Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

Skarbrand had once been one of Khorne's most favored daemons. He had slaughtered countless lives, razed worlds, and trampled the domains of rival Chaos Gods. He had destroyed the First Palace of Slaanesh and killed Nurgle's Plague Leviathan. But his glory ended the moment he was deceived by Tzeentch. Manipulated into exploiting a fleeting moment of Khorne's distraction, Skarbrand struck the Blood God himself with his axe. For his betrayal, Khorne cast him down, cursing him with an eternity of rage and exile.

Now, in this lost and dark world, the air burned with crimson flames, the battlefield a chaotic storm of bloodshed.

Dukel, still swinging his roaring chainsword, suddenly felt a familiar psychic pulse through the noosphere, the mind-link that connected him to his forces.

"Your Highness, we've located the Regent's fleet. They're closing in and searching for your signal," came the calm, controlled voice of an officer.

Another voice joined in, one far more concerned. It was Efilal. "Your Highness, are you unharmed?"

Since Dukel had been cast into this world, Efilal had sent him daily messages of concern through the psychic network, her worry a constant presence.

"I'm fine. No need to worry," Dukel replied evenly. To reassure her, he transmitted an image through the link: himself standing amid the inferno, Magnus' severed head dangling from his belt, and the battered form of Skarbrand crushed beneath his boot.

The response was immediate. "Your situation is incredibly dangerous! Hold on; we'll reach you soon," came her frantic reply.

"No need for such urgency," Dukel said, his voice calm even as his chainsword rose high, ready to end the broken daemon beneath him.

But before he could strike, a surge of psychic energy flared in the distance. Dukel's instincts screamed as a powerful spell erupted from the claws of the Fateweaver, the greatest of Tzeentch's Lords of Change. The spell hurtled toward Dukel with unnatural speed. Reacting instinctively, he swung his chainsword to intercept it, but the sorcery twisted mid-flight, curving unnaturally and plunging into Skarbrand's body instead.

With a deafening boom, the Bloodthirster's broken body detonated, consumed in a storm of blood-red Warp energy. The daemon's essence was banished back to the Immaterium.

Dukel raised his head, his black hair flowing in the fiery winds, and fixed his gaze on the Fateweaver. "You know a lot, you damned bird," he growled.

Carlos, the Fateweaver, hesitated for a split second before turning to flee. Tzeentch's daemons surged forward, interposing themselves between the Primarch and their master. At the same time, the berserkers of Khorne, now leaderless, fell under the sway of sorcerers and hurled themselves at Dukel in a frenzy.

The Primarch met them head-on, his chainsword carving through flesh and armor alike. The weapon's whine rose in a bloodthirsty crescendo as it bit through one foe after another. Bodies were torn apart, blood sprayed in torrents, and limbs flew in all directions as Dukel advanced unrelentingly.

Blood rained like a storm. Broken corpses littered the battlefield, and the air was heavy with the stench of death.

Dukel pressed forward, his focus unshaken. Whether a cultist, daemon warrior, or even a Greater Daemon stood in his path, he treated them all with equal contempt, carving through them without hesitation. To him, loyalty to the Emperor was a simple concept: it meant killing all who opposed Him. It was neither grand speeches nor hollow promises but a river of blood paving the way to humanity's survival.

Time became meaningless in the slaughter. Days blurred together as the battlefield was consumed in carnage. Dukel's enemies began to falter, their resolve crumbling. Cries of panic and despair replaced their battle cries.

"Run! Run away from him!"

"Someone save us!"

The sight of their terror brought no satisfaction to Dukel. He muttered to himself, his blood-soaked cape billowing behind him, "So, even daemons can know fear."

Despite their panic, none escaped. The battlefield had been chosen with care by the Ruinous Powers, sealed from the Immaterium and physical space alike. There was no escape for the Fateweaver or his allies.

"Run, Carlos. Keep running," Dukel murmured, his tone low and mocking. "This world was made for me. Where can you flee?"

As the killing stretched on, the daemons and cultists lost all semblance of order. Tzeentch's followers babbled madly, offering secrets in exchange for mercy, while Khorne's warriors degenerated into mindless Chaos Spawn. Dukel ignored their cries, cutting them down without hesitation. Their attempts to feign death or grovel for forgiveness earned them only a quicker death.

Charge. Strike. Advance. Strike again.

The chainsword in Dukel's hands began to change, drinking deeply of the Warp-tainted blood it spilled. Its blade shimmered with a dark, crimson light, pulsating with a malevolent energy. Yet Dukel was oblivious to the transformation. His mind was blank, his body moving with mechanical precision, a perfect engine of destruction.

In this state of relentless slaughter, he felt something stir within him. A seed buried deep in his heart began to grow, nourished by the endless bloodshed. It pulsed with a dark power, a primal force that surged through his veins, sharpening his senses and strengthening his resolve.

Suddenly, the world around him shifted. The burning battlefield vanished, replaced by a warm sunlit pool surrounded by idyllic beauty. Women of impossible allure beckoned to him: youthful maidens, elegant nobles, exotic beastkin, all clothed in the finest silks. One, veiled and ethereal, extended her hand.

"Come," she purred, her voice dripping with honey. "What are you waiting for?"

But before Dukel's mind could process the scene, his body moved on instinct. His chainsword roared to life, and with a single swing, the woman's head was severed from her body. Blood sprayed, staining the pristine pool.

Screams erupted around him. The other women recoiled in horror.

"Brother, what are you doing?" cried a young girl, her eyes wide with fear. "Don't you recognize me?"

Her plea fell on deaf ears. Another strike, and her head joined the others on the ground.

Panic spread through the illusion. One after another, Dukel cut them down. The once-beautiful paradise was reduced to carnage, the pool now a crimson lake.

From a vantage point beyond the veil, the Lord of Change observed the massacre alongside Fulgrim, the Daemon Primarch of Slaanesh.

"Your plan has failed," Carlos croaked, his twin heads speaking in unison.

Fulgrim's expression twisted in confusion and frustration. "It should have worked. The trap was perfect. He's a being of slaughter; an endless cycle of killing should have lulled him into submission. Even now, he's trapped in his deepest desires. Why does he reject it?"

Carlos laughed, a grating, unnatural sound. "Because he kills everything. Even the beautiful things."

...

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