2nd Primarch

This is a scent crafted by the Prince of Darkness himself. The emergence of beauty within one's heart is but the top note of this intoxicating fragrance.

With just a small whiff, it promises endless pleasure, immersing you in absolute ecstasy. You will swim in the warmth of sin and flesh—a nightmare of decadence beyond imagination. It offers an eternal, dreamlike sensory experience so close you can almost taste it. Do you desire it? Don't just dream—take action!

When you can fiercely possess her, why stop at a simple heartbeat? When you can have countless wives and concubines, why be satisfied with just one?

You are no common man. You love not only her appearance but her very essence. You long to open her abdomen and hold the heart that beats for you. You desire her beauty, her taste, and the crimson river of her blood.

You use their screams as melodies and their blood as paint. Your love becomes poetry, composed with flesh, blood, and soul. You play the harp strung from your lovers' sinews in the dead of night, recalling every shared moment.

You are a romantic artist, savoring the melancholy within your heart.

The aroma lingers and beckons.

If you desire love, they will offer their pillows and beds. If you crave power, they will crown you. Whatever you seek can be realized through this incense—drawing you into the abyss of depravity.

This is no ordinary scent. It is the centerpiece of a demonic ascension ritual orchestrated by Slaanesh himself. 666 enchanting succubi have the honor of participating, willing sacrifices in this grand ceremony.

These succubi are destined to die.

Fulgrim was certain of it. He imagined them being strangled, torn apart, mashed into pulp in a frenzy of pleasure, or even bitten and devoured alive. To drag the Emperor's second son into the depths of unbridled indulgence, the Lord of Pleasure would willingly sacrifice millions.

Slaanesh loved Dukel so deeply that no cost was too great.

But alas, this was all wishful thinking.

Dukel, the Primarch, did not understand such twisted affection. Any demon foolish enough to approach him was met with merciless slaughter.

And yet, amidst the carnage, Dukel did not fall to the Blood God's dominion. His heart held no rage; he was not consumed by the lust for blood.

This confounded Fulgrim.

The crystal was Tzeentch's gambit.

The killing fields belonged to Khorne.

The incense was Slaanesh's masterpiece.

Despite the pervasive corruption of the Chaos Gods, something unforeseen emerged.

"Fulgrim, be wary. Something is wrong with Number Two," Magnus's voice called out from where his severed head hung at Dukel's waist.

"I sense he hasn't succumbed to the gods but is entirely immersed in his own world."

Fulgrim sneered, dismissing the warning. "Magnus, your grasp of the truth remains as pitiful as ever. You were a fool before, and you've only grown worse with time."

Magnus fell silent, unable to retort.

At that moment, Dukel ceased his slaughter, his chainsword still in hand. A blinding fire erupted from his body, consuming every succubus around him in an instant. His eyes, once vacant, now burned with clarity and purpose.

The seed within his heart had broken through, and a surge of psychic energy flooded through him, elevating his power to unprecedented heights.

Dukel now stood as a being perfectly in tune with his body and mind, subtly connected to the Supreme Heaven. His intuition was razor-sharp, guiding him through any illusion or trap.

Fulgrim, ever the fallen artist, studied his brother with a mix of malice and awe. His serpentine form moved with an unsettling grace, his elongated frame exuding a beauty both enthralling and repulsive.

"Brother," Fulgrim hissed, his voice honeyed with venom, "look at the ruin you've wrought upon me. I worry for you night and day, longing for the day I'll make you pay tenfold for my suffering."

Dukel merely shrugged, his tone light. "I've been too busy to deal with you properly, but I'm certain Carlos can confirm that I've handled you before."

Magnus chimed in, eager to escalate the confrontation. "Dukel, cut off his head already! Let's see how long he can keep mocking us without it!"

Dukel smirked. "That's not a bad idea."

"Cut off my head?" Fulgrim laughed, his voice a chilling melody. "What humiliation! But tell me, dear brother, what will you do with it?"

"Bring it back to the Golden Throne, of course," Dukel replied coldly.

Fulgrim's grin faltered, replaced with fury. "So, the Emperor's lapdog still serves his master. What a pitiful existence."

"Perhaps," Dukel admitted, "but maybe the Emperor believes you can still be redeemed. I'll take you back so He can finally abandon that foolish hope."

Fulgrim's patience snapped. With a serpentine hiss, he lunged forward, his poisoned blade carving an ominous arc through the air.