The World Eaters, blood-mad followers of Khorne and betrayers of the Imperium, had claimed this lost world as their slaughterhouse.
Daemons prowled the desecrated ruins of once-proud cities, piling the severed heads of Imperial warriors in grotesque towers within blood-soaked mausoleums. The stench of decay and the aura of blasphemous cruelty spread like a sickness, corrupting everything they touched.
There were no depths to the atrocities they would commit to please their dark patron.
At the heart of their grotesque dominion stood a colossal arena. Here, the World Eaters held captive Space Marines, not as prisoners but as playthings for their sacred duels—rituals of blood and carnage offered to the Blood God.
Stripped of their power armor, these proud Astartes were forced to engage in brutal one-on-one combat against Khorne's chosen warriors. Each duel ended in death, feeding the insatiable hunger of the Warp.
A Space Marine who had already slain six Chaos champions in the pit fell to a single devastating blow, his head severed by a berserker's axe. The crowd of Khorne worshippers erupted in ecstatic roars. Yet, when a Chaos warrior fell, cleaved by a Marine's blade, their cheers were no less raucous.
To followers of the Blood God, it mattered not whose blood was spilled or whose skull adorned the pile. The act of violence itself was the ultimate offering.
This grotesque carnival of slaughter was endless. Captives were dragged into the arena, and the cycle of death began anew.
Above the gore-stained Colosseum, an old soldier was crucified to the fortress walls by chains that pierced his battered body. Once a proud Space Marine, now he was little more than a mutilated witness to the atrocities below. He roared in impotent rage as his brothers died, the chains rattling with each futile struggle.
Hope had abandoned this world long ago. Isolated by a Warp storm, no Imperial reinforcements could breach the storm's grasp. The roars of defiance from the captive Astartes were drowned beneath the bloodthirsty chants of Khorne's horde.
This world was destined to fall to Chaos, its defenders perishing with their loyalty unbroken but unavenged.
Then, the impossible happened.
A thunderous explosion tore through the cacophony, silencing the jeers of the crowd. In orbit, a Chaos warship erupted in flames, its shattered remains scattering like sparks across the void.
As the inferno faded, the shadow of an Imperial fleet emerged—an armada of vengeance suspended above the cursed world.
The old soldier, nailed to the wall, stared in disbelief at the spectacle. Even in his dreams, he had not dared imagine salvation. Hope, thought long dead, burned anew in his chest.
The heavens rained fire as thousands of drop pods descended, their trails igniting the skies. Thunderhawk gunships strafed the fortress, their weapons roaring as they unleashed the Emperor's fury upon the heretics below.
In the ensuing storm of fire and steel, the demonic tide faltered. Explosions ripped through their ranks, scattering daemons and berserkers alike.
Among the first to breach the fortress were the Sisters of Battle. Clad in silver-white power armor, their righteous fury manifested in the roaring grenades and bolters they wielded. These devoted warriors of the Ecclesiarchy sought vengeance for the atrocities committed here, unwilling to let any Imperial soul suffer further.
The tide turned swiftly. The remaining World Eaters and daemons were slaughtered. Even the corrupted Tech-Priest who had sold his soul to Chaos was torn apart, his unholy amalgamation of flesh and metal reduced to a pile of gore beneath vengeful boots.
The Astra Militarum, following close behind, reached the fortress walls and freed the mutilated veteran from his chains. Though his body was ruined beyond natural recovery, the Astartes demanded to be interred within a Dreadnought, so he could continue to fight alongside his brothers.
Once housed within the ancient sarcophagus, his voice, augmented by the machine spirit, rang out. "Which regiment are you from? How did the Administratum respond so quickly?"
The Guardsman standing before him, visibly awed, replied with pride. "The Administratum did not send us, honored one. We fight under the banner of the Primarch."
The Space Marine's tone shifted, disbelief mingling with hope. "The Primarch? Which son of the Emperor has risen from the darkness to lead us?"
"The Emperor's second son—His Highness Dukel. He leads the crusade of this Dark Age, vowing to restore the Imperium's glory."
The words filled the veteran with a fervor he had not felt in centuries. "Where is this Primarch? I must see him!"
The Guardsman hesitated, as if listening to a distant voice. "His Highness Dukel has gone ahead to engage the enemy at Xisuo Fortress."
The Dreadnought's mechanical voice deepened with urgency. "Alone? Against a thousand World Eaters?"
The Guardsman's voice faltered. "Yes… alone."
Meanwhile, deep in the ruins of a shattered city, a desperate battle raged. A squad of Space Marines, battered and bloodied, fought to hold back a horde of Khorne daemons. Their captain, grievously wounded, wheezed through a pierced lung.
"Hold the line! Reinforcements are here—we only need to buy time!"
The Marines braced themselves, their bolters roaring defiance. They would hold, even if it cost them their lives.
Then, the earth shook as an explosion tore through the enemy ranks. From the smoke and rubble, a lone figure emerged.
Dukel, the Primarch of legend, strode onto the battlefield. His expression was calm, almost amused, as he surveyed the carnage.
"I am your reinforcement," he declared, his voice resonating across the battlefield. "Go, warriors. Leave the rest to me."
For a moment, the battlefield stilled. Then, with a roar, the Primarch charged into the fray, his blade cutting a path through the horde.
This was no retreat. This was annihilation.