guards hesitated, then stepped aside.

With grim determination, the Primarchs strode forward.

And what they saw within the throne room would haunt them forever.

Dukel stood before the Golden Throne, sword ablaze, its tip driven into the Emperor's desiccated form, pinning Him to the seat of mankind's dominion.

An Eldar figure, draped in a veil, stood beside him, gently running delicate fingers across the Emperor's sacred flesh. Aetheric energies shimmered at his fingertips, radiating an eerie light.

Even though this was the second time Waldo had witnessed such a sight, the pain in his chest was no less sharp. If this was a nightmare, he prayed to the Throne that he would wake immediately, unwilling to endure it a moment longer.

And then, there were the Lion and Guilliman—

"Dukel, how could you commit such heresy?!" Guilliman bellowed, his fury igniting like a furnace at the sight of the blade impaling the Emperor. The Lord Regent of the Imperium, always the epitome of restraint, abandoned all reason. Wrath consumed him, raw and unrelenting.

The Lion's gaze snapped toward the xenos sorcerer, who continued his ministrations over the Emperor's body. His mane bristled, and his voice rumbled like a caged storm.

"Alien! Remove your vile claws at once!"

Their roars thundered across the chamber like an artillery barrage. With blades in hand, the Primarchs plunged headlong into the roiling psychic storm that encased the Golden Throne.

A cataclysmic boom split the air.

The storm, potent enough to tear apart the most elite Custodians, raged against them. Yet it could not halt the advance of the Emperor's sons. The demigods waded through the aetheric maelstrom, relentless.

Aeldari psyker Isha, locked in the delicate task of sustaining the Emperor's faltering existence, perceived the oncoming wrath of the Primarchs. Her expression darkened, and she shook her head in warning.

"You must stop! If you interfere—"

But they did not listen.

Ignoring the Eldar's protests, the Lion and Guilliman mounted the final steps of the Throne, reaching for Dukel's cloak.

"No!" Isha's cry rang out, raw with urgency.

The instant they seized Dukel, reality cracked.

A colossal psychic detonation surged outward, its shockwaves rippling across the warp-infused void. The space between moments twisted. Awareness fragmented.

And then—

Nothing.

When the Lion and Guilliman regained their senses, they were no longer within the throne room.

They stood within the Emperor's domain.

"This is our father's realm," Guilliman murmured, his voice edged with awe and unease. Memories of his past visit to this place flickered through his mind.

The Lion nodded, surveying the landscape. "Then why are we here? Where is Dukel?"

Guilliman exhaled sharply. "Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding."

The Lion, still bristling with rage, clenched his fists. "Or perhaps here, within the Emperor's very soul, lies a truth hidden from us for ten millennia. And if that is the case—"

He turned his burning gaze upon the endless horizon.

"Then we shall unearth it with our own hands."

Guilliman gave a slow nod.

Together, they pressed forward into the Emperor's mindscape, wading through the ever-shifting ocean of His will.

A distant roar shook the immaterial space.

Guilliman's gaze snapped toward the source. A vast pyre raged upon the horizon, the very firmament quaking beneath its wrathful brilliance. Something immense, something divine, was wailing within the inferno.

"What is happening there?" Guilliman muttered.

"I can feel Dukel's presence." The Lion's voice was grim. "I sense... the truth lies ahead."

With renewed urgency, they ran.

As they pressed onward, titanic golden thrones rose before them, stretching toward infinity. On each sat a withered husk—countless Emperors, their forms mummified yet exuding unfathomable power.

To the colossal beings upon the thrones, the Primarchs were as insignificant as ants upon a battlefield. The mummified sovereigns did not stir; their attention was wholly consumed by the firestorm ahead.

The journey was timeless. Seconds or millennia—it was impossible to tell.

At last, they reached the epicenter of the conflagration.

There, silhouetted against the searing light, was Dukel.

He stood with his sword aloft, golden flames coiling around its length. Without hesitation, he swung.

The Emperor's Throne—colossal, eternal—shattered.

The mummified figure upon it crumbled to ash.

"Dukel, what in the Throne's name have you done?!"

As the Emperor's throne dissolved into embers, fury erupted anew within the Primarchs. Their war cries sent clouds of divine dust billowing through the air, and they launched themselves at Dukel.

The warrior turned, startled by their presence. "The Lion? Guilliman?"

He tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "How did you come here?"

Then, seeing their murderous charge, a glint of amusement flashed in his eyes.

"You would fight me? How rare."

His grip on his sword tightened. A thrill of battle-lust rippled through his form.

Steel met steel.

A storm of blows shattered the space between them, but in mere moments, Dukel's strikes sent both Primarchs crashing to the ground. Guilliman and the Lion, for all their fury, lay sprawled upon the sacred dust.

Their father's blade and shield tumbled from their grasp.

Dukel sighed. "A shame. Your timing is... unfortunate."

He gazed beyond them.

"I have already slain twenty-two Emperors, and I hold in my grasp the rationality of the Throne itself. Not even Khorne would dare challenge me in this state."

The air trembled.

A voice resonated through the mindscape.

"Eldest son."

"Thirteenth son."

"Secret Keeper."

"Savior."

The chorus of Emperors murmured, their thoughts coalescing into a tempest that swept across the realm.

Dukel ignored them. His task was not yet complete.

But then—

A shift.

Behind him, where the Emperor's Sword and Shield had fallen—

A voice, deep and resonant: "This is my shield."

A second voice, delicate and unwavering: "This is my sword."

Dukel turned.

A towering figure lifted the Emperor's shield. His frame was titanic, power radiating from his every fiber.

Beside him stood a small girl, seemingly frail, yet holding the Emperor's blazing sword with unshaken resolve.

Light poured from them—blinding, overwhelming. Even Dukel winced at its intensity.

They were not mere fragments of the Emperor's will.

They were the Emperor's very essence.

"They are sensibility and idealism," a voice whispered through the burning sword.

The armored giant raised his shield. "He is the Emperor's love for mankind. The force that bore His suffering for ten thousand years."

The girl lifted the sword high. "And I am the dream He never abandoned."

The very fabric of the realm shuddered as the incarnations charged.

And Dukel, for the first time in the battle, watched.

When Guilliman and the Lion awoke, Dukel was seated nearby, his eyes locked on the war unfolding before them. His cloak billowed behind him, his burning sword planted in the ground.

The two Primarchs followed his gaze.

Before them, the Emperor warred against Himself.

Humanity and divinity clashed in an unfathomable battle, a struggle beyond the reach of mortal minds.

Guilliman and the Lion stood in stunned silence, their minds struggling to process the chaos before them.

"Dukel, what in the Emperor's name is happening here?" Guilliman demanded, his voice laced with disbelief.

Dukel merely shrugged, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I am but a fragment of the Emperor's grand design. I see only a sliver of the whole picture."

He gestured toward the battlefield where golden flames clashed against an endless tide of psychic energy. "As you can see, the Emperor... is fighting Himself."