Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

The four Primarchs conversed at length within the chamber. When Dukel arrived, even the ever-loyal Grey Knights and Sisters of Silence had been ordered to withdraw.

No one knew what was discussed that day. But as the Grey Knights departed, they overheard a single name spoken repeatedly by the Primarchs—Randan.

During the Great Crusade, the xenos of Randan had once forged an alliance that inflicted significant damage upon the Imperium.

In that campaign, humanity, the undisputed overlords of the galaxy, had deployed nearly half of the Imperium's military might. The war engulfed much of the galaxy in flames, culminating in the crushing defeat of the Randan coalition. However, the cost of victory had been steep.

The First Legion, the Dark Angels, suffered devastating losses.

The Primarch of the Second Legion was wholly cast out in the aftermath of that battle.

The Emperor, enraged by the humiliation, decreed that all records of the campaign be purged, consigning this history to oblivion.

Not even the Primarchs themselves remembered what had transpired.

Yet despite this, Dukel gleaned two crucial pieces of information from his brothers:

—The Randan xenos wielded formidable psychic technology.

—Though defeated, they had not been eradicated. They still lurked in the galaxy's depths, waiting for the opportune moment to rise once more.

Upon learning this, Dukel's reaction defied all expectations.

The other Primarchs had anticipated that he would immediately begin hunting for traces of the Randan, seeking to unearth the long-buried secrets of their ancient power.

But instead, the Second Primarch ended the conversation in silence and left.

Afterward, everything returned to normal.

Dukel and Magnus resumed their work with the research teams, fully dedicating themselves to the creation of the Second Legion. Guilliman returned to his administrative duties, managing the unrelenting demands of the Imperium. Fulgrim remained imprisoned.

As if nothing had happened.

Yet in the weeks that followed, Dukel's research team made extraordinary strides.

Not only was the surgical transformation process for the Second Legion finalized, but research into their weapons and armor had also begun in earnest.

For the two great Magi Biologis, this was a rare and invaluable opportunity. The psychic field of a Primarch shielded them from the insidious corruption of Tzeentch, ensuring that their blueprints remained untainted.

One by one, technical hurdles were overcome.

Then, one day, Shivara arrived with the first group of candidates for augmentation, drawn from the Second Legion's reserves.

These men were to become the first of their kind—the initial subjects of the transformation into Primaris Space Marines. They understood the immense risks involved, knowing they were venturing into the unknown, where the likelihood of death was high.

Yet when Dukel prepared to deliver a final warning regarding the dangers of the process, he hesitated.

All twenty-two volunteers were from the Death Korps of Krieg, including the regiment's Twenty-Second Commissar.

A warning was unnecessary.

For the warriors of Krieg, death was not a deterrent. Even if the procedure guaranteed their demise, they would march into it without hesitation, determined to seize the impossible with sheer will.

Ordinarily, the Imperium selected aspirants for Astartes induction from youths aged 14 to 18, as their physiology was still malleable, reducing the risks of genetic enhancement.

However, due to the presence of life-field stabilization and psychic cultivation techniques, these age restrictions were less rigid for Dukel's experiments.

After receiving the Primarch's final words of encouragement, the twenty-two Krieg warriors were prepared for surgery.

The Mechanicum's Subterranean Laboratory

After an agonizing wait, news finally arrived—

The procedure had succeeded.

In the vast underground testing facility, a chamber lined with rune-etched cages stood ready.

Dukel observed from behind reinforced glass, his gaze fixed upon the blasphemous forms imprisoned within. Each cage held no fewer than twenty daemons, their twisted, malevolent forms seething with barely contained fury.

At a glance, over four hundred Chaos entities were bound within the chamber.

Standing beside Dukel were Magos Dominus Belisarius Cawl and Archmagos Gris. The two legendary adepts scrutinized the data streams cascading across their consoles.

Beyond them, the Psychic Guard, led by Efilar and Shivara, stood at the ready, bolters primed, their expressions grim.

Dukel studied the daemons once more. For the first time, his gaze held neither disgust nor hatred—only satisfaction.

Today, his first true son was to be born.

This testing chamber was his gift to his progeny.

And the daemons? They were merely toys.

"Your Highness, we may begin," Gris intoned.

Dukel nodded, a rare smile playing at his lips. "Let us not keep him waiting."

With a hiss of pressurized steam, an elevator descended into the testing grounds, its surface emblazoned with the Aquila.

Standing upon it was a towering figure, clad in gray-red power armor, wielding a chainsword. The warrior loomed at over two and a half meters tall—a newly reborn soldier of the Second Legion.

The sight of him drove the daemons into a frenzy.

They shrieked and howled, flinging themselves against their restraints, desperate to taste the flesh and soul of the Astartes before them.

"Open one cage," Dukel ordered.

Gris hesitated momentarily before complying. One containment field deactivated, releasing a horde of ravenous daemons.

But the warrior in the chamber did not react. Instead, he looked up toward Dukel, his voice steady and unshaken.

"Open them all, Gene-Father. The strength I have inherited from you far surpasses what these wretches can withstand."

Dukel's laughter rang through the chamber.

"Yes! That is the way it should be!"

He turned to Gris. "Open every cage."

"But, Your Highness," Gris protested. "It is already perilous enough for a single Astartes to face twenty daemons armed only with a chainsword. Releasing them all would be—"

"You have never fought Dukel," Magnus interjected, his voice carrying an air of amusement. "You don't understand."

"For Dukel, the chainsword is but an accessory—he carries it because he enjoys the dance of battle. But in truth, he is strongest when unarmed."

Magnus' expression darkened as memories surfaced.

In their last encounter, Dukel had fought him using only a chainsword, sustaining fifteen grievous wounds—yet he endured.

But when unarmed?

The Keeper of Secrets had been decapitated.

Fulgrim had been crippled with a single knee strike.

Kairos Fateweaver had been beaten to death with bare fists.

All were foes Magnus himself considered equals, if not superior.

Dukel turned to his crimson-clad brother, a hint of amusement in his gaze. He had never openly discussed this truth, yet Magnus had perceived it nonetheless.

...

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