Fulgrim's smug expression irritated Dukel, stirring a hint of displeasure within the Primarch.
The consequences were about to unfold.
Fulgrim's true form was not present. What stood before Dukel was merely a fragment of his soul.
With a slight increase of pressure from the hand resting on Fulgrim's shoulder, Dukel unleashed a surge of spiritual power, the force erupting violently around him.
The ferocious energy penetrated Fulgrim's soul fragment, dismantling his consciousness in mere moments.
Then Dukel infused a massive torrent of soul fire into the alien vessel housing Fulgrim's fragment.
In a twisted sense, this could be considered a blessing.
The alien body quickly surpassed its limits under the overwhelming fire of Dukel's soul.
The grotesque, twisted form began to change again, rapidly shriveling like a desiccated mummy. Dry cracks splintered its surface, and soul fire erupted from the fissures.
From a distance, it resembled a flaming, dried snake.
A hoarse, guttural hiss in a language of serpents emerged from its fractured neck.
Dukel observed the alien vessel coldly and commanded,
"Go. Find your true form."
"You are one, and you will eventually be whole."
At Dukel's words, the fiery, mummified snake vanished, tunneling into the Warp. Driven by instinct, it sought the lost world buried deep within the immaterium.
Dukel's consciousness partially entered the Warp, following the snake. His spirit manifested as a massive, glowing eye surrounded by countless spiritual flames.
The eye trailed the snake as it burrowed into a lost world.
A flicker of amusement crossed Dukel's awareness as he cast two seeds of soul fire into the realm. These devastating flames, anathema to Warp entities, descended upon the forsaken world.
Satisfied, Dukel's consciousness began its return to reality.
Midway through his journey back, a familiar presence caught his attention—a node where the Warp intersected with the material world.
"Well, if it isn't Guilliman," Dukel remarked, his tone laced with wry amusement.
"Brother, forgive me, but what are you daydreaming about?"
Time held no meaning in the Warp. What transpired there unfolded in an instant in the physical realm.
As Dukel's consciousness rejoined his body, a peculiar smile crept across his face.
But now was not the time for idle thoughts.
There was a mess left by his foolish brother that needed immediate attention.
The appearance of the Daemon Prince during the celebration had been broadcast live via holographic projection, spreading across countless worlds in moments.
Fear rippled through the populace.
The manifestation of Chaos within the sacred grounds of the Second Holy Land raised a chilling question: If even the Primarch's domain could be infiltrated, where in the Imperium was truly safe from the taint of Chaos?
Fulgrim's presence sowed fear and confusion on a massive scale.
These emotions reverberated through the Warp, sparking elation among its dark denizens. Negative human emotions were their feast, and this despair was a banquet.
The entities of Chaos grew confident. They believed the Imperium's doom was sealed.
In their eyes, humanity's struggle over ten millennia had been futile. The final reckoning loomed, promising a harvest of countless souls.
Demons salivated at the thought of carving pieces from the bloated, decaying Imperium.
Dukel stood on the viewing platform, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. The sheer force of his will calmed the masses instantly. Wherever his eyes fell, silence followed.
"I know you were born into darkness," Dukel declared, his voice steady yet resonant, "and that your lives have been fraught with hardship, bloodshed, and endless strife. But take heart, citizens of the Imperium!
"As you have witnessed today, the betrayer is weak. He cannot stand against me, let alone the indomitable spirit of humanity!"
Dukel's presence radiated defiance, his words instilling strength into the hearts of his people.
"Ten thousand years ago, humanity's glory illuminated the galaxy. Our strength struck fear into the hearts of all alien species. Even the galaxy's vastness was but a plaything for humanity's might.
"The scars of today, the trials we endure, are but fleeting challenges in our eternal history. I swear to you, the traitors who turned their backs on us and the forces of Chaos that torment us will one day face their reckoning. Humanity will wield its weapons and proclaim to all heretics: Our glory is everlasting!"
The crowd stirred, their fear replaced with newfound courage. Dukel's words resonated deeply, reaching into their hearts and awakening an unstoppable spirit of defiance.
"Kill them all!"
A lone soldier, brandishing his monomolecular sword, shouted with fervor. Though his voice was faint amid the vast Temple Square, his conviction was contagious.
Others around him joined the chant, their fear dissolving into rage.
Humanity had been oppressed for far too long—trampled by xenos, devoured by Tyranids, slaughtered by Orks, and tormented by daemons.
But now, a demigod Primarch stood among them, rekindling their hope. He had shown them that all enemies could be defeated.
The cry to arms spread like wildfire.
"Kill them all!"
Even the disciplined Space Marines, swept up in the fervor, began chanting. Soon, Ecclesiarchy forces, Sisters of Battle, and countless regiments joined in unison.
This surge of collective emotion created a force so immense it reverberated through the Warp.
The fiery, wheel-like form of a vast Chaos entity opened its central eye in anger, radiating waves of spiritual malice.
Yet, under the relentless cries of humanity, even the most malevolent creatures of Chaos faltered. Panic gripped them as they fled, their confidence shattered.
The cries of mortals turned into a devastating force. Daemons caught in the soul-light screamed as their essence disintegrated.
Meanwhile, on Macragge, within the Five Hundred Worlds, another grand celebration unfolded.
Under the orchestration of hidden conspiracies, Guilliman presided over the event, his people gathering to honor him.
The cheers of millions rang out in unison, an endless hymn to the Primarch.
Chief Consul Macragge presented Guilliman with an intricately crafted laurel crown of pure gold. Urging the Primarch to wear it, he insisted it was a symbol of Guilliman's unparalleled leadership.
Moved by the gesture, Guilliman placed the brilliant crown upon his head.