Dukel employed the mental training method he had devised to visualize his projection in the Warp.
He began to concentrate.
"I visualized myself," Dukel mused. "And although it sounds strange, the process was incredibly smooth."
As his visualization took shape, a boundless wildfire spread across endless plains, manifesting vividly in his spiritual world. The flames, thick and molten, rolled like ocean waves, radiating intense heat.
The brilliant firelight illuminated the spiritual realm, driving out all darkness. Dukel's body and mind were engulfed in a profound warmth.
At the precise moment this wildfire took form, invisible waves radiated outward from his spiritual realm. Like ripples on water, they spread and resonated seamlessly with the inferno blazing within the Warp.
Unpredictable energy fluctuations, akin to tidal currents, began to wash over Dukel's spirit.
He absorbed these energies, allowing them to saturate his spiritual domain. At that moment, he felt his consciousness in the physical universe merge seamlessly with his distant projection in the Warp.
They had become one.
Time blurred—an instant or an eternity passed.
"Someone is coming."
Though still immersed in the spiritual realm, Dukel maintained an acute awareness of the material world.
"In fifty seconds, they will knock on the door."
This wasn't a guess—it was an instinctive certainty.
The seconds ticked by.
Sure enough, precisely fifty seconds later:
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound was punctual, without the slightest deviation.
"Your Majesty Dukel, are you all right?"
The voice beyond the door was oddly mechanical—its words caring, yet devoid of emotion, like a synthesized tone.
Dukel opened his eyes.
In the dim room, it seemed as though flames surged to life. The brightness increased dramatically, as if a wildfire raged within his gaze.
He blinked, and the fiery illusion gradually subsided.
"Enter," Dukel said calmly.
The door opened, revealing a figure in a crimson monk's robe. Beneath the fabric, glimpses of metal plating and intricate circuits could be seen.
This was Gris, the great sage of the Adeptus Mechanicus stationed on Ophelia VII, a temple and forge world.
Gris stepped into the room, his heavily modified mechanical eye emitting a faint red glow as it scanned Dukel's condition.
In the aftermath of the war, tens of billions of eyes across the Imperium were fixed on the Second Primarch's movements. Yet, Dukel had secluded himself for three days and nights, prompting widespread speculation and concern.
Rumors abounded—some claimed the Second Primarch had been gravely injured in his battle against the Greater Daemon of Khorne and was recuperating. Others whispered darker tales: that he might lose control once more, unleashing devastation upon the world.
Panic rippled through the populace.
Gris, who had worked for millennia to restore the Second Primarch from his prior fall, shared these anxieties. He understood better than anyone how slim the chances of success had been. Yet, against all odds, Dukel had returned, saving countless lives in humanity's darkest hour.
Gris's joy was tempered with worry. His visit was not merely one of concern—he had come to assess the Primarch's condition and report his findings to ensure the Imperium's forces could respond appropriately.
"Your Majesty Dukel, you have worked tirelessly for three days." Gris chose his words carefully, his mechanical eye flashing as he monitored the Primarch's reactions.
"You are deeply cared for," he added.
Dukel looked up, his gaze piercing. His eyes seemed to burn with an inner fire.
"Gris," Dukel said softly, "stand before me."
Gris approached the desk, his artificial eye's gears whirring. Though he was puzzled, he complied without hesitation.
Dukel smiled faintly. Gris had earned his trust. For millennia, the sage had scoured the galaxy, searching for fragments of lost knowledge and ancient technologies to restore the Second Primarch.
More importantly, Dukel could now see Gris's unwavering loyalty to humanity. The sage's faith was a tangible force, his connection to the Imperium's belief system nearly complete.
"May I ask what you require of me?" Gris inquired, standing at attention.
Dukel's smile widened.
"I need your help rebuilding my fleet," he said. "A new fleet—one powerful enough to seize the initiative in the wars to come."
With that, Dukel activated his psychic abilities. A torrent of knowledge surged into Gris's mind—detailed schematics and data on starships from humanity's Golden Age.
Gris was stunned. The designs were treasures of an era long past, painstakingly preserved within the Primarch's memory. Dukel had adapted them, refining the blueprints to suit the Imperium's current capabilities.
"I cannot rely on the decayed remnants of this galaxy," Dukel said. "We must construct a fleet capable of defeating any foe—xenos, heretics, corrupt governors, or even other Astartes chapters. Whatever stands in our way will be eradicated."
Gris was elated. For centuries, the Adeptus Mechanicus had sought to recover fragments of humanity's lost technologies, salvaging and replicating what little remained from Standard Template Constructs (STCs).
This knowledge was priceless. With it, Gris could construct a fleet unlike anything seen in millennia.
"This is..." Gris's voice trembled.
"A gift," Dukel replied.
For the Second Primarch, there was no value in attempting to mend the Imperium's broken systems. Where others might try to patch what was failing, Dukel preferred a simpler solution: total annihilation of the old to make way for the new.
"A destroyer's path is easier than that of a repairman," he mused. "And sometimes, it's the only way forward."
Gris, overwhelmed with gratitude, bowed deeply. With the blueprint in hand, he was determined to make the Primarch's vision a reality.