2nd Primarch

The World Eaters, followers of Khorne and traitors to the Imperium, had taken this lost world.

Demons tore the heads from human warriors, piling them into grotesque mausoleums within the ruined cities.

The stench of blood soaked every inch of the land, and cruel, malevolent energies seeped into every corner.

There was no limit to the atrocities they committed in their relentless quest to please their god.

They constructed a massive arena, where captured Space Marines became their most prized playthings.

The sacred duels served as offerings to the Blood God.

The captured Space Marines were stripped of their power armor and forced into brutal, one-on-one battles with Chaos warriors in the Colosseum, relying only on their physical prowess.

A Space Marine who had slain six human traitors in consecutive duels was finally brought down by a single crushing blow. His head was severed by a Chaos warrior's blade and displayed as a trophy.

The surrounding followers of Khorne erupted into roars of ecstasy.

Yet, when a Space Marine decapitated a human traitor, the same wild cheers echoed across the arena.

To the followers of the Blood God, it mattered little whose blood was spilled or whose head was offered.

This was a never-ending cycle of slaughter and carnage—a festival no disciple of Khorne could resist.

New victims were thrust into the arena, and fresh battles commenced.

An old soldier, nailed to the fortress wall with only his broken body remaining, watched the gruesome spectacle with mounting fury.

He could do nothing as his comrades and brothers fell one by one. The chains embedded in his body rattled with every futile effort to break free.

Loyal soldiers were never meant to become mere playthings for the amusement of dark gods.

Yet all hope had long since withered.

Cut off by Warp storms, there was no possibility of rescue.

His anguished roars became part of the arena's cacophony—a mere backdrop to the revelry of Chaos.

This world was doomed to become a paradise for the damned, and these loyal warriors would perish with their faith in the Emperor unbroken.

But just as despair seemed absolute, a deafening explosion shattered the revelry.

In orbit, a Chaos warship was struck by an unseen force, its wreckage tumbling in flames before erupting into a brilliant explosion in the void.

When the fires dissipated, the sky above the world revealed a densely packed Imperial fleet, poised like an avenging storm.

The old soldier, pinned to the fortress wall by Khorne's followers, stared in disbelief at the fleet's arrival.

It was unreal. Even in his most desperate dreams, he had never imagined this moment.

Rescue was unimaginable—yet here it was.

Thousands of drop pods rained down like fireballs, their blazing trails lighting the atmosphere before crashing into the ground with thunderous force.

Thunderhawk gunships screamed across the battlefield, their guns roaring with righteous fury as they unleashed humanity's wrath upon the Chaos stronghold.

Explosions consumed the battlefield, obliterating scores of daemons.

The skies burned with fire and vengeance, catching the Khorne followers off guard.

Amid this carnage, a force of Adepta Sororitas advanced in silver-white power armor.

Their grenade launchers spat flames, their fury ignited by the atrocities committed in the Nanlis Galaxy. No loyal human could tolerate seeing their brothers and comrades subjected to such horrors.

Soon, the battlefield outside the Iron Fortress was nearly cleared of Chaos forces.

A corrupted Tech-Priest was crushed beneath the furious stomping of Space Marines, reduced to a mess of flesh and mangled machinery.

Imperial forces reached the fortress and freed the old soldier nailed to the wall. Despite his grievous injuries, he made a singular request: to be interred in a Dreadnought, so he could fight alongside his comrades once more.

"Which regiment are you from? How did the Imperium respond so quickly this time?"

His voice, now emanating through the vox of his Dreadnought, replaced his severed tongue. The Dreadnought would be his comrade, his weapon, and his coffin.

But he cared little for that. He needed answers.

"The Imperial Ministry of the Interior? No," a soldier of the Astra Militarum replied, pride evident in his voice. "We are here under the command of the great Primarch."

"Primarch?" The veteran's mechanical tone betrayed his rising excitement. "Which one? Which son of the Emperor has returned to lead us from this darkness?"

"The Emperor's second son, His Highness Dukel. The crusade of the Dark Age has begun. Under his leadership, we will restore the glory of humanity."

The Dreadnought's vox crackled with excitement. "Where is the Primarch? I must see him with my own eyes!"

"Uh," the soldier hesitated, his gaze distant as he consulted the Mind Network. "His Highness Dukel… he's conducting a rearguard operation. Alone."

"Alone? In Xisuo Fortress? Against over a thousand World Eaters?"

"Yes," the soldier said, his voice faltering.

Another battlefield.

"Kill these heretics!"

"Careful!"

"Fall back!"

Amid the ruins of a shattered city, Space Marines fought desperately against Khorne's daemons.

Their power armor was battered and bloodied, their breaths labored.

The captain, his voice rasping from a punctured lung, shouted, "Hold the line, brothers! Reinforcements have arrived! We need only buy time for the wounded to retreat!"

His words reignited hope in their eyes.

Suddenly, the ground shook with a deafening explosion.

Through the rising smoke, a calm voice echoed: "I'm here."

Dukel stepped forward, a smile on his face.

To cover his legion's retreat, the Primarch had undertaken the most perilous task of all.

And his method of holding the rear was simple: kill every last pursuer.

"I am your reinforcement," Dukel declared, his voice steady. "Leave this to me."