Compared to the ambitions of Death Lord Typhons, the bloody comet harboring the legions of Khorne had devolved into utter chaos.
On the eve of the Warmaster's celebration, Dukel tore the Butcher's Nail from the skull of Daemon Primarch Angron—and destroyed it without hesitation.
Without the Nail's constant goading, Angron slipped into a brooding stupor. He now wandered listlessly across the ochre deserts of his daemon world, refusing to offer skulls to the Brass Throne, no matter how loudly the Blood God roared for tribute.
Rumors even began to spread: Angron was considering laying down his chainaxe to pursue... literature.
Khorne, infuriated, found himself shackled. His once-proud executioner, now a moody scholar? Had it been a different age, Khorne might've fashioned a new Nail and rammed it back into Angron's cranium himself.
But the Realm of Khorne was under siege. Shadows of gods and Emperor-touched avatars lingered above the Brass Citadel. Daemons and damned souls warred across the planes. Even the Blood God had no strength to force a Primarch back into line.
Angron, supposed to be the tip of Khorne's spear at the war for Belial IV, ignored the Blood God's summons outright. And when Khorne's armies mustered, Angron didn't just abstain—he descended upon the mustering fields in a wrathful tantrum, disrupting the entire World Eaters' deployment.
With their Daemon Primarch blocking their path, the World Eaters never made it to the front.
And so the Red Butchers were unleashed with no leash to hold them.
Clad in Cataphractii Terminator plate and stripped of all reason, the Red Butchers were avatars of unfiltered slaughter. Once Astartes, their souls had long since been consumed by rage. Only the World Eaters knew how to control them—but their route had been blocked by their own gene-father.
Unrestrained, the Butchers rampaged blindly. They struck at friend and foe alike, driven by blind fury. Blood flowed across the eight blood-red comets long before a single shot was fired at Belial IV.
Elsewhere, a very different kind of unease took root.
Ahriman—Sorcerer of the Thousand Sons, former First Captain, and pawn of Tzeentch—stood before a towering crystal spire, his mind quietly roiling. Rare for one of his kind, doubt gnawed at him.
Born on Holy Terra, Ahriman had fought through the Great Crusade and witnessed countless atrocities. One of the few still living who remembered Dukel from the early days of the Imperium—when Dukel had been Warmaster in all but name.
And Ahriman had no wish to face him again.
He had not come to defeat Dukel, but for a far more personal mission: to rescue his shattered gene-father, the Crimson King—Magnus the Red.
This defiance of the Changer of Ways' will would be considered heresy among the Thousand Sons, but Ahriman no longer cared.
Tzeentch's followers were, by nature, deceitful and treacherous. Each sorcerer added their own interpretation to the god's ever-shifting prophecies, shaping them into new and unpredictable manifestations. Ironically, to obey Tzeentch too literally was to invite his disdain. Blind obedience was seen as stagnation—a failure of ambition. Such followers often met a cruel fate: twisted into mindless Chaos Spawn, pitiful Chaos Eggs.
Ahriman had witnessed the Burning of Prospero firsthand during the Horus Heresy. He had seen the moment Magnus' soul fractured in a desperate attempt to protect what remained of his Legion.
Ever since, Ahriman had sought to gather those broken fragments and restore his father's soul.
But one of his greatest acts of hubris—the infamous Rubric—had seen him cast out by Magnus himself.
His intention had been noble: to cleanse the Thousand Sons of their flesh-warping mutations. But the spell he wrought did far more.
He succeeded—in the worst way.
The Rubric of Ahriman obliterated the flesh of most Thousand Sons, reducing them to soulless automata. Their minds were sealed inside power armor, their flesh turned to dust. These living suits of armor, known as Rubricae, retained memories and fragments of personality only in battle, mimicking the gestures and routines of the warriors they once were.
It haunted Ahriman still.
Magnus, enraged by what he saw as betrayal, had exiled Ahriman from the Planet of the Sorcerers. Since then, forgiveness had never come.
Now, as the Imperium and Chaos clashed on the brink of reality, Ahriman led his sorcerers once more—not to win a war, but to exploit the chaos and steal Magnus away.
If the galaxy burned brighter, his chances would improve.
Elsewhere in the Warp, Lucius the Eternal stalked the battlefield. Once the Thirteenth Captain of the Emperor's Children, now the Chosen of Slaanesh, Lucius bore many titles: Soulthief, Champion of Fulgrim, the Eternal Blade.
His devotion had earned the Prince of Excess's favor. He reveled in agony and artistry in death, and his resurrection was as grotesque as it was horrifying. Any who slew Lucius in pleasure or pride would become the next vessel of his soul, their flesh twisted and their identity lost as Lucius emerged once more—his victims' screaming faces forever etched into his armor.
His gene-father, Fulgrim, had been taken prisoner during the previous campaign—ensnared by Dukel.
But Lucius made no effort to rescue him.
Not out of indifference—rather, he wasn't sure if Fulgrim would enjoy being rescued.
In Lucius's eyes, Fulgrim seemed almost eager to have been caught, perhaps even savoring the torment of captivity.
Why ruin his pleasure?
With Fulgrim in chains, Lucius rallied the Emperor's Children. They did not march with purpose—only with anticipation. They came to indulge.
The gods of Chaos, each with their own designs, had mobilized their forces. Though fractured in purpose, together they formed a host vast enough to threaten the stars themselves.
Should they triumph, the last flame of the Imperium would be extinguished—and the galaxy would plunge into an age of endless war and madness.
Across the battle lines, the Traitor Warmaster stirred.
Horus, reborn in the image of Chaos Undivided, was clad in hulking Terminator plate—his size and might such that even the colossal armor could not hinder his speed. In his hand, the Daemon blade Drach'nyen pulsed with malevolent hunger, eager for carnage.
He led the Chaos fleet against the Imperium's vanguard, a tide of Warp-tainted steel and fire.
But the Imperium had answered with fire of its own.
Under the command of Lord Commander Roboute Guilliman and War Marshal Dukel, more than half of the Imperium's elite forces had rallied. This was not merely a defense—it was a crusade.
For the first time, humanity would strike into the Immaterium itself.
Dukel led the assault—an unprecedented counter-invasion into the Realm of Chaos.
From all corners of the Imperium came its greatest champions: Kosaro Khan of the White Scars, Marshal Amarich of the Black Templars, and the sons of Sanguinius, Lion El'Jonson, and Guilliman himself.
This battle marked the opening act of humanity's vengeance.
As the two forces converged within the abyss of the Warp, Horus gave the command to unleash hell.
The Planet Killer and the Blackstone Fortress began charging, drawing vast tides of empyric energy to obliterate Dukel's vessel—the Inner Fire.
To Horus, the death of Dukel was paramount. Even if it cost the entirety of the Chaos Legion, it would be worth it.
Back within the Sanctum Strategium of the Imperial flagship, Guilliman observed the galaxy-sized conflict through layers of command data and noospheric streams.
Despite his vast experience, he showed rare signs of unease. This was not merely another campaign—this was the war that would determine the fate of mankind.
Suddenly, his eyes widened.
He quickly manipulated the hololithic display, isolating a combat zone deep within the Immaterium.
There, the Inner Fire—Dukel's flagship—had encountered seven Plague Arks, titanic vessels of Nurgle's fleet. These bloated monstrosities, each as large as a city, dwarfed Dukel's twenty-kilometer-long craft.
Yet Dukel did not retreat.
Instead, under Guilliman's stunned gaze, the Inner Fire surged forward, breaking from the Imperial line and charging directly at one of the Plague Arks.
It was madness. Like a lone knight charging a dragon.
"By the Throne," Guilliman whispered, "what is Dukel doing?!"
On the other side of the battlefield, aboard the lead Plague Ark, Commander Typhons sneered.
"Whatever madness that fool attempts—destroy his flagship."
Seven beams of entropic Warp energy screamed forth—unclean, virulent, and utterly devastating. They locked onto the Inner Fire, preparing to unmake it atom by atom.
But at the last moment—something impossible happened.
A vast Warp portal tore open in the void.
From within emerged a burning halo of golden thorns—immense beyond reason, blazing like the surface of a star.
Golden flame burst forth in a solar storm, sweeping across the battlefield with annihilating fury.
The seven plague beams were swallowed instantly.
The Plague Arks, blessed by the Plaguefather himself, were vaporized. Their crews were unmade in a moment—souls snuffed out before they could even scream.
The void itself was seared in gold.
And amidst that impossible radiance, the Inner Fire advanced—untouched, unyielding, ablaze with a fire the gods themselves could not extinguish.
Nothing could withstand the golden flame.
Not daemons.
Not Chaos warships.
Not the grotesque, blasphemous abominations crafted by the Dark Gods themselves.
All were reduced to ash and black smoke in an instant.
Countless warp-spawned monstrosities were annihilated before they could even shriek. The golden fire swept through the void like the wrath of the Emperor made manifest.
Typhus, Herald of Nurgle and master of the Plague Fleet, could only watch in stunned silence.
The Imperial counteroffensive had arrived with a fury unseen since the Great Crusade. Its first blow was not a mere opening salvo—it was divine judgment. A cleansing inferno.
The Chaos fleet suffered catastrophic losses within moments. Whole sectors of their line were carved out like infected flesh. Hundreds of warships—gone. The Planet Killer, Horus's prized relic of ancient devastation—gone. The Blackstone Fortress, painstakingly corrupted over millennia—vaporized. Even Typhus's own Plague Ark, the pride of the Death Guard fleet, was engulfed in righteous flame.
They were all annihilated.
On the prow of the Soul Fire, Dukel stood calmly, eyes locked onto the devastation he had wrought. A cold, cruel smile played on his lips.
"I don't have time to play with you, brother," he muttered.
The battlefield had been scoured clean in an instant. The emptiness where Chaos once gathered now mirrored the hollow shock that surely gripped Horus.
This was not just a battle—it was a statement.
The first blow of the Imperium's counter-invasion into the Immaterium had to be decisive, unquestionable, final.
Dukel did not merely seek victory—he demanded dominance.
Let the Dark Gods and their thralls understand: mankind would not cower forever.
What use were Plague Arks? Planet Killers? Monuments to hubris and heresy? Against overwhelming firepower, even their madness crumbled.
Dukel knew the truth: war was simple.
The strong crush the weak.
Tales of the underdog's triumph were lies told by the mediocre. The strong only fell when they were not strong enough.
If you are poor in resources—use maneuver warfare.
If you are rich—burn everything with overwhelming firepower.
For that purpose, Dukel had toiled without end. His ceaseless innovations were not born of caution, but of intent—to wipe Chaos from existence with certainty.
And the Firestorm of Perfect Truth was only the beginning.
Under Horus's horrified gaze, twenty-two massive portals formed across the void in a perfect matrix.
From within each rift emerged a colossal ring wreathed in golden flame, each one resembling a vertical eye of divine wrath, staring from across light-years. It was as though the Warp itself was being forced to blink.
Through these rifts came a new tide—Imperial warships on a scale unseen, gilded with the Aquila and emblazoned in holy wrath. The Emperor's vengeance had come in the form of steel and flame.
The sheer magnitude of Imperial might left Horus shaken—and he was not alone.
On the bridge of the Spirit of Vengeance, the Arch-Traitor's expression darkened. For the first time in ten thousand years, he looked unsure.
"We've lost the Plague, the Psychedelic, the Change, and the Greed," reported Fakus, his adjutant and corrupted Magos of Chaos.
The daemonic flicker in Fakus's eyes trembled. Even his soul, twisted by millennia of corruption, recoiled from what it beheld.
In a single strike, thousands of Chaos vessels had been destroyed.
A loss greater than any suffered since the Siege of Terra.
And this was merely the prelude.
No one knew how many times Dukel could unleash such divine weaponry. No one dared to ask.
Meanwhile, the rest of the Imperial fleet was surging forward, their assault relentless, unyielding.
The war had barely begun—
—and already, Chaos was crumbling.
There was no illusion now.
They would not endure.
Not in the face of this.
Not against Dukel.
...
TN:
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