Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

When Dukel opened the door, he found the Regent sprawled awkwardly under his desk, most of his armored form concealed beneath it.

"Throne..." Guilliman muttered, his ceramite-clad fingers struggling to grasp a parchment that had slipped onto the polished floor. The bulk of the Armor of Fate made bending at the waist nearly impossible, forcing him onto his hands and knees. Even then, the cumbersome gauntlets refused to cooperate, the document skittering further away with each attempt.

"Brother, am I interrupting something?" A teasing voice broke the silence. Guilliman attempted to look up, only for the iron halo behind his head to catch against the desk, stopping him short. He hardly needed to see to recognize the speaker—after all, only one man would dare jest at his expense so freely.

"No, brother," Guilliman replied with visible frustration. "You're just in time. I am the Emperor's son, the commander of the Indomitus Crusade... and I can't even pick up a Throne-damned piece of paper."

Glaring at the offending parchment as if it were an agent of Chaos, he grumbled, "Brother, this piece of paper is my greatest enemy."

"You have many enemies," Dukel observed dryly, glancing at the towering stack of reports on the desk. "Are you going to wage war against every single one of them?"

"You're flaring up like a pufferfish."

"Dukel, for the love of the Emperor, stop mocking me and lend a hand."

As Guilliman tried to stand, he discovered yet another problem—the winged ornamentation on his shoulder armor had become lodged in the desk's frame. He hesitated, knowing that applying too much force would reduce the desk to splinters, sending the carefully stacked documents cascading to the floor. A bureaucratic nightmare.

Dukel sighed and pulled him up. Guilliman instinctively clenched his fists in frustration, only for the servos in his armor to protest audibly. The intricate plating and soft inner layers prevented him from fully closing his hands.

"Brother, clad in this armor, I can crush a daemon's skull with a single blow," he lamented, "yet I am utterly powerless against a piece of parchment. I must find a way to remove this damn thing."

Dukel raised an eyebrow. "You can shatter a daemon's skull with one punch? I find that hard to believe."

"Dukel, can you focus on the important part? I need to take this armor off!"

"Then take it off."

"If I do, I can no longer heal my wounds."

"Then die."

Guilliman fell silent, his expression unreadable. At last, he sighed. "Brother, I wish I could be as open-minded as you."

Dukel smirked. "Of course I'm open-minded. It's not me who's dying."

"You—!" Guilliman seethed, considering delivering a well-deserved punch—until he took in Dukel's formidable stature. Deciding against it, he exhaled sharply. "Perhaps being trapped in this armor isn't so bad after all. At least I'm still alive."

His fingers flexed. "But what troubles me more is whether the Eldar might disable the armor at a crucial moment. I cannot place my fate in their hands. Evelyne may not intend to betray me, but xenos can never be fully trusted."

Dukel nodded in agreement. "True, brother. But has no one told you that the fate of this armor is, in fact, under my control?" Before Guilliman could respond, Dukel tapped twice on the Armor of Fate.

The golden Aquila upon Guilliman's shoulder ignited in a brief but radiant blaze, a flare of soul-fire dancing across the cerulean plating—like a rising sun in an untainted sky.

"Well, that solves one issue," Guilliman muttered, relief evident in his tone. Then, turning to Dukel expectantly, he asked, "So, when do you think I can finally take off this thrice-damned armor?"

"Soon," Dukel replied. "While researching gene-seed mutations, I acquired samples from other Legions via Cawl as references. In yours, I found a benign mutation—one that enhances regeneration. Given time, both you and your offspring will recover from wounds at an accelerated rate."

Before Guilliman could fully absorb the revelation, the voice of Magnus—emanating from the runed pendant at Dukel's waist—interrupted. "Great Regent, your caution towards the Eldar surprises me. I thought you were utterly enchanted by that Eldar woman."

"Magnus, cease your nonsense! Evelyne and I are merely temporary allies."

"Oh, of course," Magnus chuckled darkly. "Though, I never mentioned Evelyne by name, did I?"

Realizing he had walked into a trap, Guilliman scowled. "You—!"

Dukel, however, remained serious. "Guilliman, I trust your judgment, but xenos cannot be relied upon. If the day ever comes when I find you truly ensnared by their influence... Well, I may not harm you, brother, but I promise I'll drag those Eldar back here and make a fine bean sprout soup out of them—then watch you drink it, mouthful by mouthful."

"And then," Magnus added gleefully, "our great Regent will sigh that the bean sprouts taste exquisite. In more ways than one."

"Magnus! I've tolerated you for too long!" Guilliman's patience finally snapped.

After a brief interlude, the conversation shifted back to official matters. Dukel inquired about the preparations for the upcoming celebration.

"Dukel, I assumed you wouldn't care about such festivities," Guilliman admitted, before revealing a troubling predicament.

A Rogue Trader, stationed in a nearby sector, had sent word of his intent to attend the celebration—only for his vessel to be ambushed by Chaos forces while traversing the Warp.

Guilliman refused to ignore the situation, yet with most of the Imperial forces occupied reclaiming lost worlds from the Ruinous Powers, he lacked the manpower for a swift response. Pulling troops from their current engagements could delay both the war effort and the celebration.

"Simple. Leave it to me," Dukel declared.

"You're going personally?" Guilliman asked, surprised.

"Of course not." A knowing smirk played across Dukel's face. His own expeditionary forces were likewise occupied, but he had yet to deploy a certain hidden asset. "My sons have been born. It's time to baptize them in the blood of the enemy."

"You actually succeeded?!" Guilliman's astonishment was palpable. As a Primarch, he understood all too well the difficulty of Dukel's undertaking.

This revelation signified more than just the rebirth of a forgotten Legion—it heralded the emergence of a new breed of Astartes, potentially overcoming the genetic stagnation that had long plagued the Imperium.

The Imperium stood at the edge of annihilation. The dark tide was rising. Guilliman, ever the pragmatic strategist, knew that these warriors could be the key to turning the tide.

Yet theory was one thing. Practical application was another.

Still, as he regarded Dukel's confident expression, a new hope stirred within him. He awaited, with great anticipation, the day these warriors would make their mark upon the battlefield—and upon history itself.

...

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