"You shall assume the mantle of Imperial Warmaster during the sacred celebration of Terra and usher in the resurgence of the Imperium's glory. This is not merely my own expectation." Guilliman repeated himself after Dukel's initial refusal.
Dukel studied him carefully. Only then did he realize that Guilliman's state was... off. His mind seemed clouded, as though he was in a fugue, a waking dream.
Is this the Emperor's doing?
If that were the case, it would explain how Guilliman—a psychic null—was able to communicate with him across the vastness of the Warp.
"Very well. As you wish."
Dukel relented. The Emperor's recent miracles warranted scrutiny. Returning to Terra would allow him to assess the condition of the Master of Mankind firsthand.
The Emperor's power was not without cost. Repeated exertion of the Dark King's might would inevitably weaken His human essence.
And what if one day, while I am away on campaign, Terra is suddenly consumed in ruin? That would be... amusing.
Yet the thought of returning to the Throneworld, to stand amidst the bloated parasites who wielded supreme authority, left a sour taste in Dukel's mouth. He fixed his gaze upon Guilliman—or rather, the radiance emanating from behind him—and spoke bluntly:
"Let me be clear. Though you have abstained from governance for ten millennia, you cannot be ignorant of what those power-drunk vermin have done. You know me, brother. If I return, there will be blood. Are you prepared for the sacred soil of Terra to be stained with the lifeblood of the powerful?"
Dukel was not one to mince words. His disposition would not permit him to tolerate the corrupt. He would purge them utterly.
Guilliman—or rather, the entity behind him—fell silent.
Then, after a brief pause, he spoke:
"I have heard your request. A festering wound must be cut away before it poisons the whole. If you are willing to do this work for me, then their lives are yours to take."
The Emperor had decreed it.
Dukel's lips curled into a smile, his eyes gleaming with the promise of bloodshed.
Elsewhere, the Blood Angels had returned to their fleet.
Commander Dante personally oversaw the sealing of those frenzied ancestors who, in their madness, cried out the title Warmaster.
His duties complete, he strode briskly toward the most sacred chamber within the fleet, his heart alight with the devotion of a pilgrim.
Passing through the labyrinthine corridors, flanked by vigilant sentinels, he entered the sanctum where the young figure sat upon a grand throne.
At the sight of him, all weariness from long campaigns fell away. Before him was his gene-sire—the saint to whom he had pledged his undying fealty.
"Dante, you have returned. Have you claimed the glory that is yours?"
The childlike figure of Sanguinius looked upon him with a knowing gaze. Even as he spoke, he casually consumed confections crafted by the Sons of the People, his voice slightly muffled by the act.
Dante, despite his calm demeanor, could not suppress his elation at their victory.
"Yes, Holy Father! We have triumphed. We have honored the sacred blood in our veins and delivered an unprecedented victory for the Imperium!"
Dante recounted the battle within the Garden of Nurgle in detail.
Sanguinius, enraptured, clenched his small fists, as though he longed to take up arms himself.
Then, Dante posed the question that had lingered in his heart.
"Holy Father, why did our ancient kin refer to Lord Dukel as Warmaster?"
Sanguinius considered his words before answering.
"Perhaps he truly is the Warmaster."
A wisdom beyond his years was evident in his expression.
"Each Primarch possesses his own unique strength. Though my brother is not one for grand speeches, his actions inspire courage and resolve. In the days of the Great Crusade, when the Imperium expanded across the stars, I can think of none more suited to that role than him."
Dante frowned. "Then why, for ten thousand years, was such a Primarch erased from Imperial history? Why were all records of him expunged?"
Sanguinius fell silent, contemplating his response.
"Though I lived through that era, the memories of those who bore witness were purged. Even I know little. Dorn opposed the erasure, and so Malcador restored his recollection."
A pause.
"Do you know what Dorn did after regaining his memories?"
Dante shook his head.
"None could have predicted it. Dorn, who was among the most steadfast of us all, requested to have his memories erased again."
Sanguinius' expression darkened.
"That was when we understood—whatever transpired, it was not meant to be known. And yet we speculated. At times, I feared that the Blood Angels shared the same fate as the lost Legion."
He exhaled slowly.
"But that was not entirely true. The Emperor always knew of our flaws. He foresaw them, but did not condemn them."
His voice grew solemn.
"And so I suspect that what happened all those years ago was tied to the Rhandan Xenos."
Dante stiffened beneath his helm.
"The Rhandan Xenos?!"
Meanwhile, the Imperial fleet altered its course—heading back to Terra.
The return would not disrupt the expedition. The galaxy was a crucible of endless war. No matter where they ventured, battle awaited.
Elsewhere, the Eldar goddess of life, Isha, stirred from unconsciousness. The Primarch's devastating blow had not been easily endured. Though a deity of the Aeldari, even she had remained insensate for half a cycle.
Upon waking, her first act was to demand an audience with Dukel.
Guided by a cadre of Battle Sisters, she advanced through the corridors, her gaze lingering upon them. As the goddess of life, she was acutely sensitive to vitality. These Sisters radiated a fervent, almost maddening energy that waxed and waned with their emotions.
She had never encountered such an anomaly.
Finally, she arrived before Dukel's chambers. Through the doorway, she beheld the Primarch.
He was different now from the war-beast she had glimpsed upon the battlefield.
Dukel sat at his desk, quill in hand, scrawling across parchment in fluid strokes. The chamber was steeped in silence, the only sound the gentle rustling of paper. Here, in this moment, he was less a warlord and more a scholar.
Without looking up, he addressed her.
"You have come. What do you wish to speak of?"
"Naturally, I have come to meet the master of this place," Isha replied smoothly.
Dukel paused, then lifted his gaze to hers.
"Tell me something. Back on the battlefield, how did you find me so quickly? The Garden of Nurgle is boundless. Without some manner of guidance, locating me would not have been easy."
Isha smiled.
"Mortarion told me that twenty-two is your number."
Her expression was serene, but the air around her became subtly charged with energy.
"Numerology?" Dukel scoffed. "You wagered everything on something so absurd—and ended up my prisoner?"
Isha's smile did not waver.
"A wager? Perhaps. But it was a winning one, was it not? My circumstances are not so dire as they once were."
"More importantly, I hear a new melody in this number. It has been countless years since my people and I have heard this sound. This is 'hope.' I am the first to listen to this voice, but I will not be the last."
"Okay." Dukel nodded.
Considering the goddess's previous experience of consuming foul concoctions in the Plague God's Garden, there was little she would not dare to do.
As long as she could escape the clutches of Nurgle and Slaanesh, anywhere in the galaxy would be a paradise by comparison.
"So, what do you intend to do with me, your prisoner?" Isha asked again.
"I want to possess you," Dukel stated bluntly.
"The beauty of life is irresistible, and I am no exception. This is the allure of power. For those of us who exist eternally, there is no greater draw than this."
Given the circumstances, he had no reason to conceal his thoughts. "From this perspective, I share the same view as those dark entities."
The possession Dukel referred to was not mere physical dominance but an assimilation—claiming her essence completely, binding her within his psychic dominion, making her part of his will.
He had ways of forcing beings into his mind-web, as the shattered spirit of Bonebreaker Saraka could attest.
Had Isha not come to him willingly, Dukel would have eventually delivered her to the Mechanicus under the watchful eye of Archmagos Gris. Even the most unyielding beings eventually broke under the relentless ministrations of the Omnissiah's servants. The sheer weight of eternity was on his side.
Isha fell silent.
At that moment, she realized that she had merely exchanged one captor for another.
She did not know what fate awaited her, but her instincts warned that the suffering she had barely escaped might soon be replaced with another, just as harrowing.
"There is an old legend," she said at last. "It speaks of twenty-two paths to the heavens, each leading to a supreme throne. Every path corresponds to a truth of the cosmos, but the twenty-second is unique—it is both an end and a beginning."
She fixed her gaze upon him. "Master of the Twenty-Second Path, I will yield to you, offer my loyalty. But first, answer me one question."
"What is your question?" Dukel asked.
"If one day you succeed in saving the Imperium from its darkness, what then?" she asked, her voice steady.
"I will be a pioneer," Dukel said without hesitation. "From the human perspective. From yours, you might call me an invader."
"But if you do that, you will shatter the hard-won peace with your own hands. How are you any different from the Dark Gods?" Isha frowned.
"It does not matter what you think," Dukel said evenly. "Perhaps there is no difference. The wars of the stars will never cease. The roles of victim and conqueror will always shift. Many see humanity as the victim, their hearts filled with despair. But I do not."
"Not because of my power, but because I have witnessed the darkness in humanity's soul. I have forged a divine weapon from that malice—one capable of making even daemons bleed, one that drives the Tyranids into madness."
"After seeing such darkness, I have resolved that my people will never be victims again."
His gaze stretched outward, as though he sought to take in the entirety of the cosmos itself.
"If the fate of all species is to be predator or prey, then humanity must be the predator."
"Even if it sets the stars ablaze and boils the void, I will carve a new frontier for the Imperium. I will plant the banner of mankind upon every world I set eyes upon. Until my last drop of blood is spilled. Until my name is forgotten. But before that, my war shall never end."
Isha studied the Primarch's face, searching for deception, for doubt—for anything that might lessen the cold finality of his words.
She found none.
For the first time in her long existence, she, a goddess, felt the chill of true fear.
In her mind, she could already hear the cries of uncounted species, the laments of dying civilizations.
And with that, she recalled the first time the gods had taken notice of humanity.
They had never been a people who knew the meaning of restraint.
This young species, in mere tens of thousands of years, had risen, fallen, and risen again, seizing the galaxy in an iron grip.
For the first time, she doubted her choice to come here.
Then, Dukel turned his head as if receiving a silent message. He looked back at her and spoke.
"My fleet has found a world occupied by xenos. I will let you see, firsthand, how we deal with them."