Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

Nalai, once a verdant garden world, had devolved into a fetid wasteland under the corrupting touch of Chaos.

The skies were choked with green miasma, a byproduct of rampant chemical warfare, thick enough to obscure the light of the stars. Poisonous fog blanketed the surface, suffocating what little life remained.

Amidst the noxious clouds, a grim chorus rang out.

"Purify this world!"

Countless Chaos Space Marines, clad in black and green power armor, surged forward. These warriors of the Pestilent Purifiers, a warband devoted to Nurgle, were an anomaly among the corrupted. Unlike other followers of the Plague God, their armor bore no signs of decay, and they exuded neither foul odors nor the grotesque marks of rot.

The Pestilent Purifiers were infamous for their genocidal campaigns, deploying bio-chemical weapons and indiscriminate toxins to annihilate all life without exception. To them, all living things were an affront, and their ultimate goal was a galaxy purged of existence.

"All life must perish for the galaxy to be reborn!"

Gerst, the towering warlord of the warband and a favored servant of Nurgle, advanced amidst his warriors. His presence alone spread virulent diseases, and the air around him seemed to shimmer with invisible contagions.

"The Imperium is irredeemably corrupt," Gerst declared, his voice a rumbling echo of doom. "True purity can only be achieved through death!"

As he marched, the corrupted warriors parted to allow him passage, their reverence clear. Around him, the poisonous fog thickened, swirling ominously as if heralding destruction.

Gerst stopped to gaze at the imposing fortress ahead—a colossal bastion stretching for kilometers, its void shields shimmering faintly against the toxic haze. Behind those walls, the Imperial defenders huddled in desperation, knowing they stood as the last line between the Purifiers and the doomed civilians sheltering within.

"The ignorance of these mortals is tragic," said Gerst's adjutant, his voice dripping with disdain. "Every world we purify meets us with resistance. They fail to see the gift we bring."

Gerst raised a hand to silence him. His tone softened, almost paternal.

"They are not to blame," he said. "These poor souls have been deceived by their False Emperor, clinging to the lies of life. They fail to see that life itself is the source of their suffering—the true poison. Only through death can they be freed."

His words, laden with both menace and twisted compassion, stirred his followers. What began as righteous indignation turned to sympathy, a perverse kindness that only fueled their resolve.

"Let us grant them deliverance," Gerst continued. "Through our sacrifice, we shall bring peace to this corrupted galaxy."

The Purifiers' march resumed, their blackened hearts filled with zeal.

Inside the fortress of Nalai, an Astra Militarum Commissar stood amidst the controlled chaos of battle preparations. Outside the void shields, the toxic fog writhed ominously, heralding the advance of the Plague Warband.

Behind the Commissar, soldiers worked tirelessly to allocate firepower and bolster defenses. They knew the stakes—if the fortress fell, the civilians within would face annihilation. The Purifiers' doctrine left no room for survivors.

The Commissar paused, murmuring a quiet prayer.

"Emperor, guide my hand. I am unworthy of your aid, but grant me the strength to protect these innocents."

His prayer completed, the Commissar entered a makeshift command office. There, a figure in battered but gleaming power armor awaited him—a Battle Sister of the Adepta Sororitas.

The Sister's armor bore the scars of battle, and her body was marred by grotesque wounds that festered with signs of corruption. Yet, a faint, radiant force field enveloped her, visibly knitting flesh and armor alike with miraculous speed.

"Sir," the Commissar began, addressing her with a formal tone. "The enemy is preparing a general assault. My troops will struggle to hold them off for long."

The Sister opened her eyes, her expression resolute despite her injuries. Her voice carried the unshakable conviction of one who had stared into the abyss and refused to falter.

"Reinforcements will arrive in an hour," she said. "Leave the Chaos Warband's main force to us. Your task is to hold the flanks—at all costs. Do you understand, Commissar?"

Her unwavering confidence lit a spark within the Commissar's weary heart.

"Understood," he replied, snapping to attention. "We will hold the line."

Though doubts lingered in his mind—questions about her origins and the mysterious Second Legion she claimed to serve—the Commissar found himself inspired by her presence.

Beyond the fortress, the Purifiers closed in, their march relentless. Inside, defenders readied themselves for the storm to come.

The clash of faith and corruption was imminent. And in the crucible of battle, hope flickered—a fragile ember against the choking darkness.

For in the grim darkness of the far future, even the faintest glimmer of hope can inspire courage.