"On the throne, thank you so much, Your Highness."
"Brothers have never fought such a rich battle."
"Woo woo woo..."
After learning that the Primarch had approved the People's Sons Chapter to join the Expeditionary Corps, granting them ten 'Moon'-class cruisers, hundreds of Thunderbird fighters, thousands of sets of standard power armor, and tens of thousands of chainswords, monomolecular combat blades, and bolt weapons, the Chapter Master of the People's Sons was on the verge of tears.
Yet, for Dukel and his Expeditionary Corps, these supplies were but a fraction of the stockpiles gathering dust in their warehouses.
This was largely thanks to Gris, the esteemed Archmagos, whose expertise in mechanical creation had ensured that the Space Marine armaments of the Expeditionary Corps were always in excess. As early as the Ophelia VII campaign, when the fleet was first being assembled, the great sage had utilized his influence and resources to refurbish a formidable fleet, complete with two Queen of Glory-class battleships.
At first, Dukel had found the scale of this fleet absurd. However, after meeting Cawl and learning that he had restored Macragge's Honour and created hundreds of thousands of Primaris Space Marines, the Primarch began to realize that the Archmagi of Mars were all equally capable of the impossible.
In addition to his flagship, Inner Fire, another Queen of Glory-class battleship, Om Messiah's Wrath, and its associated Mechanicus fleet functioned as a vast, mobile Forge World. Billions of mortal laborers and legions of Tech-Priests toiled without rest, churning out an endless stream of war machines and weapons.
As the Second Legion's unique 'Psychic Series' armaments were developed and mass-produced, the manufacturing complex aboard Soul Fire continued to expand. However, this overabundance of war material starkly contrasted with the limited number of Space Marines in the fleet.
Despite Dukel's efforts—quickly consolidating control over Ophelia VII and nearby resource-rich worlds, liberating thousands of Imperial worlds, and welcoming all mortal regiments and Astartes Chapters willing to fight—Space Marines remained in critically short supply. Even with the inclusion of the People's Sons, the total number of Space Marines under the Expeditionary Corps barely reached 30,000.
Still, this was a vast improvement compared to the early days of the campaign. When Dukel had first unified Ophelia VII—a world second only to Terra in religious significance—he had managed to recruit only a thousand Space Marines. Fortunately, the Sisters of Battle were present in large numbers, and with the development of enhancements such as the 'Life Magnetic Field,' mortal troops were made significantly more formidable.
Had it not been for these advantages, launching the Dark Crusade would have been nigh impossible.
With the People's Sons now among their ranks, the Expeditionary Fleet's engines roared to life once more, setting course for Baal.
During the return journey, Dukel met several times with Vulkan—or rather, Nakluf, the Forge-brother of the People's Sons. Lacking his original will and memories, Nakluf's genetic abilities remained dormant, rendering him indistinguishable from an ordinary man. He displayed none of the divine presence of a Primarch.
Dukel collected biological samples from him and began drafting a strategy to subvert the Ork network.
Vulkan's sudden reappearance had been an unexpected boon. Until now, Dukel had operated alone within the Ork network, a single mind navigating the domain of the savage xenos. But now? Now there were two Primarchs and two Ork gods within the network. If the numbers were equal, who was to say the Ork network belonged to the greenskins anymore?
Dukel had a dream.
One day, the Ork network would be renamed the Imperial Network.
One day, Orks would proudly call themselves Imperial Orks, standing tall as citizens of the Imperium.
One day, the Orks would recognize only two brothers—Du Ge and Fu Ge!
As for Goge and Maoge? Who were they? Dukel had no idea. No idea at all.
In the days that followed, Dukel continued analyzing Vulkan's genetic traits, using the power of the Mind Web to further his grand design.
But this would be no easy task. The foul Ork gods had enslaved too many loyal Imperial Orks. Freeing them from their shackles and casting out the two deceitful deities would be a monumental challenge. Dukel was lost in thought, immersed in calculations.
Days passed in the blink of an eye, and Fire of the Heart entered orbit around Baal.
Led by the Blood Angels, Dukel, Guilliman, and Navigator Varro, equipped with a mind instrument, descended into the planet's hidden depths.
Few knew of the secret vault beneath Baal Prime. Here, the body of Sanguinius, the noble Archangel, had rested since his tragic death during the Siege of Terra ten thousand years prior. In that fateful battle, Horus had slain him before the Emperor, wielding the dark powers of the Ruinous Ones to snuff out his radiant life.
How the Blood Angels had managed to retrieve Sanguinius' remains from that cursed battlefield remained a mystery.
Baal, once home to a brilliant technological civilization during the Dark Age of Technology, still concealed many ancient marvels within its depths. The Blood Angels had used these remnants of forbidden knowledge to preserve their Primarch's body, clinging to the desperate hope of restoring him.
But it was impossible. Physical wounds could be healed, but Sanguinius' soul had been shattered by the Warp. Resurrection was beyond reach.
In the deepest vault of Baal, they beheld his tomb.
Despite their best efforts, the Blood Angels had failed to fully mend his divine form. Suspended in a force field, the once-perfect son of the Emperor bore wounds so grievous that even ten millennia had not erased them. His serene features still carried the sorrow and agony of his final moments.
During the Heresy, knowing his fate, Sanguinius had marched toward Terra undeterred. He had given his life as the ultimate sacrifice to the Imperium, boarding the Vengeful Spirit to buy his father one last chance at victory.
Even in death, his lingering spirit radiated grief and devotion. The weight of history pressed upon Dukel's mind, as memories of the Second Primarch—now fully assimilated within him—stirred deep emotions.
He gazed upon the fallen Archangel, his voice heavy with sorrow.
"Sanguinius, you who have slept for ten thousand years, wake and stand with us in this age of madness and ignorance. The Imperium you once fought for has decayed. What we once defended is now our greatest foe."
"Look at Guilliman—there are wrinkles on his forehead. I severed Magnus' head and hung it at my waist. As for Fulgrim? He's even more unbearable to look at than he was ten thousand years ago."
Dukel spoke softly, uncertain if Sanguinius could hear him. He simply voiced all he had witnessed in recent years.
His words stirred the hearts of those present. The Blood Angel veterans stood with red-rimmed eyes. Behind his mask, even Dante silently wept. Guilliman bowed his head in silence.
The chamber was deathly still, save for Dukel's voice echoing in the void.
Then, for an instant, he saw it—a crystalline tear at the corner of Sanguinius' eye.
Or did he? Even with a Primarch's vision, he could not be certain.
But his voice grew firm.
"Activate the mind instrument, Varro."
With a faint hum, the machine stirred to life. Tubes extended, connecting to Varo's head, the mechanism whirring as it engaged. Simultaneously, the Primarch channeled his psychic power through the mind web, reinforcing the Navigator's soul.
All preparations were complete.
The mind instrument surged.
Within the vastness of the immaterium, Sanguinius opened his eyes.
He had been asleep for what felt like an eternity. Now, before him stretched an endless sky of purest blue, with golden sunlight cascading down upon rolling emerald hills. The grass beneath him was soft, the air crisp and fragrant. A world untouched by war, brimming with serenity.
Sitting up, he spread his wings—majestic and pristine—shaking loose the few stray blades of grass clinging to his feathers. His hands curled into fists, testing his strength. Everything felt so real... yet unreal.
"Where... am I?"
He surveyed the landscape. Memories were scattered, fragmented. But one remained vivid: his death at Horus' hands. The moment his blood spilled, the cries of his sons ringing in his ears.
Beyond that? Darkness. A golden glow. A distant, comforting presence. And then, this place.
"I was slain... and yet, I wake again."
A whisper of wind carried his thoughts skyward. Could this be his father's doing? Had the Emperor called him back?
Lush green mountains stretched endlessly before him. Towering trees swayed gently, their canopies a brilliant emerald. Rivers cut through the land like veins of silver. Herds of creatures roamed peacefully, and great-winged birds soared high above.
Sanguinius took a deep breath. The air was rich, pure. Unlike anything he had known in life, free of the stench of war and death. It was intoxicating.
A paradise.
And yet, it was wrong.
"Why am I here?"
His voice carried across the meadow, but no answer came.
He flexed his wings, willing them to lift him skyward. Higher and higher he soared, yet no matter how far he flew, the golden sunlight remained constant, the horizon ever distant. He could not leave.
By a tranquil stream, he landed with a sigh. His frustration was mounting.
Then, the whispers began.
Soft at first, a murmuring wind against his ears. But the words... they painted visions of war. Of an Imperium decayed, drowning in endless conflict. Of billions crying out in agony, of heroes long dead, of a throne upon which sat a lifeless god.
He saw ruin. He saw despair. He saw the future his death had wrought.
The Archangel closed his eyes. The pain was unbearable.
A flicker of light interrupted his sorrow. A tiny flame, dancing before him like a firefly.
He sensed something within it—a presence, both familiar and foreign.
"Dukel?"
The ember pulsed.
"You are here? You survived? Our father placed you here, in this prison of light?"
For a moment, hope sparked within Sanguinius. But then the voice spoke, and his hope waned.
"Archangel?"
The firefly glowed, uncertain.
Sanguinius exhaled softly. "Not Dukel, then..."
His golden gaze softened as he studied the flame. It was fragile, a flicker in the abyss. He spoke gently, unwilling to snuff it out with careless words.
"Who are you, little one? And why have you come?"
The ember pulsed, its glow steadying.
"I am here on a mission. I have come for you, great Primarch. The Imperium needs you."
…
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