The planet Nanlis was once a prosperous human world, its skyline dominated by towering buildings. It had been home to countless families and a hub for advancements in medicine, art, and technology.
Now, only desolate ruins remained.
Every object in these ruins bore the imprint of human emotions. Dukel stepped over the shattered remnants of a wardrobe, once a simple piece of mahogany furniture. Its surface was intricately carved with patterns native to this world, the likes of which he had never seen.
Even now, he could feel the echoes of the joy and laughter the wardrobe had once witnessed, drowned beneath the despair that now lingered like a ghost.
Scattered throughout the ruins, countless such items gnawed at Dukel's nerves. His fury burned hotter with each step, driving him to slaughter every daemon in his path.
"Perhaps he's trying to hide something," thought the Champion of Khorne, observing Dukel's frenetic behavior.
Scratching at his head, the Khorne Champion's irritation mirrored a peculiar sensation—as though his brain were trying to grow, an unsettling and alien feeling for one of his kind.
"No, I still can't figure out his goal," he muttered, dismissing his doubts with a savage grin. "Let's just kill him and be done with it!"
With a roar, he bellowed his orders: "Team one, pursue the fleeing Space Marines! The rest of you—focus on the one before us! Offer his skull to the Brass Throne, and the Blood God will be pleased!"
To Khorne's disciples, there was only one objective: kill.
The retreating Space Marines, though gravely injured and nearing exhaustion, still posed a threat. If they reached the defensive line, they would recover and fight again. That was unacceptable.
"Yes!"
The outermost Khorne squad obeyed immediately, racing after the fleeing loyalists.
Dukel paused mid-strike, his blazing eyes narrowing as he shouted, "Where are you going, cowards? Have the followers of Khorne learned to run like frightened prey?"
His taunts fell on deaf ears. The pursuing squad sneered, confident in their combat experience.
From the beginning of the skirmish, Dukel had only unleashed a single large-scale fire attack—a magical barrage spanning several hundred meters. It was obvious he favored close combat.
"Even if he wanted to stop us, he's too far away—"
A shadow blotted out the light above them.
"By Khorne, what is that?!" one of them exclaimed, his voice tinged with disbelief.
A massive slab of reinforced concrete, engulfed in flames, hurtled toward them like a meteor. The chunk was the size of a small building, its weight and velocity enough to pulverize anything in its path.
"Boom!"
The impact sent shockwaves rippling through the air, raising a blinding cloud of dust and debris.
The Khorne daemons were momentarily stunned. Even for hardened warriors, the sheer destructive power of this attack was horrifying.
"Don't think I can't reach you just because you run!" Dukel bellowed, hefting another massive fragment of ruin and hurling it at the fleeing daemons.
Another deafening crash followed. The earth itself seemed to groan in protest as the reinforced concrete obliterated one of the pursuers.
The Khorne Champion's eye twitched involuntarily.
"What in the name of the Blood God is this?" he growled.
"I think I know who he is," said another Khorne Champion, his gaze sharpening with uncharacteristic insight. "There have been whispers—rumors of a Primarch's resurrection."
"A Primarch?!"
The revelation struck them like a thunderclap. A year ago, Khorne had issued an oracle foretelling the return of one of the Emperor's sons. But none among them had cared to remember; after all, Khorne's will was interpreted through violence, not reflection.
"If this is the Primarch, then we must act!" The Champion's eyes gleamed with murderous intent. "Forget the others. Killing him will grant us unimaginable favor!"
The thought of claiming a Primarch's skull filled the Khorne followers with frenzied anticipation.
"Attack!"
The Khorne Champion hurled his blood-red spear with all his might. The weapon, blessed by Khorne himself, tore through the air with a resounding sonic boom, its razor tip aimed directly at Dukel's unhelmeted face.
Dukel laughed, a deep, guttural sound. With a casual tilt of his head, he avoided the deadly projectile, allowing it to graze his cheek and leave a faint white mark.
Unfazed, he raised his warhammer and waded into the fray. Each swing of the weapon was a symphony of destruction, blood and ichor splattering with every strike.
Even the hardened Khorne daemons faltered.
"How can his body be this resilient?!"
"My spear barely scratched him!"
The daemons exchanged wary glances. Dukel's power was unlike anything they had ever faced.
But they were Khorne's elite—veterans of countless wars. They adjusted their tactics, feinting and circling as they sought an opening to deliver a killing blow.
Finally, one of them saw his chance. He surged forward, his axe raised high. This weapon, blessed by Khorne, had cleaved through the armored hulls of warships. Surely it would—
The axe struck, but instead of tearing flesh, it stopped cold against an invisible force.
"What is this sorcery?" the daemon hissed.
Dukel's body was surrounded by a shimmering, translucent field that pulsed with psychic energy. It repelled the corrupting influence of the Warp, rendering Khorne's blessings useless.
"This… this isn't possible!"
Before the daemon could react further, Dukel seized him by the head.
"Tsk," Dukel muttered. "Almost forgot how handy the psychic force field is in combat."
With a casual squeeze, he crushed the Champion's skull, his other hand nonchalantly scratching his head.