Dukel escorted Isha into the command chamber of the Imperial Fleet, where representatives from various regiments had assembled. The air was thick with the hum of strategists analyzing battlefield data, their minds sharpened for war.
At the center of the room stood a towering Thinker biological cogitator, its indicator lights flickering as it processed countless parameters for the impending conflict. Yet what truly caught the Primarch's attention was the presence of the Mechanicus priests, their red robes stark against the steel-gray surroundings. Even the Great Sage Gris had abandoned his foundry—a rare event—to attend in person.
"Gris, what brings you here?" Dukel inquired.
"Your Highness, I came upon hearing the reports," the Tech-Priest intoned in his hollow, mechanized voice. "This alien species we have encountered is a group of Jokaero—the so-called 'space apes'—who have taken root within Imperial territory."
A flicker of recognition crossed Dukel's expression. The Jokaero were a rarity in the galaxy: orange-furred, simian beings whose primitive appearance belied their supreme technical acumen. Many mistook them for mere beasts, but their abilities to manipulate and innovate technology were unparalleled. Some claimed they were creations of the Old Ones, having once forged technological marvels during the War in Heaven.
The Mechanicus, ever obsessed with lost knowledge, coveted the Jokaero for their genetic blueprint, believing it encoded technological secrets from an age long past.
"I understand your interest, Gris," Dukel said, his brow furrowing. "But we both know their kind cannot be enslaved. They have no loyalty, no sense of servitude—they will always seek escape."
"The Imperium has attempted their subjugation before," one of the strategists added grimly. "Each time, the Jokaero have eluded us, crafting devices to free themselves from even the most secure containment."
Gris nodded, his mechanical lenses whirring as they focused on Dukel. "We are well aware, Your Highness. That is why we require not fully developed specimens, but their offspring—an unrefined template for our biological sages to study."
The discussion unfolded with cold detachment, the fates of an entire species debated as if it were a logistical matter. No one present questioned the morality of the decision. To the Imperium, such considerations were irrelevant.
Only Isha, standing silently behind Dukel, felt the weight of the conversation. Wrapped in a robe to conceal her ethereal presence from mortal eyes, the so-called Goddess of Life shivered—not from cold, but from the sheer callousness with which life was discussed.
She realized then that, had the fleet encountered an Eldar craftworld instead, the same ruthlessness would be applied. The Imperium's mercy was reserved only for its own kind.
Dukel exhaled, resolving himself. "Very well, Gris. You may take what you require—but do not allow this to become an issue."
"You have my assurance, Your Highness." The Great Sage's cybernetic eyes pulsed red, betraying his satisfaction.
With the matter settled, Dukel turned his gaze to the star map. Their destination was a long-lost Imperial world, once claimed by humanity but severed from the Imperium's grasp for decades. Such orphaned planets were abundant within the Great Rift, and the bloated bureaucracy of the Administratum often took centuries to acknowledge their existence.
Now, it was time to reclaim what had been lost.
The Imperial Fleet tore through the veil of realspace, emerging within the target system. The sight that greeted them drew a grim silence over the command chamber.
A battlefield.
Floating debris and shattered warships drifted lifelessly amidst the void, the remnants of a battle waged long before their arrival. The cold corpses of voidsmen, their forms desiccated in the vacuum, spun aimlessly among the wreckage.
No sound existed in the emptiness of space, yet the echoes of past war cries seemed to linger, whispering of the final, desperate stand of the Imperium's lost warriors.
Unmoved, the fleet deployed drones to scour the field, gathering intelligence from the ruined vessels. Within minutes, the data had been compiled and transmitted to Dukel's personal cogitator.
The reports told a clear story: an Imperial Sword-class fleet had engaged the Jokaero but had been vastly outnumbered. Though they fought with the indomitable fury of mankind, they had ultimately been overwhelmed.
Dukel scanned the findings in silence, while the assembled tacticians reviewed the battle parameters. Even without explicit details, these hardened warriors could already envision the final moments of their doomed comrades—cornered, outgunned, and yet charging forward in defiance of fate.
Similar conflicts raged across the galaxy. It was an unending cycle. The Imperium, vast yet spread thin, could only hold the tide for so long before entire regiments were ground into dust.
Yet grief had no place here.
Dukel's voice cut through the solemn quiet. "Deploy scout forces to survey the surrounding star systems. Locate the enemy—and eradicate them."
The order was received without hesitation. The fleet split into its designated formations, Mechanicus salvage ships moving into the wreckage fields to reclaim what they could.
Even in death, no vessel of the Imperium was beyond use.
Ancient adamantium hulls, though gutted and lifeless, could be reforged. Engines could be rebuilt. The Imperium had neither the time nor resources for waste. Some of these ships had already been repaired a dozen times before—and they would fight again, reforged in the forges of Mars.
Yet it was clear the enemy had already salvaged what was most valuable. The Imperium would recover only scraps.
Then, a message crackled through the vox.
"Your Highness, Fleet No. 22 has captured a contingent of Jokaero. What are your orders?" A captain's voice crackled through the vox-channel.
"The adult specimens will be allocated to the Second Legion's manufactorums, the juveniles will be transferred to the Mechanicus for study, and select cadavers will be preserved for the Children of the People," Dukel decreed without hesitation.
"Understood, my lord."
The captain cut the transmission and relayed the Primarch's command. The Jokaero captives, bound and subdued, were herded into transport craft in silent resignation.
"Captain, our augurs have detected several xenos civilian vessels at the designated coordinates. Requesting orders."
A new voice entered the vox—one of the fleet's reconnaissance officers.
"Would you prefer His Highness arrange for you to wed one of these creatures and forge diplomatic ties?" the captain asked dryly.
"What—?" The young officer hesitated, unsure how to respond.
"If you have no wish to take an ape as a bride, then lead your squadron and annihilate them. Civilians or not, there are no innocent xenos within the Emperor's domain. Such is the will of His Highness Dukel and the decree of the Imperium!"
"Understood."
In the cold expanse of the void, distant flashes briefly illuminated the abyss—silent testaments to the obliteration of thousands of alien lives, their vessels reduced to little more than scattered wreckage.
As the Imperial fleet pressed deeper into the system, more and more xenos ships were cast into the abyss, their destruction inevitable.
With the orbital battle concluded, Dukel turned his attention to the next phase—planetary conquest.
At his command, the fleet unleashed a storm of airdrop capsules, their fiery descent streaking across the heavens like falling stars. The war had come to this forsaken world.
To the humans enslaved on this planet, the sight of thousands—millions—of meteors burning through the sky defied comprehension.
Their xenos overlords, who once paraded themselves as omnipotent masters, now shrieked in terror as chaos engulfed their ranks.
This world had been severed from the Imperium for decades. In that time, its human inhabitants had languished under the yoke of alien rule, their existence reduced to that of livestock.
Each day, thousands were packed into slave ships, their fates unknown as they were trafficked across the stars.
Those left behind to toil were consigned to mines and fields, their labor sustaining the xenos parasites that had claimed dominion over them.
Compliance was rewarded with servitude. Defiance was met with unrelenting brutality.
The leaders of past rebellions—those who dared to resist—had long since been impaled upon iron stakes, their corpses left to rot as grim reminders of defiance's cost.
But now, as the firestorm of invasion swept over the land, these oppressed souls bore witness to a sight beyond belief.
From the heart of the descending infernos emerged giants—warriors clad in ceramite, their visages concealed by faceless helms, their weapons bristling with righteous fury.
Among the masses of enslaved humanity, many had lost all memory of the Imperium. To them, the arrival of these celestial warriors was akin to the myths spoken in hushed reverence by their ancestors.
Only a handful recognized the truth—that these were the Angels of Death, the chosen of the Emperor, and the harbingers of vengeance long overdue.
These warriors were far more formidable than the angels the enslaved humans had once imagined. Their heavy ceramite armor did not hinder their movement; they were swift, precise, and relentless.
The slaves watched in awe and horror as their so-called masters—xenos of great renown—were butchered with merciless efficiency. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. Each strike was cold and calculated, like the motions of an unfeeling war machine.
When the angels of death departed, only mutilated corpses and pools of alien ichor remained.
Then, massive mechanized bastions descended from the sky, titanic structures akin to moving fortresses. From their cavernous holds emerged tens of thousands of warriors clad in power armor and the robed figures of the Adepta Sororitas, each moving with unwavering discipline.
They liberated the slaves, purged the battlefield, and formed an unbreakable line of battle against the remaining xenos forces. To those who had suffered under alien rule, these warriors were a sight never to be forgotten.
When the Imperium arrived, the fate of this world was sealed.
The so-called warriors of the Hrud, whose numbers once darkened the skies, now faltered before the wrath of the Imperium. Though some among them possessed strength rivaling the Adeptus Astartes, they were no match for the demigod leading the assault—the Primarch and his Legion. Their war machines, once deemed unstoppable, crumbled like parchment before the arcane might of the Second Legion's psykic arsenal.
Terror gripped the surviving xenos. For the first time, they knew the fear they had once inflicted upon mankind.
With their armies shattered and their leaders slain, the remaining Hrud cast down their weapons in surrender. There was no honor in their capitulation, only despair.
Dukel did not order their immediate execution.
"Send them to the manufactorum," the Primarch commanded.
Under his decree, transports laden with xenos captives made their way toward the warship Inner Fire.
"Do you mean to make them labor for you, Dukel?"
The voice belonged to a robed figure—a goddess in form, yet filled with uncertainty. Isha, the so-called Goddess of Life, watched with hesitant curiosity.
Compared to the atrocities she had witnessed at the hands of the Primarch in the past, forced servitude almost seemed a mercy. For the first time, Isha felt something resembling kindness from Dukel.
"Labor? Perhaps." A peculiar smile played across the Primarch's face.
"Elsa, would you care to see how they serve me?"
Isha hesitated. Everything happening to these xenos now—this could be the fate that awaited her own people, the Eldar. She needed to know.
"Truly?" she asked, surprised by Dukel's willingness to reveal his methods.
The space apes crowded in the transport hold whispered among themselves. They were certain their lives had been spared for their technological knowledge. Some among them, versed in Low Gothic, recognized the term manufactorum and felt a measure of relief.
They still believed they could escape.
"Before we flee, we must leave a gift for these hairless apes," some among them thought, their minds filled with venomous schemes.
This optimism endured—until the transport landed. Until they were herded into vast iron cages. Until they were driven forward like cattle into the heart of the manufactorum.
The gates opened, revealing their grim fate.
They saw other prisoners—xenos and daemons alike—herded onto a vast assembly line. Implements of suffering lined the walls: racks, flensing blades, and barbed instruments designed for exquisite torment. Blood and viscera dripped from overhead sluices, collecting into grimy runoff channels.
The moment comprehension dawned, the xenos let loose shrieks of pure terror.
Their captors had never intended for them to work—only to suffer.
"Dukel, this is what you meant?!" Isha's voice trembled with horror as she beheld the mechanized slaughter.
Standing beside her, the Primarch smiled. "Welcome to the Second Legion's Manufactorum." His voice was calm, almost amused. "As you can see, the positions I provide for prisoners are... raw materials."
Isha watched in stunned silence as scores of xenos were strapped onto the assembly line. Torture machines stripped their flesh while psykic illusions ravaged their minds. The process was systematic, honed to perfection. Even the daemons of Nurgle—creatures supposedly immune to suffering—wailed in agony as they were subjected to this industrialized horror.
At the final stage of the process, a towering figure awaited. His armor bore the sigil of the Second Legion, marking him as one of the Primarch's own gene-sons.
The warrior placed his gauntleted hand into a control panel, channeling some unseen force. A mist of ink-black liquid rained down upon the convulsing prisoners.
The effect was immediate.
The tortured creatures shrieked with newfound agony, their bodies writhing as though set alight. Isha recoiled as she saw even daemons break under its touch, their twisted forms unraveling into howling nothingness.
The Eldar goddess clutched her stomach and wretched. Whatever that black substance was, it was anathema to all things living—and utterly unnatural.
"What... what is that?!" she gasped.
"That," Dukel answered, "is the darkness of mankind."
The assembly line roared to life, and from its maw emerged something unexpected—a thin sheet of metal, lighter than a feather, imbued with an unnatural presence.
Dukel plucked the sheet from the machine and extended it toward Isha. "This is the final product. We call it Argentum Energy. Go on, feel it for yourself."
With hands trembling, Isha accepted the metal.
It was lighter than anything she had ever held, yet it radiated an unbearable weight, as though it contained the screams of the damned within its very essence.
Even in all her years, despite all she had endured, Isha had never seen anything like this.
Here, even daemons were nothing more than raw material.
The calculated, methodical cruelty of it all sent a shiver of true terror down her spine.
When humans embrace cruelty, even the horrors of the Warp pale in comparison.
"This is the weight of ten thousand tormented souls."
Dukel's voice echoed in her ears, and the Goddess of Life, Isha, felt her hands tremble involuntarily.
After witnessing the macabre efficiency of the 'Yajin Energy' production line, Dukel led her away from the mechanical workshop. As they departed, Isha took note of the countless assembly lines operating with different, yet equally grim, purposes within the vast factory.
A dreadful thought took root in her mind—she would rather see the souls of her people claimed by Slaanesh than see them meet this fate.
Meanwhile, the war in the Lost World had reached its final act.
The last defiant alien warrior had his head blasted apart by an Imperial bolt round, signaling the end of resistance.
Dukel descended onto the war-torn world once more.
From the landing fleet, the vigilant Sisters of Battle were the first to emerge, their bolters primed. Behind them, an entire detachment of heavily armed Doom Slayers moved in lockstep, forming a defensive perimeter around their Primarch.
Then, the liberated human slaves saw him.
A majestic demigod, a being of legend and salvation.
A wave of fervor swept through the crowd.
Wherever Dukel walked, the freed citizens of the Imperium chanted his name, their voices rising in a deafening crescendo that shook the heavens.
He welcomed their reverence. After all, was he not their savior? Had he not delivered them from suffering?
In the eyes of these desperate masses, he was no mere general—he was the living will of the Emperor made manifest, a demigod who walked the mortal plane.
Wherever he stepped, mortals rushed forward to seize the dirt beneath his boots as sacred relics. Even the blood dripping from his crimson cloak was coveted by the faithful.
They believed, without doubt or hesitation, that all touched by the Primarch was divine.
The cheers grew, their passion unrelenting, their devotion absolute.
Dukel moved through the throng with a knowing smile. His presence, his bearing—he exuded the charisma expected of a Primarch.
His warriors gazed upon him with unwavering admiration. His people worshiped him as a living legend.
But Isha, the Goddess of Life, saw something different.
To her, this was not a scene of triumph but of terror.
The rapturous cries of the faithful rang in her ears, but they did not sound like victory songs—they sounded like the howls of daemons, the maddened shrieks of the damned.
She shuddered involuntarily, wrapping her robe tightly around herself, as if that alone could shield her from the weight of what she was witnessing.
Each cheer sent tremors down her spine.
She felt small, caged amidst a tide of fanatics, an uneasy animal trapped in the heart of a storm.
She followed Dukel cautiously, step by step, every motion dictated by an unseen dread.
Then, he stopped.
A shadow, vast and overwhelming, swallowed her whole.
"You have one last chance."
His voice, steady and absolute, cut through the air.
Isha raised her head, her fearful gaze locking onto the Primarch's eyes—eyes burning with unrelenting purpose, with a will that could not be swayed.
They were like twin vortexes, swirling with the fury of a galaxy at war.
"To be or not to be. This is your final choice."
His voice was unyielding, a weight pressing down upon her chest, suffocating her.
She saw visions.
She saw the Craftworlds of the Aeldari wreathed in flame, reduced to smoldering ruins.
She saw her people, bound in chains, marched onto the assembly lines, their suffering converted into energy—into light, into power.
She saw spirit stones shattered, their contents harvested, their agony distilled into fuel for the Imperium's insatiable hunger.
She saw Eldar worlds toppled, their remnants trampled beneath the march of the Imperial war machine.
And above it all, she saw humanity celebrating.
Every moment, every breath, deepened her dread, tightening the invisible noose around her throat.
And she knew, with horrifying certainty, that whether these visions became reality depended entirely on her answer.
"Have you made your choice?" Dukel asked again.
'I had no choice.'
Isha fell to her knees, her despair laid bare before the towering demigod.
She pressed her lips to the iron-clad boots of the Primarch, offering the highest form of submission known to her kind.
"Master of the 22nd, Destroyer of the Crossroads of Life, I pledge myself to your banner. I will serve you until the end of my days. I ask only that you grant my people a place to survive."
Her voice wavered, but her words carried the weight of finality.
"My soul and my body are yours to command."
Tears spilled from her eyes, glistening like shattered gemstones as they struck the ground beneath her.
A new link of faith, invisible yet absolute, formed in the Primarch's gaze.
Yet, as he looked upon her kneeling form, Dukel frowned.
Faith alone was not enough. He required something more.