After relentless pursuit by the expedition fleet, Hive Fleet Leviathan's tendrils were severed one by one. The remaining biomass coalesced and fled, retreating from the Baal sector at maximum speed, vanishing into the vast expanse of the Milky Way.
"Your Highness Dukel, the Leviathan forces have not been completely eradicated. Shall we continue the hunt?"
Dante's voice carried a barely contained eagerness as he spoke. His eyes glowed red with battle lust, and his elongated canines jutted slightly from his lips.
Dukel regarded him for a long moment before answering.
"No. We end the pursuit here."
"Why?" Dante asked, perplexed. He had expected a different answer, certain that the Primarch's hunger for battle matched his own.
Dukel remained silent, lowering his gaze to the black power sword in his grasp. To others, it appeared unchanged, but he could perceive the subtle difference. The malice imbued within the blade had dimmed.
"These swords were forged from the darkness within the human soul," Dukel murmured. "But that darkness is not inexhaustible."
"Perhaps I could still muster the strength to annihilate Leviathan completely, but that would be unwise. For the Imperium's sake, I must retain a measure of that darkness."
Dante frowned, struggling to grasp his meaning. "But... should this darkness not be endless?"
Dukel sighed. "Humankind is still too kind."
He turned away and strode toward the Heartfire, standing upon the deck of the expedition fleet. The cold void of space was littered with the wreckage of war. Countless shattered ships and lifeless bodies floated in the silence, drifting through the aftermath of battle. Some remains belonged to humanity. Others, to xenos.
The sight was familiar.
The 41st Millennium was an age of unending conflict. The Imperium's dominion over the galaxy was fragile, threatened by the corrupting influence of the Ruinous Powers. The Chaos Gods wove their nightmares into reality, while daemons breached the veil of the Materium. Hostile xenos lurked on all sides, seeking to exploit the Imperium's weakness. In this grim universe, there was only war.
The Imperium could only survive through war—crushing its enemies, purging its heretics, and burning its past to forge the future.
"Set course for the Bone Crusher's system."
"As you command, Your Highness!"
The fleet's engines roared to life. Hundreds of ships burst through the barrier of realspace, plunging into the maddening tides of the Warp.
A lone black feather drifted through the void before Dukel, twisting and reshaping into the form of a raven.
"Dukel, be wary," a familiar voice whispered. "The coalition of the Four Gods is moving. I have seen their daemons uproot mountains, shatter stars, and forge horrors from molten worlds. Abaddon has summoned a vast host of daemon-smiths to craft weapons beyond imagining."
The Raven Lord's warning was his second.
Dukel's expression darkened. He did not yet know what new monstrosity the enemy had wrought, but if even Corvus Corax was issuing repeated warnings, the threat was dire indeed.
"You should be careful as well," Dukel replied.
For the first time, true concern touched his voice. Corax's abilities made him nigh untouchable in the Warp—able to slip into shadow, an enigma even among Primarchs. Yet the Four Gods were cunning, and if they laid a trap... even the Raven Lord might not escape.
Still, Dukel took solace in knowing that Corax wielded a fragment of his own power. That alone gave him some reassurance.
After several days of travel, the fleet pierced the boundaries of reality, emerging into the system ruled by the Bone Crusher.
The orks here were beyond number.
Their warships blotted out the void, countless crude hulks spreading their dominance across the system. Their glyphs, crude yet imposing, covered every surface—the sacred sigil of the Overfiend, marked by the symbol of interlocking iron wheels.
The battle moon that housed the Bone Crusher himself loomed vast, eclipsing the star's light. Its brutal construction cast a shadow over the world below, where orks waged eternal war beneath its ever-watchful presence.
Within an isolated chamber on the surface, Dukel wasted no time.
"Sarakka, what is one thousand minus seven?"
Bone Crusher's expression flickered. His massive frame, empowered by Gork and Mork's favor, momentarily faltered. His eyes dulled, his body stiffened, and he responded instinctively.
"Twenty-two!"
For a moment, the warlord was no longer a godlike figure of destruction, but something smaller, something lesser. A puppet in the hands of a master.
Had any witnessed this, they would have been horrified. Yet here, in this secluded chamber, there were no witnesses—only the Primarch and the warlord who had once been his captive.
Elsewhere, the Sons of the People—one of the Imperium's most impoverished Space Marine Chapters—looked skyward in stunned silence. Imperial warships descended from the heavens, bringing long-awaited relief.
"By the Emperor, it's reinforcements!"
"Maybe they'll trade us some food for supplies."
"What supplies? We don't even have working bolters left."
As they debated, their Chapter Master moved unseen near the orkish encampment, watching, waiting.
A Thunderhawk descended upon the Bone Crusher's camp, and even before its doors opened, the orks began to tremble. A presence more fearsome than even their warlord emerged, one that stirred something deep within them—an ancestral terror, a primal reverence.
Then he stepped forth. Clad in armor the color of blood and night, his long black hair flowing behind him like a curtain of darkness, Dukel strode forward. His very presence turned the battlefield into a crucible of unrelenting fury.
The Chapter Master gasped. The vision he had seen in the Skyhawk's emblem—the figure of legend—had become reality.
A Primarch had come.
After a private meeting, Dukel and Bone Crusher emerged once more. Whatever had transpired, it had reignited the warlord's determination.
"Sarakka," Dukel said, "I expect that when we next meet, you will have claimed the mantle of Ork Emperor."
Bone Crusher grunted, his tusks bared in a wicked grin. "Heh. Under Brother Du's gaze, we'll krump da whole galaxy! Even da gitz beyond da stars won't be safe from da Waaagh!"
Then, as if recalling something, the warlord turned. "Oh yeah, some humies been waitin' ta see ya. Dey liked da fancy badge I showed 'em."
As the orks departed, their warships and battle moon vanishing into the void, Dukel turned to meet the Space Marines who had remained behind.
The Sons of the People was unlike any other Astartes Chapter Dukel had seen. It may not be the most powerful warband Dukel had ever seen, but it was certainly the poorest.
"Chapter Master Three Barrels of the Sons of the People reports to you, sir!"
—Sons of the People? Dukel frowned. He had never heard of such a Chapter, but that wasn't unusual. The Imperium housed thousands of Space Marine Chapters. Knowing them all was impossible.
His gaze fell upon their power armor.
"Is this what you wore during the war?"
The armor looked serviceable at first glance, but Dukel recognized the truth instantly. It was a patchwork—assembled from scavenged parts, painted to resemble newly issued wargear, but lacking any true quality.
"What in the Emperor's name is the Administratum doing? How can they send warriors to battle in such a state?!"
As Dukel surveyed the Sons of the People's encampment, his frustration grew. Military supplies were nearly nonexistent. Only a fraction of the Astartes possessed weapons, and ammunition was scarce.
"This…" Three Barrels hesitated, clearly embarrassed, before explaining why his Chapter was unrecognized by the Imperium.
"Loyal warriors turned away by bureaucratic incompetence?" Dukel let out a sharp, bitter laugh. A dark glint flashed in his eyes—an unmistakable sign of barely restrained fury.
As they walked through the camp, Dukel suddenly stopped. His eyes widened in shock.
"Vulkan?!"
Standing among the mortal laborers was a towering figure, over three meters tall, with black skin and burning red eyes. The giant was carrying supplies from the recently arrived Soulfire transport.
The resemblance was uncanny—identical to his lost brother in every way, save for one glaring discrepancy: height.
In Dukel's memory, Vulkan had been the largest of the Primarchs, towering close to six meters. But the man before him was only slightly taller than Guilliman.
For a moment, Dukel hesitated. Could he be mistaken? Even his genetic instincts offered no confirmation.
He turned to study the Sons of the People once more. The signs were all there—these Astartes were undoubtedly descended from the Salamanders.
If this truly was Vulkan, then why were his supposed sons resting while their father toiled like a common laborer?
"Who is that?" Dukel asked, pointing at the giant.
"The Forge-Brothers are our mortal serfs and comrades-in-arms," a Son of the People answered.
"Bring him to me."
"Yes, my lord."
At the order, the Forge-Brother was led forward. He stood before Dukel, looking confused, shifting awkwardly as if unsure of his place.
"Where did you come from?" Dukel asked.
"He does not remember, my lord. He suffers from amnesia," one of the Astartes explained.
Amnesia?
It made sense. Vulkan was immortal. He could never truly die, but each resurrection cost him his memories.
Dukel narrowed his eyes. He reached out with his mind, probing the depths of the man's consciousness.
The moment their minds connected, reality twisted. Dukel's awareness was yanked from his body, dragged into a familiar yet alien realm.
The Ork Gestalt.
A booming voice echoed through the immaterial space.
"Dukel?! You've returned?! Brother, I never expected the new god of the Orks to be… you?!"
It was Vulkan.
Dukel was momentarily stunned. Of all the places Vulkan could have ended up, he never imagined his brother's mind would be trapped within the Ork psychic network.
"You've been here all this time?" Dukel asked in disbelief.
"Longer than I can remember," Vulkan admitted with a weary smile. "So long that I've begun to forget the outside world."
Dukel's mind raced. "Why have I never sensed you before?"
"We both had to hide ourselves," Vulkan explained. "This isn't our domain. It belongs to the Ork gods. And now—" he paused, suddenly tense, "—they've noticed us. Gork and Mork are looking for us."
Dukel immediately felt the shift. Two monstrous presences surged within the psychic realm, drawn by their conversation.
He scowled. "Those two brutes."
Then, an idea formed.
"Brother, since you're here, why not do something… monumental?"
Vulkan's hesitation was palpable. "I know what you're planning. But we don't have time right now. We'll talk later—before they find us."
Dukel sighed but nodded. "Agreed. I have preparations to make anyway."
As quickly as it had begun, their link severed. The Ork Gestalt faded, and Dukel's consciousness snapped back to reality.
…
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