2nd Primarch

Dukel's previous bloody massacre of the powerful was like a boomerang, and after several months, it finally returned to strike him down.

On Ophelia VII, the celebration of the Primarch's return was in full swing.

This grand ceremony heralded to the surrounding worlds the return of the Primarch and the triumph over the traitors of Mankind and the forces of Chaos.

A few weeks later, the majestic triumphal road was completed.

Densely packed interstellar battleships hovered in orbit, thousands of mechanical engines roared in unison, and hundreds of thousands of soldiers stood in solemn formation.

Nobles from distant worlds arrived in an endless procession.

In the Second Holy Land, streets were emptied as citizens of the Imperium poured into intersections and squares, eagerly awaiting the spectacle.

Hundreds of millions gathered, forming an endless sea of humanity. Cheers erupted in a massive wave of praise for Dukel.

Clergy from the Ecclesiarchy sang hymns exalting the Primarch.

Accompanied by the Anglican Bishop and planetary councillors, Dukel ascended the viewing platform to oversee the parade.

The display of interstellar legions' might filled the imperial citizens with awe and confidence.

When the masses caught sight of Dukel, the cheers reached a deafening crescendo, like an overwhelming tidal wave. The entire world trembled with the ecstatic cries of humanity.

"Your Highness Dukel, this belongs to you."

"Only a perfect son deserves such a gift."

A planetary councillor raised his hands above his head, presenting an exquisite rapier to Dukel.

The weapon was a Chaos artifact, forged in the Warp.

"Is this your gift?" Dukel's eyes lit up with delight as he accepted the blade without hesitation.

But his next words made the councillor pale and break into a cold sweat.

"Isn't that right, Fulgrim?"

Dukel gripped the rapier, smiling at the councillor in front of him.

The councillor's expression twisted from a forced grin to one of gloom.

Why hadn't the Chaos artifact corrupted the Primarch?

This rapier was crafted as a gift by the gods of the Warp, a weapon designed to reveal painful truths and drive its bearer to despair.

Dukel should have succumbed to the visions of humanity's doomed future. Each truth-filled path led only to despair—real, inevitable despair.

Yet Dukel stood unshaken, his eyes betraying nothing but a hint of amusement.

"Are you surprised, Fulgrim? Brother, it's been ten thousand years. Look at what you've become."

Dukel's tone was steady, devoid of anger, as if engaging in a casual chat.

Fulgrim, however, was incensed. The calmness of his brother—the second Primarch—only made him feel like a jester.

A sharp hiss and a burst of unnatural sound filled the air as an evil force descended.

The councillor's body twisted grotesquely, flesh and organs turning inside out, forming a monstrous abomination.

The being was a scaly mass of deformed muscle, caught in a state of simultaneous pain and pleasure, emitting shrill, incoherent noises.

Dukel regarded the creature with calm indifference.

A faint snake-like hiss whispered in his mind, but it was swiftly consumed by his overwhelming mental fortitude.

"Number Two, I never imagined you would rise again."

"And you ask me what I've become? Look and see—I have ascended. Now, let me ask you: What have you become, son of perfection?"

Fulgrim's voice was sharp, seductive, and strangely melodic, yet Dukel was unmoved.

"Me? I'm still me. If anything has changed, it's that I've found my treasure."

Dukel's gaze bore down upon his mutated brother, his tone casual, as if reminiscing about old times.

But their words carried the weight of ancient secrets.

Fulgrim seethed inwardly. In Dukel's presence, he once again felt his vulnerability.

"You call our father ruthless, but do you understand the gifts he gave us? And you, my brother, squandered these divine treasures for filth. Now you gloat before me, reeking of corruption."

"Brother, I mean no insult, but truly, you stink."

Dukel's icy words cut through Fulgrim like a blade, enraging the Daemon Primarch.

"What right do you have to judge me? You've been lost for ten thousand years!"

Fulgrim's voice cracked with emotion, leaving him vulnerable to the invisible mental assault Dukel unleashed.

"I may have been lost," Dukel replied, his hand resting on Fulgrim's shoulder in mock camaraderie. "But tell me, dear brother, what happened in those ten thousand years?"

The question was a trap, his words laced with unseen psychic influence.

For a moment, Fulgrim wavered, compelled to answer. But then, with a cry of anguish, he broke free.

"Ah, Number Two, you're as deceitful as ever! Did you think I wouldn't notice your tricks?"

Dukel clicked his tongue in mock disappointment.

Fulgrim's smugness irritated him, but he allowed the moment to pass.

"Ten thousand years ago, you were already a fool," Dukel mused. "And now, you stink of failure."

Fulgrim howled in rage, but Dukel's calm demeanor only deepened his brother's fury.

Beneath his composed exterior, Dukel's mind calculated his next move. Fulgrim's arrogance would be his undoing.