Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

These Space Marines were unlike any the Rogue Trader had ever seen. Clad in green and black power armor, they were taller and more imposing than he had imagined. Even amid the chaos of battle, their presence was distinct. Their weapons, too, were unusual—kinetic firearms resembling double-barreled shotguns rather than standard bolters.

A ghostly flame flickered along their weapons, wavering between reality and illusion. The surreal sight made him question if this was a dying hallucination. Yet the deafening roar of gunfire, shaking the battlefield, proved otherwise. To the battered trader, the cacophony was a beautiful symphony of destruction.

These weapons, though unorthodox, were devastating.

He watched as one Marine fired, unleashing a fan-shaped barrage of burning projectiles. In an instant, a wave of daemons was torn apart, their forms reduced to charred remains.

These warriors of the Emperor arrived just in time to save him. Then, in a feat of sheer audacity, one of them ignited his jump pack, streaking like a comet into the Great Unclean One at the heart of the battlefield. The Marine did not use his weapon—neither the engraved shotgun nor the gore-streaked chainsword at his side. Instead, he crashed into the bloated daemon with raw physical force, slamming both himself and the creature into the alloy bulkhead of the spacecraft.

The impact thundered through the vessel, metal screaming in protest as the wall buckled inward. The Great Unclean One's corpulent mass became embedded in the dented surface, its rotting flesh splitting and spilling putrid filth.

The Rogue Trader wanted to warn the Marine—fighting such a creature in close combat was madness. The daemon's vile blood was a potent pathogen, among the deadliest in the galaxy. Even a single drop could mean a fate worse than death. But his injuries rendered him voiceless.

Yet, the Marine remained untouched. A translucent energy field shimmered around him, repelling the daemon's corruption. He raised his fists, wreathed in purging flame, and struck.

One punch. Two punches. Three.

He did not stop.

Each impact sent tremors through the ship. The Rogue Trader watched, transfixed, as the warrior methodically pulverized the Great Unclean One's hideous face, his strikes relentless and unwavering. It was a grim, yet mesmerizing spectacle.

He had lost his crew—some slaves, some workers, and others his friends and family. But vengeance, even secondhand, was satisfying. He relished the sight of the daemon's head deforming, its grotesque features caving in under the Marine's relentless assault.

And then, with a final, earth-shaking blow, the wall gave way.

A gaping hole yawned open, and in that instant, the daemon's skull exploded. The foul ichor that burst forth was instantly consumed by holy fire, leaving nothing behind.

With the Great Unclean One vanquished, the slaughter of the remaining daemons commenced. These warriors showed no mercy—not even to their own should they fall to corruption. The purging was absolute.

Despite their swift intervention, the casualties were staggering. By the time they had secured the vessel, over seventy percent of the crew lay dead.

Doom entered the cockpit, his gaze falling upon the Navigator.

The man had burned himself out, sacrificing his life to pry open a passage back to realspace. Without his selfless act, the Space Marines might never have found the vessel in time.

Blood soaked the floor. The Navigator's body twisted with unnatural mutations—tentacles writhed where limbs had been, flesh warped by the influence of the Warp. His breathing was shallow; death loomed.

Doom assessed the scene with cold efficiency.

As a former Death Korps soldier, sacrifice meant little to him. He had seen comrades charge enemy lines with melta charges strapped to their chests, reducing themselves to vapor for the sake of a minor tactical gain. One life, even that of a Navigator, was insignificant.

He tightened his grip on his chainsword. There was no place for corrupted psykers, no matter how noble their past deeds. He raised the blade, ready to end it.

Then he hesitated.

His free hand reached into a pouch, retrieving something small. A doll.

Standing amid the carnage, surrounded by the stench of death, Doom stared at the delicate object in his grasp, lost in thought. After a long pause, he lowered his chainsword.

The Navigator was taken aboard the Second Legion's warship for emergency treatment.

After the battle, mortal crew members flooded the wrecked vessel, tending to the wounded, purging the taint of the Warp, and cataloging losses.

Then, the Rogue Trader witnessed something that confounded him.

The warriors who had waded through blood and fire gathered together, each retrieving an exquisite doll from their armor. They compared them, engaging in quiet conversation.

Nearby, their leader stood beside the ruined corpse of the Great Unclean One, meticulously recording data—perhaps cataloging the daemon's characteristics.

Was this some obscure Legion tradition?

The Rogue Trader prided himself on his knowledge of the Imperium's many factions, yet this was unfamiliar. If such a custom existed, he would have recognized it.

Before he could ponder further, a voice interrupted his thoughts.

"How are you feeling?"

A Sister Hospitaller stood beside him, her voice gentle yet firm. Only then did he realize he had been saved. The weight of exhaustion crashed down upon him.

As his consciousness faded, one final thought lingered—a whisper of despair and relief, echoing in the depths of his mind before darkness claimed him.

...

Check out my Patreon for +30 extra chapters on all my fanfics! ​

[[email protected]/LordMerlin]

Thank you for your support!