Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

The divine blessing had been stripped from the Sister of Battle when Efilar joined the Noosphere. Unexpectedly, it now served as a conduit to the Emperor once more.

The majestic and solemn voice of the Emperor resounded in his mind, yet this time it was different—no longer warm or approachable, but imperious and divine.

You are my son, born of my will.

You have offered me your devotion.

I shall temper you with care, forge you with all my might.

No blade shall mar your form;

No plague shall taint your spirit;

No daemon's whisper shall break your will.

Rise, my son!

There are no true gods in this world! None are worthy of your worship!

A golden radiance lanced through the blood-soaked wasteland.

He had come. He was here. He walked this world.

Though mortal eyes could not yet perceive Him, every molecule in existence trembled at His arrival.

The encroaching darkness ruptured the fabric of reality like a deflated lung.

A terrible, brilliant blackness surged forth—a dark star, vast and unrelenting, consuming all in its path. It radiated such overwhelming power that nothing could endure its presence, not even light itself, rendering it an abyss of purest night.

Dreadful, beautiful, incomprehensible, ineffable—

The Dark Lord had come, and every bloodstained grain of sand disintegrated at His presence.

The skies, the desert, the battlefield, even the air itself—all were being annihilated.

The same fate threatened the warrior cloaked in a sanguine haze. His flesh exuded torrents of vaporized blood as he unleashed a roar of unbridled wrath.

The fury contained within that roar engulfed the world in an instant.

This psychic plane was riven in two by the clash of cosmic forces.

One half bled crimson.

The other, an abyss of unbeing.

Their struggle defied mortal comprehension. Reality trembled as the two forces warred, yet Dukel alone remained untouched, wreathed in golden light, a silent witness to the cataclysm.

Hearing the Emperor's words, the Primarch's lips curled unconsciously.

Even now, you insist there are no gods, old man?

Dukel sighed. He could only admire the Emperor's conviction. What else was there to say?

He lifted his gaze to the battle before him. Though he lacked the understanding to fully grasp its magnitude, his very essence quailed at the sight. This was no metaphor—merely witnessing this struggle caused his soul and being to tremble.

Were he not of demi-god stature, simply observing this incomprehensible war would have shattered his soul and unmade his essence.

The battle raged on, but Dukel's eyes narrowed in sudden realization.

Was this all part of Tzeentch's grand design?

He had not deciphered the Architect of Fate's schemes, yet he could sense the inevitable conclusions they heralded.

The Great Game had spanned eons. The Ruinous Powers played their infernal contest for so long that even a demigod Primarch such as he was nothing but an exceptional pawn upon the board.

In the end, the true targets of their machinations were always one another.

Dukel reviewed the events that had unfolded.

Simply put—

The Gods had been gambling in the warp's great casino, and they had all set their sights on a prized card—Dukel himself.

The Emperor had drawn first, but after failing to claim the prize outright, He had abandoned the pursuit.

The remaining three Ruinous Powers, however, refused to give up. They pooled their resources, determined to drain the vaults to secure their prize.

Now, after all their wagers, the result was clear—Slaanesh and Tzeentch had spent little and suffered no great losses. To them, it was a minor gamble.

But Khorne had paid dearly.

The Blood God had invested the most. He had nearly seized his prize—his hand had brushed the card's surface—but in that moment, a golden-clad warrior had emerged from beyond the game board.

He had declared that the prize was His.

Not only had He reclaimed the card, but He had severed two fingers from Khorne's hand in the process.

A result that delighted the other gods.

And the most likely orchestrator of this outcome? The Architect of Fate.

Of course, it was only Dukel's conjecture. No one, not even he, could fully grasp the designs of Tzeentch.

As he pondered, the tumult of the warp reached an unprecedented peak.

Though the Emperor and Khorne had not clashed directly in the Materium or the Imperial Palace, their brief struggle within the Immaterium was enough to shake the firmament of the warp itself.

The northern and northwestern warp-realms quaked and shifted, their tides colliding violently.

The aftermath birthed monstrous warp storms, severing countless worlds from the Astronomican, transforming stable shipping lanes into treacherous voids.

"ROAR!"

Khorne's bellow resounded across the Sea of Souls, a cry of boundless wrath. Even the furthest reaches of the warp were tainted by its fury, triggering fresh wars and bloodshed in countless corners of the galaxy.

In the Crystal Labyrinth, Tzeentch's laughter echoed endlessly.

The daemons that wove the skeins of fate felt their master's mirth and rejoiced, though they did not yet understand why.

In the Garden of Nurgle, the Plaguefather—long content in his seclusion—emerged with a rare display of interest.

Smiling indulgently, he bestowed his blessings upon his children. With a chuckle, he offered a thick, rotting broth to the Goddess of Life.

The Emperor's voice spoke again in Dukel's mind.

"Go home, my son."

There was no mistaking His command.

"Wait, old man. I have something to ask."

"Speak."

Dukel relayed his plan to restore Guilliman—by extracting the essence and qualities of Carlos and imbuing them into the Armour of Fate.

Originally, he had not intended to consult the Emperor, as he could contend with most of the gods. But against the Lord of Change? That was another matter.

No matter how he examined the situation, this reeked of Tzeentch's meddling.

But with the Emperor's support? That changed everything. Though he had not comprehended the Emperor's battle with Khorne, he had seen enough to understand that the Emperor's power was beyond question.

Had the Emperor been weaker, Khorne would not merely be roaring in impotent fury from the Brass Citadel.

His fallen brothers had proved the importance of communicating with the Emperor. Dukel would not repeat their mistakes.

"You may attempt it."

The Emperor's response came after a moment of silence.

Reassured, Dukel resolved to maintain better communication in the future.

Especially with Fulgrim. Perhaps if they had spoken more often, the proud Phoenix might still have remained the Empire's shining jewel.

As this thought crossed his mind, he recalled that his fallen brother awaited him in the Materium.

He wondered how events had unfolded in his absence.

Guided by golden light, Dukel's essence pierced the psychic battlefield and surged toward reality.

On the battlefield of the Dark World, Fulgrim was the first to notice Dukel's stillness. Twisting his lithe form, he brandished his venomous blade and lunged at his brother.

This time, he would sever Dukel's head and feast upon his flesh in recompense for his torment.

"Protect His Highness!" the loyalists cried.

...

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