"What? The Four Gods resurrected Horus?"
Within the sanctum of the Primarch's quarters, Dukel stood tall, his grip firm on the Sword of Mind, eyes narrowed in cold surprise.
This blade—infused with the psychic resonance of the Emperor Himself—had long served as a conduit of divine knowledge. And it was through this sword that the truth had just been revealed: Horus, the fallen son, had returned.
Dukel's shock, however, quickly subsided.
It was unexpected—yes—but not entirely illogical.
Fabius Bile, that twisted relic of Apothecarion heresy, had already laid the foundation for this unholy resurrection with his cloning of the Primarch. Combine a reconstructed body with a core of warp essence, and what emerges is not simply a warrior, but a chimera of science and sorcery—a second birth through blasphemous means.
As more of the loyal Primarchs returned to the Imperium, it was clear that Abaddon—despite centuries of war—could not preserve Chaos's final dignity. His failures were the harbinger.
More pressing still, Dukel's virtual world initiative had posed a threat the Chaos Gods could not ignore. For the first time in millennia, the warp trembled—not from faith or fear, but from irrelevance.
In desperation, they turned to a puppet. One with a name, a legend, a shadow that still stretched across the galaxy.
There was no better candidate than Horus Lupercal.
Even the Ruinous Powers, arrogant though they were, knew they could not forge another like him. Only Horus could command the fractured warbands of Chaos, only he could rally what remained of its broken glory.
And though Dukel—lord of war, heir of the Omnissiah—possessed pride rivaling that of any Primarch, even he had to acknowledge the truth: Horus was the most complete of them all.
A general. A brother. A symbol.
And now, a weapon once again wielded by the Dark.
Of course, he'd been deceived. That was inevitable.
It had Tzeentch's stench all over it.
The Changer of Ways never lies. Not directly. His truths are weapons, sharpened by omission and fitted together into a tapestry of deceit.
Just as He once did ten thousand years ago—whispering fragments of cosmic truth into Horus's ear: about the Emperor's apotheosis, about the twilight of Man, about the aeons of betrayal to come.
None of it false. All of it framed.
The gaps, the inferences, the connections—those were Horus's own.
And now, it had happened again. Tzeentch had shown him visions of the galaxy's end, but not of the Empire's future ascension—not of the collective rise already underway.
Give Horus the space to imagine... and he will always envision tragedy.
"But that's what makes it interesting, isn't it?" Dukel murmured.
He lifted his gaze to the stars, the fire in his eyes roaring to life. The burning spirit of battle, undimmed since the days of the Great Crusade, surged within him.
In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to face his brother—to clash once again beneath the void-lit heavens, to see whose will would shape the galaxy.
But he knew it wouldn't happen so easily.
Horus was many things—but he was never a fool.
He would not challenge Dukel directly. Not now.
He'll seek allies, Dukel thought. He'll consolidate strength. Rally the traitor warbands, stir the warp, forge pacts with things better left nameless.
Fine.
"Then come, brother," Dukel said, voice edged like adamantium. "Gather your corrupted hosts. Rally the scattered filth of Chaos. Stand before me, if you dare. Bring every foul beast, every maddened traitor, every treacherous warlord. I will face them all."
"Unite the darkness... and I will break it. The Empire will rise from your ashes, and your second fall will be remembered as a monument to our triumph."
"Don't disappoint me, Horus."
Dukel never feared his enemies. He had no concept of defeat.
The Lord of Destruction, heir of Terra, stood unshaken—his soul lit not by hatred, but by the blinding certainty of victory.
He turned and left his chamber. The future beckoned, and Horus was only one shadow among many.
There were more pressing matters to attend to.
The Second Great Crusade was stirring.
Across the vast reaches of the Segmentum Solar, the Imperium's machinery rumbled to life with a precision and intensity unseen in ten thousand years. Massive forges belched out titanic warships. Countless regiments were called to muster. The High Fleet—the largest in human history—was forming.
But before it could launch, internal equilibrium had to be restored.
For days, Dukel met with the highest echelons of Imperial authority—Roboute Guilliman, Lord Lev, and others—finalizing the designs of a new administrative system.
The key? Virtuality.
The Imperium's new framework would be built on digital metareality—a matrix of integrated cognition, communication, and command. A technological web strong enough to bind a million worlds.
It was not that the Imperium had lacked vision. It had lacked capability.
Now, with Dukel's advances, that had changed.
With the Supreme Council's blessing, a summit was called. One that would reshape the Imperium's very core.
The chamber was colossal—a circular conference hall so vast it could house entire city-blocks. Hundreds of thousands were present. And yet, not a single seat was symbolic.
Every person in attendance—every Governor, Magos, High Lord, and Chapter Master—was a pillar of the Imperium.
Among them were the fixed powers: the Inquisition, the Ministry of Justice, the Departmento Munitorum. The Assassinorum, too, sent envoys, handpicked by the Lion King himself.
The Fabricator General Gris entered flanked by a procession of Magos cloaked in data-shrouds.
From the Ecclesiarchy came Cardinal-Elect Efilar, and at her side, the living icon of sanctity herself—Saint Celestine.
The entire spectrum of power—military, religious, technological, political—had gathered here.
If the Ruinous Powers had sought a single moment to decapitate the Imperium, this would be it.
If they could.
Because not only were the Imperium's leaders here, so too were its protectors.
As the final attendees took their places, silence fell.
And then, from the great entrance, they arrived—towering forms wreathed in myth and might. The Primarchs.
Their presence alone made mortals weep. So radiant were their auras, so palpable their power, that it felt as though gods walked among men.
Hope. Honor. Unity. Fire.
Dukel led them.
He stepped forward to the central dais, a pillar of control amidst the maelstrom of change.
He raised his hand, and the hall responded.
"Brothers, warriors, servants of the Throne."
His voice required no amplifier. It resounded in the mind, carried on psychic current—each syllable measured, each word deliberate.
His gaze moved across the vast chamber, resting momentarily on each faction, each brother, each ancient ally.
They felt seen. Not as pawns—but as participants in a shared purpose.
"The old age dies, and a new one begins. Built not on ashes, but on advancement. Not on war alone—but on unity. A union of strength, faith, and reason."
He paused, letting the silence speak for him.
"Today, we stand at the brink—not of ruin, but of rebirth. Let this be the first step. Let Terra shine again."
And in that moment, the hearts of all present surged as one.
The Imperium had spoken.
And its voice was Dukel.
This would undoubtedly ease the burden on the Lion—the Primarch—in implementing sweeping reforms.
At this moment, Dukel commanded more attention than ever before. Every word he spoke etched itself into the minds of mortals, immune to criticism, beyond reproach.
He stood tall, his presence majestic—an icon of strength and dignity. His image was engraved into the hearts of all present, a towering figure who radiated inexhaustible courage, promising a brilliant future for mankind.
The crowd was stirred. Stirred by his vision, stirred by his resolve. With the audacity to challenge decrepit norms and the ambition to usher in a new age, it felt as though a golden future lay just within reach.
Before such supreme courage, even the lowliest of mortals felt the pulse of a hopeful age calling out to them—tangible, imminent.
All that remained was to cast off their fear, to discard the chains of a broken past, and to lend their support to the Lion's reforms.
Then, surely, all good things would follow.
Even the most powerful figures in the Imperium found themselves stirred, though decades of discipline kept their emotions in check.
And it was within this hard-won rationality that they beheld Dukel with reverence—not merely as a warrior, but as a living demigod.
Forget for a moment his bravery and genius—his strategos intellect and martial might. The sheer charisma of this speech alone made the divide between man and demigod painfully clear.
A grand ideal, in the hands of a grand commander, becomes a flame so bright that even the meekest soul would dare cast themselves into battle for its light.
This was no myth. It was unfolding before their very eyes. How could they not be awestruck?
"I have summoned you," Dukel declared, his voice resonant, "to forge the path of our race's destiny—to reclaim the glory of the Imperium, to fulfill the divine burden placed upon humanity's shoulders."
"Humanity is not some failed experiment or lesser creation of the gods. It is our unassailable destiny to see every star, every world in the galaxy, brought under the Imperium's banner."
"All these glories, these laurels of conquest and peace, must be won together."
He continued, voice unwavering:
"The first stage of the Imperium's revival is complete. The Ophelia Sector, the Baal Expanse, the Byro Marches, and the Ghoul Stars have been reclaimed. They are once again linked to the Imperium's lifeblood."
"But our enemies have not vanished. The galaxy remains dark and perilous. And if I were to say that the war is over and we might now rest… then I would be deceiving both myself and all of you."
"Eyes filled with hatred still glare at us from the void. We live in an age of sorrow. Daily, we must send our sons and daughters to fight and die in order to preserve even a fraction of what was lost."
"Glory is built upon sacrifice. Survival still demands a heavy toll. In such an age, we must not repeat the mistakes of the past."
The blood of all present ran hot with zeal. Hearts pounded. Even seasoned generals found themselves tightening their grips on their weapons, knuckles white and trembling.
At that moment, many silently prayed for a heretic to emerge—just so their blades could taste battle once more.
Even the other Primarchs—those few surviving sons of the Emperor—were caught in the vision. Guilliman, stoic and measured as ever, found his heart stirred, indulging in the hope of a new golden age.
But just as the vision reached its peak, Dukel's tone shifted. Reality returned like a crashing tide.
All those basking in utopia's light were forced to confront the grim weight of truth once more.
And then, Guilliman heard the words:
"Gentlemen, to realize these ideals, we must enact reform. Therefore, I now invite the Lord Regent of the Imperium—the Master of Ultramar, Roboute Guilliman—to issue the new Imperial Code."
Guilliman snapped from his reverie.
Hundreds of thousands of eyes turned to him. Expectant. Silent.
Guilliman: "…"
It was one thing to inspire hope. It was quite another to enact the mechanisms of change. The former uplifted; the latter demanded compromise, risk, and—often—infamy.
If Dukel represented the burning purity of the Imperium's hope, then Guilliman bore the shadowed burden of politics and logistics.
He was the darker face of the Imperium's will—the one who must make it happen, no matter the cost.
And he had long since accepted that role. During the purging of the Terran nobility, he had steeled himself to carry the weight of infamy, if it meant the Imperium endured.
Yet Dukel's speech… it had been too perfect. He had stood like a god among men, and the people had believed. Guilliman now had to follow that.
It took him several seconds to recompose himself. Then he stood, eyes steady, and began:
"In the coming days, we shall enact a new Imperial Code. Autonomy, once granted to countless worlds, shall be revoked. The Stellar Lex Court will oversee the spread of virtualized communication networks."
"This shall allow the Imperium to monitor and govern more swiftly and efficiently than ever before."
"The Ecclesiarchy shall establish the Order of the Virtual Sanctum, and construct a lattice of psychic beacons across the galaxy—connecting our people, binding our resolve."
"The High Lords are restructured. The new Supreme Council requires fresh blood—Magos, generals, logisticians—to steer the Imperium through the storm."
"On behalf of the Departmento Munitorum, I announce a total reorganization of the Astartes. The power of Space Marine chapters will be decentralized and coordinated more directly for strategic deployment."
"Fear not delays. The Noosphere will ensure your communications appear in your superiors' processors with no latency."
Line by line, Guilliman delivered the legislation. It was cold. It was necessary.
Murmurs filled the chamber. Many senior officials leaned toward one another, whispering.
Truth be told, placing Guilliman over the Military Affairs Department had been the only logical choice. His deeds during the Indomitus Crusade had won him near-universal trust from the armed forces.
And yet—many in the chamber wore strained expressions.
They knew what these policies meant. Power lost. Influence curtailed.
Only the presence of the Primarchs held their protests at bay.
Even among the Astartes—particularly commanders of the First Founding Chapters—there was discontent.
Ten thousand years ago, Guilliman's Codex Astartes had already fractured the legions, forcing them into smaller, more easily controlled chapters.
Now, more control? More division?
They remembered the long centuries of persecution from mortal nobles—how their fractured state had weakened them.
"Our House has served the Imperium for millennia. We have withdrawn to our ancestral world only to preserve our strength, not to shirk our duty. This stewardship is a mark of honor granted by the Imperium itself. The medals we bear—passed down through generations—were awarded publicly by the Senatorum Imperialis."
A High Scion of a noble Knight House rose stiffly from his seat, his tone strained but defiant as he addressed the chamber.
"Does your proposal for a new administrative system mean that the worlds under the stewardship of the Knight Houses no longer belong to us?"
"I cannot accept this, Lord Regent. Those lands are sacred and inviolable legacies, passed down through generations of my line."
It was well known that the Scions of Knight Houses rarely left their homeworlds unless summoned by war. For such a one to stand and speak so boldly in the presence of a Primarch was a rare and uneasy sight.
Even though the assembly knew the High Scion lacked experience in the wider affairs of the Imperium, his public rebuke of the Primarch made many dignitaries sweat beneath their regalia.
Eyes flicked toward Dukel, searching for even a flicker of displeasure on the Warmaster's face. None dared guess how he might respond.
But to their collective surprise, none of the Primarchs—neither Guilliman, nor Lion El'Jonson, nor even Dukel—showed a hint of anger.
Strength may bend the body, but it cannot command the hearts of men. The Primarchs understood this well. Their public introduction of the New Administrative Codex had accounted for dissenting voices.
Before Guilliman could speak, Dukel raised his hand—and his voice.
"Your title, your authority," Dukel said, calm but sharp, "were granted by decree of the Imperial Senate."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"Well then, I rescind that decree."
His eyes locked on the High Scion. "I believe I possess the necessary authority."
The High Scion was speechless.
Knights are known for their stubbornness and linear logic. His reasoning—refuting the reforms on the basis of senatorial authority—had seemed sound.
But Dukel's counter, wielding that same authority to strip him of title and power, was devastating.
The realization hit him like a thunderstrike: he had journeyed from his homeworld to Terra in hopes of defending his title... only to lose both it and his standing.
He could already see the shame that awaited him upon his return.
Still, he gathered what remained of his dignity.
"But, Lord Warmaster," the High Scion said, his voice catching, his cheeks flushed with frustration and fear, "my father entrusted me with our House and our people. He swore to guide them into a brighter future. I do not mean to resist your will, but I beg you—tell me: where do the Knight Houses stand in this new era of the Imperium?"
It was a carefully framed appeal.
He had shifted the question from personal loss to a collective uncertainty—and with it, he tried to bind the fortunes of all Knight Houses to his cause.
Some heads among the noble Scions nodded in silent agreement.
A single Knight House is fragile. But united?
Could even the Warmaster afford to cast them all aside?
He knew he risked angering Dukel, perhaps even execution. But what awaited him back home—a disgraced ruler stripped of title—was far worse than death.
Seated not far away, Living Saint Efilar's fingers twitched instinctively. She realized, with faint alarm, that she had not come armed with a bolt-pistol or a grenade launcher. A strange omission for a day like today.
"Fool."
Dukel's voice sliced through the tension, his tone cold and absolute.
"Officials under the New Administrative Codex shall be selected from among the talents of each world. Will the Knight Houses, who so pride themselves on honor, now flinch from competition?"
"In this new Imperium, all power will answer to merit. Whether you are lowborn or noble, Scion or peasant—if you are capable, you shall rise."
"If your talent warrants it, you may not only retain authority on your homeworld, but ascend to high office here, on Holy Terra."
His expression darkened.
"Or… are you merely parasites clinging to the glories of your forebears?"
"If you admit as much, I will be sorry to inform you: for the sake of the Imperium and all that we must build together, I will not allow the incompetent to hold power!"
The words cut deep. Like frost sweeping across steel, silence followed.
Some in the assembly bowed their heads, consumed by reflection. Others, eyes now gleaming, burned with new ambition.
Though the Primarchs had taken much from them, they had also thrown open the gates to something far greater.
Those content with mediocrity would sulk. But there were many—many—who had clawed their way to this chamber from nothing. And now they saw a path forward.
Dukel saw their flames kindling and nodded.
This was what the Imperium needed: hunger, drive, the will to rise.
Even the High Scion of the Knight House sat down, thoughtful. The reforms, he now realized, might serve his people better than the status quo. After all, few on his feudal world could even contest his position.
But peace in the chamber was short-lived.
A new voice echoed across the hall—this time from the ranks of the Astartes.
"Lord Regent," said a representative of one of the newly restructured Chapters, his armor glinting in the lumen-light. "Out of loyalty, I must ask: with your reorganization of the Legiones Astartes into Codex-compliant Chapters... do you still not trust the loyalty of your own battle-brothers?"