Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

The warrior carelessly discarded the vampire's grotesque, shrunken head, tossing it aside like refuse.

He glanced at the chainsword in his hand, its design nearly identical to the one held by the Primarch. A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face before he turned to meet the Primarch's delighted gaze.

For reasons beyond his understanding, this fearless warrior suddenly felt a twinge of apprehension under the Primarch's gaze.

Stepping out of the underground laboratory, he was overcome with a strange warmth, a sense of belonging. At the same time, the very gene-seed within him surged with recognition, whispering in his mind:

—He is your gene-father. Your creator. He stands before you.

Conflicted, the warrior reflected on his actions. He recalled the look Dukel had given him, uncertain whether his performance had met expectations. Would his gene-father welcome him? Would he accept him?

His eyes flickered to the chainsword in his grasp. Was it presumptuous to wield a weapon so similar to his gene-father's? Would it offend him?

Yet, despite his hesitations, he pressed forward, resolute. As he rounded the last corner, he finally beheld the Primarch in his full glory.

Towering. Unyielding. A living legend.

Even as a Primaris Space Marine, standing at over 2.6 meters, he barely reached the Primarch's chest. The difference in stature was as vast as their difference in power.

But the moment he truly laid eyes upon his gene-father, all uncertainty fled from his heart.

With unwavering resolve, the warrior approached. He knelt on one knee, his armored bulk settling like a mountain.

"May I call you 'Father,' my great gene-father?"

"Of course, my son. If you wish, you may even care for me in my old age."

Dukel, clearly in high spirits, chuckled—a rare display of humor from the Primarch. He stepped forward and clapped a massive hand upon the warrior's shoulder, the impact resounding like a thunderclap.

As he increased the pressure, a flicker of surprise crossed his face.

He had exerted enough force to shatter lesser daemons, yet his firstborn progeny stood unmoved.

"You are strong," Dukel mused. "But what name should I call you? Should you remain as Political Commissar No. 22, or shall I grant you a new name?"

The warrior's head shot up. Though he remained silent, his eyes gleamed with anticipation.

As a former Death Korps soldier, he had never possessed a name—only a number etched into a nametag. Raised in Krieg's brutal militarized society, he had never even known his biological father.

But now, his existence had been reborn. And he desperately hoped that this great being before him—his gene-father—would bestow upon him a name, a true identity.

Dukel regarded him thoughtfully, then spoke:

"I once heard of a warrior from another world. Alone, he stormed into the depths of a daemon-infested lair, leaving nothing but ruin in his wake. Even the creatures who had never known fear trembled before him."

"His name was Doom. A name that is not just a symbol, but a legacy of faith."

"My son, I grant you this name, so that you may carry forth its might. Let the enemies of the Imperium—those who have never known fear—learn to tremble before you."

A rush of emotion surged through the former Political Commissar. Doom. His name was now Doom. Tears welled in his eyes, his very soul resonating with joy.

Among the cultures of the Imperium, to be named after a great warrior was an unparalleled honor, a sign of divine favor. The Primarchs themselves had been named after mythic figures.

Even Dukel had been named after an angel who stood at the side of the God-Emperor.

For Doom, it was unimaginable that he would receive such an honor.

Before he could fully process his emotions, Dukel continued speaking.

"My son, your wings are strong. You are now prepared to soar across the vast stars. Your strength is unmatched."

"Even my blessings cannot make you mightier. But there is still something I wish to give you."

Dukel extended his hand toward Shivara, the captain of his Psychic Guard.

"Give it to me."

"Ah? What?" Shivara, caught off guard, had been fully immersed in the touching moment between the Primarch and his son. She blinked in confusion as Dukel stretched out his open palm toward her.

"The doll you made. I know you have it."

Shivara flinched. "You knew?!" She pursed her lips, reluctant, but ultimately sighed. "Fine, as you wish, Your Highness."

As she handed it over, Dukel couldn't help but be momentarily taken aback. The doll was an eerily accurate replica of himself—almost a perfect likeness.

He cast a long, meaningful glance at Shivara before handing the doll to Doom.

"This is…" Doom hesitated, staring at the small, delicate figure in his armored palm. His confusion deepened. What was his gene-father's intent?

He tightened his grip on his chainsword and glanced toward Shivara.

—Did Father mean for me to kill the heretic for daring to create such an idol?

His muscles tensed, awaiting only the slightest command to strike the nun down for this sacrilege. But before he could act, Dukel spoke again.

"My son, you are the blade of the Imperium. A weapon forged to destroy all that is vile."

"You walk in the flames of war, tempered upon the anvil of battle."

"But though you are a warrior, you are also my son."

Dukel rested a heavy hand upon Doom's shoulder. "I have never doubted your strength, nor your conviction. But I wish for you to remember this—"

"Even in war, do not forget to care for yourself."

"Even in battle, do not forget your purpose."

"Destroy the enemy leaders, but do not lose sight of what it means to be human."

"Like Shivara and the Sisters of Battle, you should have a life beyond war. Find your own interests, your own hobbies. Do not let yourself become a mere tool of slaughter."

Long into the night, Dukel spoke with his newfound son, and then he returned to his mechanical workshop to record the progress of the experiments alongside Gris.

The surgeries were proceeding well—far better than expected. No casualties had been recorded. Even in cases of failure, the subjects survived, requiring only rest to recover.

Yet, despite this success, Dukel could not create an unlimited number of warriors for the Second Legion.

Each Astartes of the Second Legion required the mental support of at least a thousand HeartNet members to balance their emotions and prevent the tragic fate of the Second Primarch.

With only 500,000 members in the HeartNet, the current limit was 500 warriors.

But as the HeartNet grew, so too would the ranks of the Second Legion.

"Perhaps it is time to accept Guilliman's invitation to the celebrations," Dukel mused. Whenever he attended such events, the HeartNet expanded exponentially.

He decided to consult his brother about the preparations.

But when he entered the Regent's office, he found Guilliman beneath his desk, struggling with something unknown, his expression fierce with effort.

Dukel chuckled.

"Brother, am I here at the wrong time?"

...

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