Man in Warhammer, starting Primarch

After the defeat of Khorne, humanity's counterattack progressed remarkably smoothly.

It was only after the Chaos fleet was shattered in outer orbit that the war was finally won.

On the surface, soldiers from the Astra Militarum, Sisters of Battle, Planetary Defense Force, and other regiments converged excitedly from all directions.

The war had once plunged humanity into despair, but with the resurrection of the Primarch, they managed to decisively defeat the invading daemons and fallen warriors.

Everyone was shouting Dukel's name with genuine reverence.

After ten thousand years of darkness, humanity now desperately needed the guidance of a great leader.

At this moment, Dukel was undoubtedly that great being.

Whether they were high-ranking dignitaries in opulent attire or poor craftsmen in tattered clothes, people from all walks of life flocked from across the planet.

Even though the Second Holy Land was horrifically scarred by war, it did not deter these people from making their pilgrimage.

As Dukel, clad in power armor, marched through the ranks of the interstellar regiment, he was met with overwhelming cheers like a tsunami.

Everyone gazed at Dukel with fanatical admiration in their eyes. Some men even lifted their children above their heads, hoping they could glimpse the savior of the world with their own eyes.

The Sisters of Battle, still bearing the stains of blood from combat, took it upon themselves to form a quarantine line around Dukel. Without it, he would have been overwhelmed by the fervent crowd.

"Everyone is cheering for you, hoping that you can save them from eternal darkness," Sister Efilar murmured softly behind Dukel, her words like a prayer.

"Um."

Dukel, still unaccustomed to such adulation, responded with a curt nod.

To be honest, the fanatical zeal surrounding him made him uneasy.

In his eyes, these cheering people were, in a sense, more terrifying than human traitors or even the Great Daemon of Khorne.

Their red eyes radiated trust and admiration.

Neither he nor the former Second Primarch had ever sought to cater to others.

Faced with these expectant gazes, Dukel felt an immense pressure.

[Absorbing human faith for the host]

As Dukel stood at the center of attention, the system within him became more active than ever.

Countless devout prayers were absorbed by the system and transformed into resources, further empowering Dukel.

In the Warp, Dukel's projection shone like a growing wildfire, far surpassing its previous luminosity.

At this moment, Dukel's Warp presence burned so brightly that even the Dark Lords on the farthest edges could see it clearly.

The power of Chaos began to gather, biding its time to strike.

On two hellish worlds infinitely far away, the traitorous Primarchs Magnus and Mortarion also noticed the brilliant flames.

The Second Primarch had not only recovered from his downfall but had grown even more powerful.

The two Daemon Primarchs received the news almost simultaneously.

Mortarion erupted into layers of sinister laughter, unleashing a poisonous storm. Dozens of unprecedented and terrifying toxins descended upon an unfortunate Imperial world.

However, Mortarion's plans were at a critical juncture, leaving him no time to personally lead his forces into battle.

His malevolent gaze lingered in the thick, poisonous fog. In time, he planned to see both Dukel and the corrupt human Imperium crumble together.

Meanwhile, Magnus was consumed by fury. He violently overturned the card table before him, tearing apart the tarot cards in a fit of rage.

The future, once so clear to him, had become obscured. The once-predictable threads of fate were now tangled in chaos.

The unexpected disruption drove him to madness.

Back among the jubilant masses, Dukel remained trapped in their cheers.

Elsewhere, the Thirteenth Primarch, Roboute Guilliman, had just vanquished the daemon warriors and heretic warbands besieging him.

Exhausted, he sat on his throne and dismissed his servants and advisors.

Guilliman gazed blankly ahead, as if trying to pierce the thick walls and glimpse the future in the darkness.

After a long silence, all that remained was a sigh.

In the deserted hall, seated upon a solitary throne, the pragmatic Primarch finally allowed his mask of determination to slip, revealing a trace of sorrow and pain.

He questioned the purpose of his resurrection. Though he had fought valiantly on the battlefield, ancient wounds still lingered in his great form, gnawing at him constantly.

Guilliman doubted these wounds would ever fully heal.

Yet his personal anguish felt insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

He had spoken with sages, the Ultramarines Commander, and even Evelyne of the Deathly Hallows.

Through carefully crafted conversations, Guilliman gleaned vital information, concealing his own turmoil behind a facade of calm.

Each cruel revelation struck him like a dagger to the heart, though he betrayed no outward sign of pain.

The tragic state of the Imperium horrified him. It was kept alive not by hope or reason but by fear, hatred, and ignorance.

As an uncompromising idealist, Guilliman had envisioned a brighter future for humanity—one now overshadowed by despair.

"Thousands of years have passed," he muttered, his voice hollow. "Look at what we've become: blind faith, ignorance, misery, decay—all in the name of a god who detests the very title bestowed upon him."

His gaze shifted to a portrait above—a figure shrouded in light, seated upon a throne.

"We failed. We all failed, Father," he murmured. Then his tone shifted, filled with determination. "But why did Dukel awaken from his downfall? We all believed he never would."

"You must have known this was right," Guilliman continued. "There is still hope."

(End of this chapter)