Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

After the Primarch finished speaking, a brief silence was followed by thunderous cheers.

"For the Emperor! For the Imperium!"

The Astra Militarum and Adeptus Astartes were the first to roar their approval, soon joined by others. Even some nobles and high-ranking lords, usually composed and calculating, found themselves swept up in the fervor. Hearts long dulled by power and corruption beat once more with the fire of devotion.

The Chapter Masters of various Space Marine Chapters were especially moved. Some had fought alongside Dukel on the battlefield, while others were seeing him in person for the first time. Yet all could feel his unwavering resolve, a killing intent sharpened by unyielding faith in victory.

They believed—no, they knew—that such a Primarch could lead them to reclaim the Imperium's lost glory.

Fanatical chants echoed across the vast halls.

Dukel stood amid the ceaseless cheers. A hidden eye upon his brow opened briefly before shutting again, unnoticed. Each time he found himself in such a moment, his power surged anew.

The sheer force of the Imperium's collective fervor rippled through the Warp, sending shockwaves across the Immaterium. The immense entity of wheels within wheels stirred, its titanic eyes opening wide. Warp-spawned abominations fled in terror before the overwhelming presence of faith and destiny.

Across the galaxy, seers and oracles recoiled in horror as the preordained skeins of fate unraveled.

Deep within the Crystal Labyrinth, the Fateweavers howled in frustration as the once-clear strands of destiny fragmented. The future of the Imperium was slipping beyond their grasp, countless possible timelines dissolving into uncertainty.

The celebration raged on.

It was, after all, a festival of victory, a rare moment of joy for humanity. Yet the overwhelming intensity of the occasion left Roboute Guilliman, next to speak, in an awkward position.

He stood before the vast assembly, gazing at countless expectant faces.

Each Primarch possessed their own strengths, and where Dukel could ignite the fires of war, Guilliman's gift lay in order and governance. But inspiration of this kind? It was not his domain.

Clearing his throat, he pressed forward.

"Ahem. Now, we shall discuss new decrees."

He began reading aloud the latest Imperial edicts he had drafted.

Though his words carried great significance for the Imperium's future, the contrast with Dukel's speech was stark. Where the warrior Primarch had roused the soul, Guilliman's proclamations—while undeniably essential—were dry, methodical, and dull.

The nobility and bureaucrats whose interests were affected listened intently, occasionally interjecting to voice concerns. But among the rest of the crowd, even the most disciplined found their minds wandering.

Seated upon his grand throne, Dukel let out a silent sigh. Bored, he lowered his head and turned his thoughts to his own calculations, using the mental network to refine unfinished projects.

Time slipped by.

When he surfaced from his thoughts, he estimated it would be night now—if the artificial glow of the fleet did not conceal such distinctions. Scanning the room, he saw Guilliman deep in discussion with nobles and officials, the conversation appearing tense.

A young noble was red-faced with frustration, arguing heatedly, while Guilliman responded with his usual measured calm.

So, my dear brother's reforms have encountered resistance.

Dukel smirked to himself, watching with mild amusement. He had little patience for such affairs. He had attempted his own political reforms before, back on Ophelia VII, and had met similar resistance.

But obstacles in his path had been swiftly removed—one way or another.

Then, suddenly—

"Your Highness."

A voice echoed through the mental network. It was Gris, one of his trusted aides.

"The Rogue Trader and Navigator Valo have regained consciousness."

Dukel's interest sharpened. Though the experiment had proceeded smoothly, he had not expected such immediate success.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, Your Highness. Furthermore, we have received urgent intelligence."

Dukel's expression darkened as he processed the new information. Rising from his throne, he strode toward Guilliman.

At that moment, the Regent was still debating with the young noble.

"Great Regent, I mean no disrespect," the noble declared, voice tinged with barely restrained outrage. "But my family's world is our rightful inheritance, granted by the Terran Senate itself. How can you now claim it does not belong to us?"

The guards beside Guilliman stiffened at the noble's tone. It was audacious—perhaps even treasonous—to challenge a Primarch in such a way. More than that, the noble's words revealed the selfish rot festering within the Imperium: an aristocracy that clung to the past while feasting upon the present.

Yet Guilliman did not react with anger. He opened his mouth to answer—

But Dukel was faster.

"Apologies, brother. Government business is over."

Reaching forward, Dukel took Guilliman by the arm, pulling him away with such strength that, despite himself, the Regent instinctively followed.

"Wait!" The young noble blocked their path. "Your Highness, I beseech you! My ancestors earned their titles through merit and blood. Their land, their legacy—it is my birthright! You must see the injustice in stripping it from me."

He had chosen his words carefully, sensing Dukel was less politically inclined than his brother. If he could sway him, he might yet salvage his claim.

Guilliman immediately saw the danger. If Dukel acknowledged the noble's argument, the Regent's reforms would face even greater resistance.

Before Guilliman could intervene—

A shadow moved.

A figure burst from behind Dukel, driving a fist into the noble's abdomen. The impact stole his breath, silencing him mid-sentence.

Two Sisters of Battle stepped forward, one on each side, and swiftly removed him from the hall.

The entire motion was seamless, executed with such practiced efficiency that it was clear this was not the first time.

A moment later—

BOOM.

A bolter round detonated somewhere in the distance, from an isolated corridor.

Dukel turned toward the sound. "Is he always this... bold?" he asked, glancing at Guilliman.

Ignoring the alarmed expressions of the surrounding nobles, he continued walking. Guilliman hesitated for a heartbeat before following.

Only when they had reached a secluded chamber did the Regent speak.

"Dukel, what happened?"

Dukel's gaze was hard. "We have received intelligence. Baal is on the verge of being attacked by a Tyranid Hive Fleet."

Guilliman stiffened. "Baal? That is Sanguinius' domain—home of the Blood Angels."

Dukel nodded grimly. "Yes. The Blood Angels are gathering, preparing to make a final stand. But according to our calculations, their chances of survival are abysmally low."

The weight of those words settled upon them.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Guilliman's expression hardened. "Then we must act."

...

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