Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

Guilliman was carried away. Shielded by a psychic force field, the malignant energies of the Warp were held at bay, but this was a temporary reprieve. It could only delay his demise, not save him.

Dukel watched his brother's retreating form, his mind racing as the computational power of his neural network churned through countless strategies. Plan after plan was dismissed as improbable until two possible solutions emerged.

The first involved Guilliman's Armor of Fate, a relic crafted under the guidance of an Eldar seer to shield him from both physical and psychic harm. In the Warp, there was one daemon intricately tied to fate: Kairos Fateweaver, who had crawled from the Well of Eternity itself. If Dukel could extract Kairos' essence and reforge it into the armor's core, it might restore Guilliman. Yet, even with Dukel's calculations, the success rate stood at a disheartening 22.2%.

The second solution was far simpler but fraught with risk: summoning their Father. Dukel still possessed the Emperor's Blessing, wrested from Efilar. This relic could serve as a conduit for the Emperor's divine will, even in the material plane. However, Guilliman's self-imposed psychic isolation posed a grave obstacle. With his mind sealed, he was akin to a Muggle fumbling with a 2G network. Worse, Dukel dreaded the Emperor's response. If Guilliman's fall provoked even a flicker of disappointment, the Primarch feared the old man's wrath might shatter him anew.

Lost in thought, Dukel was jolted by a sudden crash behind him.

"Your Highness, beware!"

"Protect the Primarch!"

After Guilliman's retreat, Dukel was the only remaining loyal Primarch on the battlefield. Every soldier—be they Imperial Guard, Space Marines, or even the Eldar allies—treated his safety as paramount. They closed ranks, anxiously watching the source of the noise.

Emerging from the crater where it had been hurled was the Keeper of Secrets, its grotesque form trembling as it rose. Though gravely wounded, its serpentine body oozed Warp-tainted ichor. Physical injuries paled in comparison to the soul-devouring flames gnawing at its essence, driving it into a frenzy of anguish.

The sight of the Slaaneshi daemon rising again sent ripples of fear through the Imperial forces. The Ultramarines, their fury fresh from their primarch's grievous injuries, clenched their weapons, ready to strike. Yet, before they could act, Dukel moved.

Even Astartes battle-hardened by centuries of war struggled to track the Second Primarch's speed. In an instant, Dukel loomed over the Keeper of Secrets, his steel-clad boot grinding the daemon's serpentine body into the blood-soaked ground. His massive hands seized its grotesque head, and with an effortless motion, he tore its spine free, vertebrae snapping like brittle twigs.

With a sickening squelch, Dukel flung the mangled remains aside. The daemon's body writhed as orange Warp-fire consumed it, reducing its once-majestic form to a smoldering pile of organs and bone.

The soldiers of the Imperial Guard and the Astartes watched, awestruck. Dukel's wrath was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. Even the alien Eldar found themselves unnerved, Evelyne unconsciously stroking her neck in sympathy for the daemon's torment. They could not help but wonder: if their fragile alliance with the Imperium ever fractured, how would they survive the fury of this god-like warrior?

Unmoved by their fear, Dukel turned away. The Keeper's death brought him no solace. His brother's pain festered in his heart, a wound that could only be eased through vengeance. He wiped the daemon's blood from his gauntlets onto his scarlet cloak, his expression grim and resolute.

Behind him, Efilar approached, her fiery wings illuminating the battlefield as she led the Psychic Guard into formation. Nearly five thousand psykers joined in flawless synchronicity, weaving their powers into a colossal psychic matrix.

From every corner of the battlefield, Krieg Guardsmen prepared their bayonets, strapping melta bombs to their bodies with grim resolve. The air was thick with the cold determination of soldiers who sought redemption through death.

Transport craft descended, deploying towering Knight Titans and Dreadnoughts, while legions of mechanized infantry took up positions. The battlefield swirled with activity as the Imperium's war machine gathered under Dukel's command.

"Your Highness, the Psychic Guard is assembled!"

"The Second Legion's reserves are ready!"

"Valhallans, Ophelian Guard No. 7, Skitarii, all prepared!"

Finally, the voice from the command center echoed through his vox: "The expeditionary force is assembled!"

Dukel took up his blood-streaked chainsword and stepped forward.

"Woooh!—"

The mournful bellow of Krieg's war-horns signaled the charge. Gene-forged warhorses thundered across the blood-slick battlefield, their riders a vanguard of sacrifice. Behind them, the Astartes and Titans moved as a relentless tide.

Their silence was deafening. The weight of their collective vengeance hung in the air like an icy fog, chilling all who felt its touch. As the Imperium's forces surged forward, the demonic hordes recoiled.

Dukel led the charge, his blade carving through heretics and daemons alike. Chaos retaliated with frenzied abandon, a swarm of abominations flooding the field. Yet the Imperium held its ground, their fury unyielding.

The Grey Knights, wielding psychic might, sought to flank Fulgrim, the traitorous Primarch lurking among the daemons. They knew their efforts were futile against a being of such power, but their sacrifice bought Dukel precious seconds.

"Poor brother," Fulgrim sneered as he dispatched the Grey Knights. "You lead them to slaughter, all for your pride."

Dukel answered with action. A broken sword, once a daemon's instrument of corruption, glinted in his hand. "Fulgrim, your fall began with a blade. Let this one end it. Justice demands your end."

Their clash erupted in a fury of strikes. Dukel's chainsword tore into Fulgrim's serpentine form, rending flesh and shattering bone. The daemon Primarch faltered, his resolve crumbling under the relentless onslaught.

Though wounded, Fulgrim fled deeper into the battlefield, desperation etched across his twisted visage. Dukel pursued, carving through daemonic hordes without hesitation. Cities reduced to rubble bore witness to humanity's vengeance as they cleansed the Warp's taint from their ruins.

As Dukel cornered Fulgrim once more, the Warp itself rippled. From the breach stepped Skarbrand, Khorne's bloodthirsty champion. Rage incarnate roared its arrival, shaking the battlefield.

Dukel's brow furrowed. This was no mere coincidence—it was another ploy of the Chaos Gods. But their intentions eluded him.

Amid the deafening chaos, an ominous hymn echoed in his mind, its verses laced with despair and fury. Each word tightened the grip of rage upon the blood-soaked world.

...

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