Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

Carlos the Fateweaver, the Greater Daemon of Tzeentch who had evaded capture time and again, now found no escape.

Under normal circumstances, such a being was nearly as swift as a Primarch, but his grievous wounds slowed him. Even so, he had endured the detonation caused by Skarbrand's charge and the destruction of his sorcerous wards—testament to his formidable power.

In his heart, Dukel silently thanked Skarbrand once more.

"Tear!—"

The Primarch seized the fleeing daemon, his sheer strength rending Carlos's elaborate robes to tatters and stripping away handfuls of azure feathers.

Before the Fateweaver could react, Dukel hurled him to the ground.

The impact sent tremors through the earth, and a crimson mist erupted from one of the daemon's twin beaks. The other beak, undeterred, chanted in the Dark Tongue, summoning the raw power of the Warp. Even now, on the verge of defeat, Carlos refused to surrender.

Dukel did not hesitate. He straddled the daemon's sprawling form and began to strike.

Blow after blow landed with merciless precision, shattering arcane sigils and dispersing Warp-born energies. The once-mighty Greater Daemon spasmed under the assault, ichor spraying from ruined beaks. Only when the creature lay broken and barely clinging to existence did Dukel finally relent.

Across the battlefield, the last remnants of the Daemonic host were being purged. The Librarians of the Expeditionary Corps and the Primaris warriors of the Lord Regent's forces were the first to reach Dukel's side.

But the cost had been immense. Even Roboute Guilliman, the Lord of Ultramar himself, remained in a near-death state.

Imperial warriors stood in solemn silence, mourning the fallen. The voices of the Ecclesiarchy's choir soon rose above the ruins, singing the Emperor's hymn: "May the Dead Return to His Light."

Yet despite the sacrifices, they had achieved the impossible. The gods' trap had been shattered.

Two Daemon Primarchs and a Greater Daemon had been captured. Two more Greater Daemons lay dead.

It was an unprecedented triumph. Once word of this victory spread, it would shake the Imperium to its core.

Guilliman and Dukel had proven beyond doubt that the era of the Primarchs was not yet over.

Without the vast forces under the Lord Regent's command, the Expeditionary Corps alone would have struggled to prevail, and the cost in blood would have been far greater.

Fulgrim, the Serpent, had been restrained by the Grey Knights using methods known only to their order.

They had even sought to claim Magnus—what remained of him, at least—but Dukel had refused.

For now, he abandoned the thought of severing Fulgrim's head and carrying it as a trophy. Unlike Magnus, Fulgrim's mind held little of worth beyond debauchery and corruption. Dukel found the idea of keeping him close revolting.

Both would be transported to Terra, where they would face the Emperor's judgment.

Elsewhere, the Death Korps of Krieg scoured the battlefield, retrieving the identity tags of the fallen from the charnel heaps.

For those warriors, these small tags were more than mere metal—they were the only legacy they had. Their armor and weapons would be reclaimed for the next wave of conscripts, but the nameplate was personal. It was all that remained of them, a silent testament to their service and sacrifice.

The Kriegers searched meticulously, ensuring that no comrade's name was left behind.

From birth, they had possessed nothing—nothing but the sins of their ancestors and the duty to atone.

They had no names, only numbers, and their sole purpose was to die in service of the Emperor.

To them, the retrieval of a fallen comrade's nameplate was sacred.

The aftermath of battle was often more harrowing than the battle itself.

Dukel glanced at the casualty list in his adjutant's hands. A long column of names, each one a son, a brother, a warrior lost.

But he would not dwell on it.

Rogal Dorn had once memorized the name of every warrior under his command, carrying the weight of their deaths upon his soul. The pain had shaped him.

Dukel, more emotional than even Dorn, had chosen another path.

That was why, in every great battle, he hurled himself into the fray, keeping his warriors at a distance.

As the war came to a close, Dukel led the Imperial forces back to their makeshift encampment.

They passed through the ruined cities they had fought to reclaim, places now lifeless beneath the gods' malign touch.

The human population of this world had been exterminated.

An entire industrial world—over ten billion souls—erased.

Imperial search teams combed through the shattered remains, hoping against hope to find survivors.

They found none.

But the corpses of traitors still littered the streets. Those who had embraced Chaos were executed without hesitation.

Then, the Astartes reached the city's shelter.

They forced open its sealed gates—what lay beyond chilled even their transhuman hearts.

A vast pit, spanning nearly a tenth of the city's expanse, filled with corpses.

The bodies were broken, their suffering evident even in death.

The surrounding walls bore blasphemous symbols, carved in blood.

Such atrocities had occurred in city after city.

Dukel grimly deduced the truth: each of the 888 cities had been sites of ritual slaughter.

The mass sacrifices, combined with the bloodshed of the battle, had allowed Khorne to manifest his presence in real space, even sending an aspect of himself to fight.

"Burn it all."

Dukel's order was final.

The soldiers stared at the mass grave. Though disciplined, their hatred was palpable.

The wind carried the wails of the dead through the ruins, whispering sorrow into the ears of the living.

Dukel inhaled the tainted air but cast aside any thoughts of mourning.

He turned, dragging the broken body of Fateweaver behind him, and walked toward the Imperial camp.

"I cannot save them all. But at least… I can still save my brother."

...

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