Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

The sky was choked with yellow sand, and the desert stretched endlessly.

Dukel strode forward, and after a brief moment of disorientation, he realized that this was a ritual of Khorne.

When the expeditionary force arrived in this world alongside Guilliman's team, the Primarch believed he had escaped the machinations of the gods and secured absolute victory. However, he failed to recognize that the Great Game of the Ruinous Powers never ceases.

His steps soon faltered—emerging from the shifting sands ahead was a roaring Khorne Daemon, spitting blasphemous words.

Behind the Greater Daemon stretched a vast horde, a warhost of the Blood God. Bloodletters, Flesh Hounds, Khorne Berserkers, Bloodcrushers, and Skullgrinders marched in perfect formation.

One warband after another materialized, each Khorne Legion numbering exactly 8,888 warriors.

Facing such an apocalyptic tide of carnage, the Primarch merely chuckled and raised the chainsword in his hand.

"Is that all?"

"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!"

The endless desert, a battlefield ordained by Khorne himself, trembled with the war cries of his daemonic legions. Their weapons were raised, but their blades sought only one target.

"Come!"

Dukel did not hesitate. He carved a crimson path through the horde, charging straight at the Greater Daemon leading the assault.

Among the daemons of the Dark Gods, those sworn to Khorne were unquestionably the most lethal in direct combat.

But to Dukel, the Greater Daemons of Khorne were the easiest to slay. Whether in speed, strength, or martial skill, he surpassed them utterly.

Within moments, he had analyzed his opponent's weaknesses. Without needing to exert overwhelming force, he deftly maneuvered his chainsword and bisected the towering monster in a single strike.

The colossal daemon crumpled like a felled titan, and what followed was a massacre.

With each swing of his blade, Dukel painted the sands red.

Yet in an endless desert, how much meaning does a single drop of blood hold?

Grain by grain, the shifting sands were dyed with slaughter. With each step, he waded through millions of blood-soaked particles, but such trivial details escaped him.

The killing did not stop.

Within twenty-two hours, the entire warhost of Khorne had been exterminated.

And for all the fury and bloodshed, the only wounds Dukel suffered were minor scratches on his power armor—utterly insignificant.

Yet something gnawed at him.

Throughout the battle, he had not extracted a single fragment of Chaos essence from any of his fallen foes.

A realization dawned.

This was neither reality nor the Immaterium.

This was a spiritual realm forged by Khorne himself.

"Is that it?"

Dukel laughed with contempt. His mockery was a direct affront to the master of this realm, yet Khorne did not respond.

The Blood God's presence remained distant, his voice heard only in the occasional echoes of his hymns within Dukel's mind.

But soon, the Primarch recognized that this ritual was far from over.

Only eight hours had passed.

And once again, the daemonic horde arose from the shifting sands.

"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!"

The Khorne legions surged forward the instant they manifested.

"Again?"

Dukel welcomed them with open arms, grinning as he charged forward to meet the Greater Daemon at the vanguard.

But this time, something was different.

His opponent had grown stronger.

Not in raw power or speed, but in combat technique.

A subtle refinement of skill.

Yet it was not enough.

After a brief engagement, Dukel beheaded the daemon with a single stroke.

Once again, he annihilated the entire warhost.

Again, it took him twenty-two hours.

The Khorne warriors fought with marginally more skill this time, but their only achievement was leaving two additional shallow scratches on his armor.

Dukel began counting the time between battles.

When the daemonic horde emerged once more, he noticed something—a discrepancy of eight seconds.

The cycle was accelerating.

He had no time to rest.

The moment one army was slain, another surged forth from the sands.

Time became meaningless.

Dukel had no idea how long he had fought.

Only one truth remained—the desert was no longer yellow.

It had turned crimson.

Every grain of sand had been soaked in blood. The swirling dust was stained with death.

His power armor was tattered, his body—seemingly wrought from steel—scarred with countless wounds.

But this was a spiritual realm.

He could burn his own mental energy to mend his injuries.

His will was not infinite, but should the need arise, he could siphon psionic strength from the members of the Mind Network to sustain himself.

"Shhk!"

In the endless red desert, Dukel ripped the last Bloodthirster in half.

The final grain of sand was soaked in blood.

At that moment, the air tasted sweet.

The Primarch instinctively swung his chainsword, expecting another enemy—but there was none.

His blade sliced through empty air.

For the first time in what felt like centuries, Dukel paused.

He greedily inhaled the rich, intoxicating scent of blood, savoring it like a long-lost vice.

The killings had become a habit, an addiction.

But now, the daemons were gone.

"It's over."

He sighed, disappointed.

At that moment, he felt like a deprived addict, denied his drug of choice.

With nothing left to slaughter, Dukel collapsed onto the blood-drenched sands.

For the first time since inhabiting his new body, true exhaustion clawed at his mind.

He checked his soul.

The corrupted human emotions he had absorbed from countless mortal beliefs—taint that had long resisted purification—had been reduced by two-thirds.

A prolonged slaughter had accomplished what even he had failed to purify.

"So? Is that all you can do?"

His voice dripped with disdain.

"Why stop now, Blood God? Have you no greater offering to amuse me?"

Dukel sat atop the bloodstained sands, sneering at Khorne's failure.

Yet the Lord of the Skulls remained silent.

Only the hymns of His warriors echoed louder within Dukel's mind.

Until—

"Tick."

"Tick."

"Tick."

Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate.

After an eternity of battle, Dukel had sharpened his instincts to inhuman levels.

From the rhythm of those steps alone, he knew—

This was a true warrior.

He turned his gaze toward the approaching figure.

A lone warrior, his form entirely shrouded in blood, strode toward him with a massive blade in hand.

"The daemons failed to kill you. Not even once."

The blood-clad warrior's voice was filled with admiration.

Dukel's eyes blazed as he gripped his chainsword.

"Their failure is inevitable. When my blade drinks blood, I feel only joy. And you?"

"You are no different."

The lone warrior smirked and leveled his massive sword at Dukel.

"Do you need time to rest, Dukel?"

The Primarch's lips curled into a savage grin.

"There's no need."

"I'll kill you first. Then, I'll rest."

...

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