"There are reinforcements!"
The Space Marines were stunned at first. After taking a closer look at Dukel's face, one question immediately arose:
Why is this guy not wearing a helmet?
The Codex Astartes, the manual that governs Space Marine tactics and conduct, mandates that helmets must be worn in combat. Astartes who fail to comply may face severe reprimands—or worse.
Ironically, almost every famous figure in the Imperium of Man seems to ignore this rule. Even Guilliman, the Primarch who codified it, is often seen leading battles helmetless.
But another question lingered:
Why is there only one reinforcement?
The enemy was no minor threat. It was a legion of World Eaters, followers of Khorne, led by a Champion of the Blood God. Worse, many among their number had transcended their mortal forms to become Chaos Daemons.
However, upon seeing the tall and imposing figure of the newcomer, clad in unmistakable power armor adorned with intricate symbols, an audacious thought entered the captain's mind:
Could this reinforcement be a Primarch?
The idea wasn't entirely baseless. Moments earlier, the company's vox channel had buzzed with rumors of a reinforcement unit led by one of the Emperor's sons.
"Is it His Highness the Primarch?" the Space Marine captain asked cautiously, his brow furrowed. "Let's retreat together."
"If we take turns covering each other, we can delay the daemons' pursuit long enough to withdraw to the defensive line," he reasoned.
According to standard Imperial strategy, a retreat under such circumstances required falling back 100 kilometers and establishing a new defensive perimeter, complete with ambushes. This approach minimized losses while stalling the enemy.
Dukel, however, had other plans.
"Retreat together?" Dukel repeated, his tone amused. He chuckled softly before saying, "You retreat first. I'll stay here and cover you."
The suggestion left the Space Marines visibly uncomfortable.
"Are you trying to buy us time?" the captain pressed.
"Exactly. Get back to the defensive line and prepare for treatment," Dukel replied casually, his gaze fixed on the approaching horde of daemons. His excitement was palpable.
The captain hesitated but knew better than to argue. His team was battered, with many Marines nursing severe wounds. Prolonging their stay would risk annihilation.
Still, as the captain gave the order to withdraw, he couldn't resist a final plea. "If you encounter danger, you must fall back. We'll be ready to assist."
"Follow your orders, soldier," Dukel said without turning, his voice steady, but his eyes burned with unrestrained anticipation.
Despite the withdrawal order, the Space Marines didn't retreat far. They fell back only a kilometer before setting up a temporary position to rest.
Although Dukel had neither confirmed nor denied his supposed identity as a Primarch, his presence commanded respect. The Marines resolved to stay within striking distance, unwilling to leave an Emperor's son to face a legion of Chaos alone.
Dukel was a figure of contradictions.
To the Space Marines, he was a stoic and enigmatic demigod. To the Imperium's citizens, he was the Emperor's reclusive second son, known more for introspection than martial exploits. But to his enemies, Dukel was a berserker who embodied the boundless fury of the Imperium.
Unlike his brothers, Dukel struggled to contain the psychic maelstrom of humanity's collective hatred for heretics and xenos—a gift and a curse from the Emperor. Suppressed by the Heart Network, these emotions simmered like molten lava beneath the surface, waiting to erupt in battle.
And now, with the rearguard mission upon him, that eruption was imminent.
The mission was clear:
Locate friend and foe (completed). Ensure allied forces retreat (completed). Divert enemy attention and annihilate all pursuing forces (in progress).
"Let's begin!" Dukel roared, laughing as he launched himself into the air like a missile.
The impact of his landing sent shockwaves through the ground. Cracks spidered across the battlefield, and the tremor threw several Khorne daemons off their feet.
Before the daemons could recover, Dukel unleashed a devastating punch, piercing straight through a daemon's chest. Then, drawing in a deep breath, he exhaled torrents of searing psychic flames.
Blessing Activated: Breath of Fire.
The air itself seemed to ignite. Psychic flames coiled like serpents, engulfing everything in their path. Dozens of World Eaters were consumed, their power armor melting away to expose fragile, charred remains.
But Dukel's mission wasn't just about destruction—it was also about provocation.
"Strike me!" Dukel bellowed, pounding his chest, the resounding clang of ceramite ringing across the battlefield.
"Come on, you pathetic heretics! Fight me!"
His taunts were crude, but undeniably effective. One by one, the daemons turned their attention to him, enraged by his audacity.
"You call yourselves Khorne's chosen? You hit like Eldar!"
For every insult hurled, Dukel delivered a devastating blow. His power armor was smeared with daemon blood, but he remained undeterred.
The daemons faltered. Their fury, the very source of their strength, was being turned against them. For the first time, doubt crept into their minds.
Who is this Imperial warrior?
Even as they raged, their strikes faltered. Dukel's relentless offense left them unnerved. Was this human even mortal?
Thus, Dukel carried on, a whirlwind of fire and fury, laughing all the while. His unorthodox style confused even his allies, but one thing was clear: the daemons were wholly fixated on him now.
And that was exactly what he wanted.