Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

"Bang!——"

With a resounding crash, every iron door in the chamber swung open.

The daemons, their minds filled with blasphemous madness, hesitated for only a moment, unable to comprehend their sudden freedom. Then, driven by their insatiable hunger for souls, they surged toward the human warriors standing in the distance.

The experimental site stretched nearly 10,000 meters in length.

As the rune-engraved cages unlocked, the corrupt energies of the Warp spilled forth unchecked. Whispers from the Immaterium echoed across the chamber, turning it into a nightmarish playground for the daemonic horde.

All but Aiferal and Shivara among the Psychic Guard instinctively narrowed their eyes. Even with their enhanced bodies and psychic augmentation, standing alone in such a place meant almost certain death. In an open space like this, there were no tactical advantages, no terrain to exploit—only brute strength and willpower would determine survival.

Their weapons, potent as they were, seemed woefully inadequate against the sheer number of daemons before them.

How would the First Heir of His Highness respond?

The nuns of the Psychic Guard held their breath, their gazes fixed on the lone warrior at the center of the arena. Anticipation tightened their chests. Would he exceed their expectations?

"May we not disappoint His Highness," they prayed silently.

The warrior stood in the experimental field, the focus of all eyes.

At first, his gaze was dull, lifeless. But as the daemons charged, something within him ignited. In an instant, his expression twisted with exhilaration—madness and joy danced in his eyes. A fiery, unyielding battle-lust roared to life within him.

He had once been a Commissar of Krieg, leading suicidal charges against the xenos menace of the Orks. His fate had been sealed—death on the battlefield was inevitable. But on that fateful day, a figure, godlike in stature, descended from the heavens and beheaded the Ork Warlord with ease, changing his destiny forever.

Since then, he had followed that radiant beacon of war, forsaking his old life to walk the path of a true warrior. He had fought through countless warzones, growing ever stronger under his lord's banner.

Life Magnetic Field: 50,000 Horsepower. Psychic Training Technology: Angel. Heartfire. Psychic Force Field.

Only twenty-two surgeries stood between him and ascension into the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes—the ultimate reward for his devotion. He had outlasted and outfought all competitors, enduring the grueling transformations that made him something more than human.

Now, this battlefield was his proving ground.

He welcomed it.

Daemon blood sprayed across his pristine power armor, staining his vision red.

And then, before the daemons could react, he moved.

In a blur of motion, he closed the gap. The first Khorne Bloodletter charging at him barely had time to register the threat before its skull exploded from the force of his punch.

The battlefield fell silent.

Unholy ichor splattered across the ground, the daemon's profane form ruptured like an overripe fruit. Blood, bone fragments, and yellow-grey brain matter burst outward, painting the arena in ruinous gore.

Crimson Warp-flames ignited around him, purging the air of blasphemy. Bathed in the hellish glow, the warrior stood like a specter of war itself—unstoppable, unrelenting, a weapon of humanity.

He was a destroyer of mankind's foes.

The nuns of the Psychic Guard bore witness to his might, their previous nervousness giving way to awe. His style was not elegant or extravagant—it was methodical annihilation, calculated and absolute.

After a moment of hesitation, the daemons renewed their charge, their clawed limbs tearing through the air with murderous intent. Their profane forms, terrifying to lesser beings, swarmed toward him like vermin.

It did not matter.

They perished all the same.

It was not that the daemons were weak.

It was that the warrior was simply too strong.

And with each kill, his power swelled further.

Kill.

The fire of his soul blazed in his eyes. His genetic inheritance screamed for slaughter, his very being demanding carnage.

Kill!

The daemons, once terrifying monsters of the Warp, now seemed like little more than cattle before a predator.

Skulls burst like fruit crushed beneath an iron boot.

Warp-twisted flesh and hardened chitinous armor, which should have defied mortal weapons, crumpled like paper before his relentless blows. The daemons, nightmares made flesh, proved pitifully fragile in the face of his unrelenting assault.

"Good! That's it! Destroy their bodies! Crush their very wills!"

Behind the reinforced glass, Dukel watched with fervent excitement, his eyes alight with reverence. Occasionally, he could not help but cheer.

"BZZZZT——"

The Chainsword in the warrior's grasp revved hungrily, its adamantine teeth drenched in daemon gore. His very genes and muscle fibers seemed to rejoice in the slaughter, urging him onward, fueling his rampage.

Every daemon he struck down was obliterated utterly, their essence scattered into nothingness.

And as they died, something else occurred—a strange energy, faint yet vast, seeped into him, igniting every nerve and fiber in his body. He could feel it. Like a drug, it filled him with a boundless hunger, driving him further into the madness of battle.

Until the very last daemon remained.

A Bloodthirster of Khorne.

The greater daemon, hulking and monstrous, roared as it lunged for him.

And in that moment, the warrior did something unexpected.

He dropped his Chainsword.

The sound of the weapon clattering against the blood-slicked floor echoed across the chamber. Even the blood-maddened Bloodthirster hesitated, its burning eyes flashing with cruel delight. A human without a weapon? A sacrifice awaiting slaughter.

It rushed forward with unchecked fury.

Only to be caught mid-air by a single hand.

With a thunderous crash, the warrior slammed the Bloodthirster to the ground, shattering its jaw with the impact. Before the daemon could recover, an iron-clad boot came down upon its spine, pinning it in place.

A pair of powerful hands wrapped around its grotesque head.

"CRACK!——"

With a sickening rip, the Bloodthirster's head was torn from its shoulders, spine still attached, its lifeblood spilling across the ground.

But the warrior was not finished.

He lifted the severed head high in one hand, retrieving his Chainsword with the other. The daemon's very essence, its raw Warp energy, was wrenched from its corpse, siphoned into the blade.

"BZZZT——"

The Chainsword roared to life once more, its Machine Spirit howling in exultation as fresh daemon blood seeped between its adamantine teeth.

The trial was over.

And he had passed.

...

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