"Second Company, evacuate immediately! I repeat, Second Company, fall back immediately! You've suffered severe casualties and are no longer combat-effective. Hold your positions, and you'll die for nothing!"
"Coordinates 22.22 requesting fire support! Repeat, coordinates 22.22 requesting immediate fire support!"
"By the grace of the Emperor, the expeditionary fleet is descending. Reinforcements are arriving—we're saved!"
"Look! It's the Ultramarines! They've brought Dreadnoughts and Knight Titans!"
The desperate cries of Imperial Guardsmen flooded the Astra Militarum communication channels, their tones shifting between desperation and newfound hope as reinforcements arrived.
Dukel and his honor guard had completed their mission with ruthless efficiency. They were a relentless blade slicing through the Chaos ranks, cutting down anything that dared stand in their path. Every anti-aircraft railgun emplacement had been reduced to smoldering wreckage, ensuring the safety of the descending transport fleets.
Above the battlefield, the heavens opened. A massive transport warship, its hull bristling with weaponry and adorned with the livery of the Imperium, descended from orbit. Its vast hatches opened, releasing torrents of Imperial reinforcements.
The Knight Titans advanced first, towering over the battlefield like mechanical gods of war. Their laser cannons incinerated Chaos armor, while their howitzers and rotary guns churned enemy infantry into clouds of gore and ichor. A barrage of tracking missiles screamed through the sky, finding targets among the corrupted war engines of Chaos.
Under their shadow, Leman Russ tanks and Chimera transports rolled onto the battlefield, their formations precise and unyielding. Behind them came the Ultramarines and their Dreadnoughts, advancing in tight squads. Chainswords roared and bolters spat death, tearing through the corrupted flesh of Chaos heretics.
The Ultramarines were not here by chance. They had joined this expeditionary force inspired by Dukel himself, seeking redemption through the crucible of war. Their mission was clear: destroy the traitors who had abandoned humanity and sullied the honor of the Astartes.
The World Purifiers' Plague Army, however, would not yield so easily. Under the cover of Withering Drones, they launched a brutal counteroffensive. A miasma of virulent toxins rolled across the battlefield, indiscriminately poisoning friend and foe alike.
Chemical weapons exploded in grotesque blooms of death, their toxins capable of penetrating even the advanced filtration systems of power armor. The mortal soldiers of the Astra Militarum were hit hardest. Many fell to their knees, choking as their lungs filled with corrosive bile. Others, maddened by pain, charged forward clutching melta bombs, determined to trade their lives for victory.
Their sacrifice inspired fury among the survivors. Imperial Guardsmen and Astartes alike fought with renewed determination. The Plague Zombies, herded forward as meat shields, were reduced to piles of rotting flesh under the relentless bombardment of Imperial artillery.
The Iron Fortress, a bastion of unyielding faith and defiance, held firm. From its walls, mortals rained fire upon the Chaos forces, their cries of devotion to the Emperor echoing across the battlefield.
Even as the Imperial forces advanced, the Forgotten Messenger, Gerst, saw the writing on the wall. The Plague Army's defenses were crumbling, and their strategy of attrition had failed. Leading his warband, Gerst prepared to break through the Imperial encirclement.
Blessed by Nurgle himself, Gerst was a terrifying figure. His body writhed with unholy power, his flesh pulsating with unnatural vitality. With every step, the ground beneath him blackened and rotted. His strength was said to rival that of a Greater Daemon, and he wielded it without hesitation.
On the other side of the battlefield, Dukel led his guard toward the fortress. The Primarch moved like a storm given form, his every step a declaration of death to the enemies of the Imperium. Chaos forces that dared stand against him were obliterated, their bodies torn asunder by his wrath.
The confrontation between Dukel and Gerst was inevitable. The "gap" in the Imperial encirclement was no oversight; it was a trap laid by the Primarch himself.
As their paths crossed, Gerst's voice boomed across the battlefield, carried by the psychic energies of his patron god.
"Second Primarch, I greet you! Once, you stood proudly against the False Emperor. Why have you returned to serve him? You betrayed your righteous path! You abandoned the truth to crawl back to the lies of the Corpse-God!"
Dukel's face darkened. The words cut deep, stirring memories of his time under Chaos' sway. It was a chapter of his life he sought to erase through unrelenting penance.
"You dare speak of treachery, heretic?" Dukel's voice was cold, his tone carrying the weight of a thousand battlefields. His chainsword roared to life, its teeth glowing with the fire of his unyielding will.
Gerst readied his weapon, but Dukel was already upon him. The Primarch's first strike shattered Gerst's blade, the force of the blow sending the Forgotten Messenger sprawling.
Pinned beneath Dukel's armored boot, Gerst struggled in vain. His body, reinforced by Nurgle's blessings, could withstand the weight of a mountain—but not the might of a Primarch.
Dukel's grenade launcher burned with soul fire as he aimed it directly at Gerst's ruined face.
"Is this what you call strength? Your blessings are meaningless. Chaos has no place here."
The first shot obliterated half of Gerst's skull. The second and third left his head a mangled ruin of bone and flesh.
Yet Nurgle's blessings refused to release their servant. Gerst's broken body twitched, his corrupted flesh attempting to knit itself back together.
Dukel crouched, grabbing what remained of the heretic's head. With a sickening crunch, he crushed it in his hand, ending Gerst's existence.
"This grenade launcher needs work," Dukel muttered, tossing the smoking weapon aside.
The battlefield fell silent for a heartbeat, the sight of Dukel's triumph reverberating through the Imperial ranks. A thunderous cheer erupted as Guardsmen and Astartes alike roared their defiance at the forces of Chaos.
Leaderless and broken, the Plague Army faltered. The Imperial counteroffensive surged forward, sweeping away the remnants of the heretics.
The Iron Fortress had held. Victory belonged to the Emperor.
The Emperor protects.