2nd Primarch

His Highness Guilliman, Regent of the Second Human Empire, placed the resplendent laurel crown upon his head.

Magnificent visions flooded the Primarch's mind.

One brilliant scene after another painted an extraordinarily radiant future.

Compared to the grand achievements depicted in these visions, Guilliman's current triumph seemed insignificant.

In these images, he commanded an unprecedentedly vast army, planting the flag of the Imperium in every corner of the galaxy.

The people loved him so deeply that to die for their Hero-King was considered the highest honor.

The countless worlds he liberated bore his name with reverence.

Chaos, brutal and cunning, was nothing more than a broken-backed dog in his path. The daemons were so panicked they cowered in the darkest recesses.

Statues honoring Guilliman adorned every planet of the Imperium, and a supreme throne awaited him.

As he ascended the steps to kingship, sat upon the throne, and gazed upon the entirety of humanity's empire, a profound sigh escaped his lips.

He saw him.

A figure, both familiar and distant, slowly approached.

The figure had a majestic, powerful build, a handsome yet resolute face, and eyes that seemed to burn eternally with boundless determination.

It was none other than Guilliman's long-lost brother, the Primarch of the Second Legion, Dukel.

"Well, if it isn't Guilliman," Dukel said, his tone laced with confusion and curiosity.

"I didn't expect you to go through the trouble of meeting me personally. Welcome, my brother."

Guilliman did not respond to Dukel's puzzlement. Despite the immense gap between their statuses now, Guilliman—restorer of humanity's glory and architect of supreme accomplishments—remained humble, striving to put his brother at ease.

But Dukel's next words made Guilliman's scalp tingle.

"Brother, I don't mean to criticize you," Dukel said with a wry smile, "but what are you daydreaming about?"

Before Guilliman could react, a massive psychic strike erupted.

The struggle that followed was indescribable, leaving psychological scars that even the immortal Regent of the Imperium could not ignore.

The psychic slap shattered Guilliman's reverie and plunged him back into reality, leaving him humiliated.

He wanted to exchange words with Dukel, but his deep-seated fear of the Warp made him sever the psychic link almost instinctively.

Back in the celebration hall on Macragge, Guilliman reflected on the grand visions he had just experienced—and on his own complacent attitude toward Dukel within that illusion.

Even the mighty Primarch, the ruler of 500 worlds, felt a deep flush of embarrassment at his perceived social death.

The shame quickly transformed into seething anger.

In a fit of rage, Guilliman tore the laurel crown from his head and shredded it, ordering the immediate arrest of the consul who had presented it to him.

Still fuming, Guilliman summoned Evelyne, the leader of the Death Army, and issued a command.

"I need you and your Death Army to assist me in locating someone," he said coldly.

"Find my brother, the Primarch of the Second Legion, Dukel. Search Ophelia VII. He should still be there."

In the unpredictable depths of the Warp, on a lost world...

A roar, filled with endless pain, echoed from the twisted temple of flesh and blood.

Fulgrim was in a pitiful state. His massive, serpentine body shriveled as cracks spread across his flesh, spewing soul fire.

The spiritual flames, remnants of Dukel's psychic assault, infiltrated his essence, causing him immense agony. Though the flames could not destroy him, they burned his body and soul alike.

The world around him burned as well, the eternal darkness transformed into an inferno.

Countless daemons perished in the blaze, their screams reverberating across the cursed realm.

Fulgrim's carefully laid plans had backfired spectacularly, leaving him disgraced and enraged.

"Aaaaaah!—" Fulgrim bellowed.

"Dukel, you will die for this!"

Summoning his Chaos legions, Fulgrim vowed revenge. His fury brooked no delay.

This time, he would lead the assault personally and sever his brother's head with his own hands.

Meanwhile, in the turbulent depths of the Warp...

Arrogance churned into a violent vortex, merging with wrath and malevolence to form a mad tempest. Despair shaped itself into a jagged strait, its shores haunted by countless daemons.

In the vast, blood-soaked plains of the Warp—a battlefield for the Four Gods—ceaseless carnage raged.

Khorne's bloodthirsty legions clashed with the crystalline guardians of Tzeentch, while Slaanesh's Lustful Knights infiltrated Nurgle's Garden.

The constant warfare caused ripples in the fabric of the Warp, making navigation ever more treacherous.

Yet, even amidst their endless battles, the gaze of the Chaos Gods remained fixed on the material universe.

Khorne laughed uproariously at the failure of Fulgrim, his blood-red eyes gleaming with savage delight.

Tzeentch's Fateweaver, Carlos, meticulously pieced together fragments of destiny, weaving intricate snares to ensnare the Primarchs.

Abaddon roared, rallying his forces for the next assault on reality itself.

And Fulgrim, consumed by his humiliation, prepared his own expedition to reclaim his honor and exact vengeance.

On the fringes of the Imperium...

Dukel, fully aware of the malice directed at him, had been quietly preparing for the inevitable. His forces grew stronger by the day, and his plans for a great expedition began to take shape.

In the galaxy-spanning game of predator and prey, Dukel knew one truth: he would not be the one hunted.

But his quiet preparations were soon interrupted.

According to reports from the Heart Network, Evelyne of the Death Army had led a fleet and appeared near Ophelia VII.