The God-chosen Champion opened his consciousness, embracing the corrupting power of the Warp, and felt it suffuse his body with unnatural strength.
This glorious space battle, a blood offering meant for the Blood God, had been desecrated by the unrestrained brutality of the Primarch. The once-sacred ceremony was abruptly halted, forcing the Champion to recover his honor by slaughtering Imperial soldiers in close combat.
"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!"
Suddenly, a deafening crash echoed from outside. The Primarch's honor guard had breached the chamber, the heavy adamantium doors giving way under their sheer force.
With a thunderous impact, the guards kicked the doors off their hinges, the kinetic energy blasting the metal slabs into the chamber. The God-chosen Champion, who had been waiting in the core sanctum for the Imperials to arrive, reacted instantly. He launched a ferocious surprise attack, seeking to catch his adversaries off guard.
Madness and zeal glimmered in the Champion's eyes. His desperate charge seemed to please even the Blood God himself, his strength and speed pushed to their zenith. Every movement was precise and calculated—a testament to his martial prowess.
But then, a massive hand suddenly filled his vision.
The Primarch seized his head with effortless ease. The unrelenting grip drove the Champion's helmet into the wall with unimaginable force.
The ceramite helmet shattered, the Champion's skull pulverized into viscera. His lifeless body was cast aside like refuse.
"Continue," the Primarch commanded, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.
No grandeur marked the moment; his sheer lethality spoke for itself.
"Your Highness, there appears to be an issue with this weapon," one of the honor guards reported.
A thick, almost tangible psychic energy emanated from the weapon he held—a demonic blade. Reverently, he presented it to the Primarch.
Dukel, the Primarch, regarded the blade with faint interest. Without hesitation, he took it into his grasp.
The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, a cacophony of roars exploded in his mind. The daemon bound within the blade unleashed its full fury, an assault of violent emotions battering against Dukel's psyche. It sought to break him, to erode his soul and claim his will for the Dark Gods.
Yet Dukel remained unaffected.
The Primarch chuckled softly, his mirth laced with malice. "Is this the depth of your darkness, daemon?"
The psychic onslaught faltered. The daemon hesitated, confused by his composure. In that moment of weakness, Dukel struck back.
A torrent of pure, unadulterated human malice—far darker than anything born of the Immaterium—flooded the daemon's essence. It screamed, overwhelmed by the sheer cruelty and despair coursing from Dukel's will.
The blade began to bleed, crimson ichor dripping from its surface. The daemon's howls shifted, fluctuating between rage, sorrow, and despair.
Dukel observed the weapon coldly. Initially, he had considered obliterating its essence outright. But then, another idea struck him.
He turned to the Hunter Chainsword in his other hand. This weapon, forged during his resurrection from the Golden Throne, had accompanied him through countless battles. Its blade, stained with the blood of countless Greater Daemons, harbored a burgeoning machine spirit.
"Perhaps I should feed it to the machine spirit," Dukel mused aloud.
Acting on impulse, he channeled his soul's fire into the daemon blade. The weapon screamed as it was reduced to molten essence, its unholy soul consumed by the purging flames. Dukel then directed the concentrated energy into the chainsword.
The Hunter Chainsword roared to life, the machine spirit exulting in newfound power. Its motor hummed with an almost sentient enthusiasm, the teeth of the blade glistening with psychic resonance.
The weapon's transformation was undeniable. Its blade grew heavier, more ferocious. The formerly silver teeth were now a deep, blood-red hue, and psychic energy coursed visibly across its surface like arterial blood. The chainsword now exuded a presence both awe-inspiring and sinister.
Dukel tested the weapon in battle, tearing through the ranks of Khorne's followers aboard the Chaos flagship. Their deaths served as a fitting prelude to the weapon's future legacy.
The Imperial fleet pursued the remnants of the Chaos armada into the void, reducing their ships to blazing wreckage. The chase lasted a week before the last of the heretics was obliterated.
As the Chaos threat abated, the expeditionary fleet received a distress signal from a distant world. Dukel ordered an immediate course correction, and the fleet set sail toward the source.
What greeted them was a planet steeped in horror. Negative Warp energy choked the atmosphere, and the surface bore the scars of unending slaughter. Rivers of blood saturated the earth, and the skies were thick with ash and smoke.
Corpses were impaled on iron spikes, their lifeblood dripping endlessly. Twisted steel constructs, corrupted by the Warp, grew flesh and sinew, scuttling across the ruins like grotesque beasts.
Dukel frowned at the sight. "By the Emperor... this world is damned."
Had it not been for the faint signs of survivors, he might have ordered an Exterminatus on the planet. A cyclone torpedo would have scoured its surface, boiling oceans and igniting the atmosphere until nothing but barren rock remained.
But instead, he steeled himself for the task ahead. This world would either be reclaimed or utterly purged. There could be no middle ground.
...
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