Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

Navigator Varo and the Rogue Trader were transferred to the Mechanicus research workshops. For the next three weeks, Dukel monitored the experiment's progress with unwavering focus. To his surprise, perhaps due to the Navigator's formidable soul, the results far exceeded his expectations.

Unfortunately, the Rogue Trader did not fully regain consciousness until the celebration commenced as scheduled.

The world chosen for the grand ceremony was a garden world selected by Lord Commander Guilliman himself.

By the time Dukel's ship landed at the starport, the massive square—spanning nearly half a continent—was already brimming with Imperial citizens eager to witness the event.

A vast fleet eclipsed the skies, blotting out the stars, yet casting an even brighter, more stable artificial light over the gathered masses.

Gargantuan statues carved into the very mountains encircled the square, towering like sentinels. These colossal effigies honored the Imperium's greatest heroes and saints, with the most imposing among them being the statues of the loyal Primarchs.

The Archangel Sanguinius stood with his wings unfurled and his blade raised high; Rogal Dorn's visage was carved with stoic resolve, unyielding as the mountains themselves; Jaghatai Khan, his features unmistakably those of Chogoris, his braids flowing in the wind. Even the shattered statue of the Second Primarch had been reconstructed.

Dukel found his own likeness among them—a young man, his head bowed in contemplation. Perhaps to highlight his prominence in today's ceremony, the statue shimmered with ethereal flames, symbolizing his rebirth from the ashes.

CLANG!—

The resounding toll of ceremonial bells echoed across the world, carrying their chime to the furthest reaches of the gathered masses.

At that moment, strange flying constructs surged into the sky, and a thunderous cheer erupted from the assembled Imperials, celebrating the triumph of their Primarch.

Guilliman addressed the crowd, declaring that this was the Imperium's greatest victory in ten millennia.

The newly awakened Emperor's warriors had not only purged countless dark worlds and repelled the daemonic hordes, but they had also captured fallen Primarchs and banished several Chaos abominations back to the Warp.

Hovering above, a grand anti-grav pulpit carried an Ecclesiarch who preached the achievements of the Primarchs.

Choirs assembled in airborne sanctuaries, their voices raised in hymns exalting the Emperor. Their songs carried over the vast square, reverberating across the world.

From distant worlds, vessels arrived, their noble occupants emerging in ceremonial garb, a tide of dignitaries gathering to bear witness to history.

The cacophony of voices filled the square—until the moment the Primarchs descended from their transport.

Silence fell instantly.

Dukel and Guilliman, flanked by the Primarchs' honor guard, boarded an ornate aircraft bound for the throne at the summit of the plaza.

Below them, millions of Imperial citizens adjusted their stances, each striving for the best possible vantage to lay eyes upon the demigods they revered. Their expressions held fervent devotion, their gazes filled with blind faith.

Though Guilliman stood at Dukel's side, he remained half a step behind—a subtle political statement not lost on the observant.

Dukel, however, dismissed the thought. He was, after all, the central figure of today's celebrations.

From within the shadows of his cloak, Magnus the Red muttered, "Madness."

The Demon Primarch, bound by the psychic barrier surrounding him, observed the crowd through the fabric's folds.

"For once, I agree," Guilliman sighed. "They worship a god who despises godhood. When I awoke and learned of the changes wrought over ten thousand years, I felt as though I were witnessing a farcical tragedy. Yet, it is our reality."

"If Lorgar could see the Imperium now, he'd laugh without restraint," the Lord Commander added, his voice heavy with sorrow.

"He lacks the luxury of laughter," Dukel remarked coldly. "He has no time for amusement, only suffering."

"What?" Guilliman's expression hardened. "What do you mean?"

"You should embrace the Warp, brother," Magnus quipped. "Then, at least, you wouldn't be so blind. Corax has been hunting him for centuries, yet you remain oblivious."

"Hmph. He has yet to meet his true end," Dukel scoffed. "Not until he faces me. Lorgar, Angron, Perturabo—"

Dukel listed the names of his traitorous brothers, his voice as cold as the void.

"And Mortarion," Magnus interjected helpfully.

"Oh, you do hold grudges."

"I noticed something amiss with him even during the Great Crusade," Magnus continued. "Always taking precisely seven steps at a time. And yet, he dared to call the Thousand Sons' pursuit of knowledge heresy. He shunned psykers while dabbling in numerology. At least Dukel acknowledges his gifts—Mortarion is nothing but a hypocrite."

"I do not wield the powers of the Warp," Guilliman snapped.

"Magnus, I've told you before," Dukel said, ever patient. "The energy I harness is not sorcery—it is the manifestation of human will. Pure, untainted."

"Hah. I'd sooner place my faith in the Emperor's original vision."

The Primarchs conversed freely, their words laden with ancient secrets. Their honor guard, standing at rigid attention, scarcely comprehended the depths of their discourse.

As they reached the grand throne, military leaders awaited them.

Chapter Masters from various Adeptus Astartes Chapters stood in formation. Custodians from Terra, Battle Sisters from Ophelia VII, even representatives of the Inquisition and the High Lords' Council were present.

Dozens of Astra Militarum generals stood beside planetary warlords. Voidborn admirals and legendary fleet captains were among them, their ranks a testament to the Imperium's might.

These were the stalwart defenders of humanity—the foundation of its continued existence.

And they were but a fraction of those who had come to witness this momentous day.

Even planetary governors, rulers of entire systems, found themselves relegated to the periphery, unworthy of kneeling before the twin thrones.

As Dukel rose to speak, the world held its breath. He needed no grand proclamations—his very presence ignited the hearts of mortals.

The crowd expected triumphant words.

Instead, he spoke with raw, unguarded emotion.

"Ten thousand years ago, I often gazed upon the stars. The heavens, rich with promise, granted humanity all it desired—so long as we were willing to strive for it."

"But now, the stars are no longer beacons of hope. They are battlegrounds, their light dimmed by the shadow of our foes."

"So I took up the mantle of our ancestors, wielding fire against the dark. I set the galaxy ablaze in war, and I crushed the enemies of humanity beneath my heel."

"We have won—but at great cost. Millions of soldiers have perished. Countless civilians have been slaughtered."

"I have seen mothers, clutching starving children, begging for a blessing because the father who once protected them lies cold, his body unrecognizable, devoured by daemons."

"I have witnessed the corpses of our people piled high, their blood soaking entire worlds."

Dukel's voice, laced with psychic resonance, reached into the souls of all who listened. They remembered their suffering.

And then, his voice grew firm.

"But our enemies made one mistake. They believed we would break."

He gestured, and a golden Aquila banner unfurled, revealing a massive, taxidermied daemonic entity impaled upon it.

A hush fell over the Imperium.

"It is time our enemies remembered their fear."

Dukel's voice rose to a thunderous decree.

"Rejoice, Imperium—We. Are. Back!"

...

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