It is said that each Primarch inherited fragments of the Emperor's own nature. Many believe that Lorgar Aurelian's defining traits are his thirst for strength and his unyielding pursuit of faith.
But Dukel sees things differently.
To him, what the Word Bearer truly inherited from the Master of Mankind was narcissism—the egotism buried deep within the human soul.
This narcissism, inherently at odds with true faith, shaped Lorgar's twisted, self-deceiving psyche.
Ten millennia ago, the Word Bearers knelt before the Emperor as a god. They penned the Lectitio Divinitatus, spreading the belief in His divinity like wildfire across the Imperium.
Lorgar appeared devout. Zealous. A fanatic beyond compare.
But the truth? He didn't worship the Emperor because he believed.
He worshipped to prove something—to flaunt his devotion before the galaxy:
"Look at me. None are more pious than I. None love the Emperor as fiercely as I. I don't just follow Him—I revere Him as God!"
It was vanity masquerading as worship.
So when the Emperor struck him down, rejecting his godhood and forcing him to kneel before Roboute Guilliman, a true fanatic might've wept with joy. A trial! A test of my faith!—such is the mind of the devout.
But not Lorgar.
He chose wrath.
He chose betrayal.
In that moment, Lorgar may have finally seen the truth: his belief had always been hollow. It was never about the Emperor. It was about himself.
He loves nothing more than his own reflection.
He built a temple of ego and called it faith. When reality failed to conform to his delusions, he found no fault in himself—only in others.
That's why Dukel had ignored him.
And that slight festered.
Lorgar's fury grew, gnawing at his mind like burrowing worms, like ants in rotting flesh.
Dukel hadn't meant to provoke him.
He hadn't even known Lorgar would be deployed to the front. Had he known the Arch-Heretic would appear, Dukel would never have advised the Lord Regent to remain at command.
After all, barring Alpharius, Lorgar is the only other Primarch capable of delivering Guilliman a true tactical victory.
Such opportunities are rare.
But regret no longer matters.
Right now, Dukel has only one priority: Mortarion.
The Death Lord's martial prowess was legendary even before the Heresy—and in recent centuries, he has absorbed a sliver of Nurgle's dominion over death itself.
Compared to him, Lorgar is insignificant.
Without sparing the Word Bearer a glance, Dukel launched himself at Mortarion. His blazing form tore through the battlefield like a comet. The fire wreathed around him distorted the air, boiling reality itself.
Mortarion, already grievously wounded, saw the charge coming.
This was no mere duel—no brotherly contest, as in the days of yore.
Dukel intended to kill.
With a rustle of rotting wings, Mortarion soared atop the skeletal remains of a ruined hab-block, narrowly evading the strike. He landed on a nearby monolith of cracked ferrocrete, exhaling plague-laced mist.
Dukel turned instantly, relentless.
At that moment, Lorgar seized his chance.
He had been gathering warp energy, biding his time. Now he released it.
A spear of psychic fire lashed out, striking Dukel mid-pounce.
BOOM—
The blast detonated with a sound like a star being born. Flame and ether swallowed the ruins.
A smug grin curled across Lorgar's golden face.
But Mortarion did not share the sentiment. He retreated without a word, falling back dozens of meters.
He trembled.
His eyes never left the blaze.
He could no longer see Dukel, but he knew. That would not be enough.
Even such a surprise attack would do little more than singe his armor.
Mortarion prayed—if such a thing still held meaning—that the blast hadn't fully awakened Dukel's fury.
In his normal state, the Lord of Destruction could be countered. Contained.
But enraged?
No.
Then he would become a storm. A living extinction event. One that would annihilate everyone—ally and enemy alike.
If Dukel's advance here is not halted, the consequences for the Traitor plan are catastrophic.
Mortarion scowled at Lorgar—but there was no time for reprimands.
The explosion climaxed.
The ruins were torn asunder. Flame hurled debris skyward—fire-wreathed stone fell like meteors across the battlefield.
And from the inferno walked Dukel.
Wreathed in fire. Cloaked in incandescent fury.
The earth beneath him liquified, warping into rivers of molten rock. The air rippled with heat. Even Mortarion, born of poison and rot, faltered.
He raised Silence, the scythe, barely managing to intercept Dukel's onslaught.
The angle was poor.
The force behind the blow sent Mortarion skidding backward, arms numbed by the shock.
And then—he was struck again.
Dukel's burning blade carved through the air like a comet, cleaving Mortarion's defenses. The Death Lord was flung through the battlefield, crashing into debris.
Desperate, he called upon the warp. The planet, soaked in corruption and linked deeply to the Immaterium, responded.
Chaotic power surged into him.
As Mortarion staggered upright, he saw Dukel charging again.
There was no time to raise Silence. No room to escape.
And then—
The ground collapsed.
Cracks split the battlefield. A fissure yawned wide, swallowing the Lord of Death in a torrent of toxic gas and molten rock.
"Trying to flee?" Dukel growled, chasing without hesitation. He dove into the abyss, a storm of fire spiraling after him, igniting the rift.
He never looked at Lorgar.
Not once.
Lorgar: "…"
The flames danced across the Word Bearer's face, casting long shadows.
He stared down into the chasm. Poison vapors and dragon-like roars rose from its depths—a supernatural cataclysm birthed by a demigod's fury.
For a moment, he hesitated.
But then—he remembered the vision.
He remembered Dukel's contempt.
Teeth gritted, Lorgar descended into the poisonous valley.
Meanwhile, at the Datorian Forge-World.
The war between the loyalist warriors of the Imperium, the Purifiers, and the hereteks of darkness neared its conclusion.
Amid the scrap-wreathed factory towers of Datoria, Doom led the charge, purging the Purifiers from the manufactorum's heart. Smoke choked the skies as he ascended the spire where the Ultramarines had once clashed with Mortarion.
Above him, thunder boomed.
The war was not yet over.
But the tide was turning.
At the summit of the industrial tower on Datoria, Doom encountered Dante, the Chapter Master of the Blood Angels, who had arrived with his Sanguinary Guard to support the Ultramarines.
Together, they mourned the devastation left in the wake of Mortarion's assault. Of the Ultramarines who had faced the Death Lord, only Chapter Master Marneus Calgar and ten of his Honor Guard remained.
Calgar, though regaining consciousness, was grievously wounded. Mortarion's manreaper had inflicted wounds no Astartes armor could truly withstand. Calgar could barely stand, leaning heavily on his battle-brothers for support. His once-gleaming ceramite was now dented and scored, the azure finish tarnished by war.
Among the surviving Honor Guard, one bore injuries akin to Calgar's, while others stared into the void—shell-shocked and unresponsive.
Doom, witnessing the ruin borne by the Ultramarines on behalf of others, felt a rare ache behind his eyes. A pang of sorrow. The sacrifice these sons of Guilliman had made was not lost on him.
Dante stood still beside him, struggling with the pull of the Black Rage. Without the spiritual presence of Sanguinius to temper his soul, it was only the commander's iron will that held back the madness clawing at the edge of his mind.
Doom opened his mouth, intending to offer words of gratitude—or perhaps consolation—to Calgar. But for a warrior who had always wielded words like a bolter round, crafted only for the battlefield, speaking from the heart proved far harder than expected.
Surrounded by the blood-soaked dead, any words felt empty and feeble.
The Chaplains of the Blood Angels moved among the fallen, retrieving precious gene-seed from the dead and salvaging relics and wargear for the Chapter.
The banner of the Ultramarines Honor Guard, once resplendent in blue and gold, now dripped with clotted blood. Blackened and red, it stood as a symbol of grim defiance. Doom took the flag in both hands and raised it high with solemn reverence.
Calgar, supported on either side, looked up at the standard fluttering once more. Silent tears brimmed in his eyes.
Soon after, Azrael, Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels, arrived with his own forces. Now four commanders stood at the tower's pinnacle: Dante of the Blood Angels, Calgar of the Ultramarines, Doom of the Second Legion, and Azrael of the First.
They convened a hasty war council.
The aftershocks of demigod combat continued to ravage the planet. The skies heaved with unnatural storms, roaring with the wrath of the Warp. The ground convulsed with tremors. Firestorms erupted from fault lines torn open by the fighting. The entire world teetered on the edge of apocalyptic collapse.
Despite this chaos, Azrael called for immediate vengeance.
But Doom and Calgar opposed him, even as rage simmered in their hearts. The price the Imperium had already paid was too steep to justify further reckless sacrifice.
The Doom Slayers, once known for their unyielding charges and suicidal fury, had begun to change since the return of their Primarch. They were no longer soulless Krieg-born warriors who measured success by the depth of their graves. As scions of the Second Legion, they now bore heavier responsibilities.
The Ultramarines' sacrifice served as a grim reminder of those responsibilities. The presence of Primarch Dukel offered them something the Warp could never provide—hope and clarity.
Doom remembered their last conversation, before he departed for Vigilus. In Dukel's private command chamber, amidst the glow of strategium hololiths, his Primarch had spoken plainly:
"The battle on Vigilus is not the war, only the prologue."
Now, amidst the carnage, Doom understood. The devastation unfolding on the Alert Star was only the beginning of a far grander conflict—one shaped by powers beyond mortal reckoning.
This was a war mortals could not hope to control, no matter how righteous their fury.
Destroying the remaining heretic forces would serve no true purpose. The daemonic legions had begun to unravel following Abaddon's retreat. Their cohesion broken, they lashed out in nihilistic madness, destroying aimlessly. Their fate was sealed. The storm of the Warp was consuming them already.
To march now into the maelstrom to kill what was already doomed, just to vent their pain, would be folly.
Doom laid out this rationale before the assembled commanders.
Unexpectedly, Azrael remained resolute.
He insisted that the heretics be exterminated without delay.
Doom studied the Grand Master. During their joint operations aboard the Spirit of Vengeance, he had come to understand Azrael's sharp mind and rigid loyalty. The Dark Angels were always deliberate in their actions.
That the First Legion would still insist on such a seemingly irrational course of action could only mean one thing:
Azrael had secrets to bury.
And the heretics—however mad, however broken—were standing in the way.
Perhaps it was about fallen angels. Or something else entirely.
Doom didn't pry into the hidden motives of the First Legion. Whatever secrets the Dark Angels wished to bury beneath the flames of this dying world were their own.
After a moment's thought, he silently revised his earlier advice.
All present were seasoned commanders, each forged in centuries of war. And as Doom subtly shifted his stance, both Dante and Calgar understood without a word why the First Legion was so insistent.
No private messages passed between them. None were needed. A shared glance during that brief war council was enough to form consensus.
In silent accord, they delegated the final purging of the heretics to Azrael and the Dark Angels.
The other three Chapters would devote themselves entirely to the evacuation of Vigilus.
The entire meeting lasted less than five minutes. Time was now the rarest commodity in the galaxy.
With the duel between the Primarchs escalating and the warp-tainted rituals ravaging the land, the planet's ecosystem was unraveling at an alarming rate.
The sky was saturated with chaotic resonance—unclean energy cascading like black rain. Orbiting voidships relayed grim readings: only twenty-two zones on the surface of Vigilus remained marginally stable.
Each zone measured mere kilometers across, evenly distributed across the planet's crust.
These twenty-two locations were the last sanctuaries—the final redoubts where Imperial citizens could be evacuated before the surface was consumed.
Doom knew the number wasn't random.
He recalled the look Dukel had given him earlier—a moment of quiet, shared understanding. And with that memory came a weight he couldn't ignore.
Orders were issued through the labyrinthine vox network.
Across the battle-scarred terrain, ground forces still locked in bloody conflict received their new directives.
Those closest to the evacuation zones were tasked with immediate occupation, holding the areas at all costs with the support of strike aircraft and war machines.
The Blood Angels and Ultramarines—positioned further afield—were ordered to break through enemy lines and reach the extraction points with all possible speed.
Gunboats and heavy transport craft would descend to collect the civilians, rising into the ash-choked heavens and navigating the raging Warp storms to return them to the Imperial fleet.
Fortunately, the Imperium had arrived in force. The Armada was large enough. There would be no need to leave anyone behind.
The operation commenced like clockwork, orders cascading downward through the hierarchy with machine precision.
Across the collapsing planet, Astartes began to move. Every second counted.
In orbit and on the surface, the immaterium seethed. Readings showed escalating levels of warp saturation—the Warning Star stood on the precipice of annihilation.
Speed was survival.
Doom began to move, but paused briefly. He raised his head, staring into the crimson fog bank beyond the burning horizon.
Amidst that flame-wreathed maelstrom, his father fought.
Primarch Dukel. The living embodiment of divine fire.
The pyres that blazed from the heart of the corruption were not natural—they were his presence made manifest.
Doom believed, with unwavering certainty, that Dukel would triumph. None knew better than he the might of their gene-father.
If not for the need to buy precious time for the evacuation, Dukel would have already crushed his opponent.
"I won't fail you again, Father."
The words, soft but resolute, echoed inside his helm.
And with renewed resolve, Doom advanced once more.
...
TN:
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