The Blood God's furious roar echoed across the Sea of Souls, shaking the Immaterium to its very core. Every shadowed entity lurking within the long night of Chaos recoiled from the sheer wrath behind that cry.
The damage to Khorne's realm far surpassed even the scars once left by the Garden of Nurgle. The martial dominion of the Lord of Skulls now blazed with uncontrolled war, its foundation fracturing under divine upheaval.
As every being of power knows—cooperation among the Chaos Gods is but a fleeting illusion.
Though they may align temporarily to seize mutual gain or strike at a common foe, such unions are brittle. The moment one god senses weakness or victory, betrayal follows without hesitation or shame.
This is the eternal Great Game, the ceaseless struggle among the warp-born pantheon. There will be no peace—only the endless clash of wills until one claims absolute dominion.
To expect loyalty from the Ruinous Powers is folly. Better to hope the Emperor of Mankind possesses mercy than to believe the Dark Gods would ever honor a pact.
Mercy from the Emperor? That is but a human dream. To the wider galaxy, He who burns stars and conquers realities is no different from the Dark Gods—merely the brightest among them.
A Slaaneshi cultist may still gaze upon She Who Thirsts and see beauty in damnation. In this galaxy of eternal warfare, morality is a hollow word. There is no good. No evil. Only the eternal churn of bloodshed and ambition.
Within the deepest strata of the Immaterium, in the heights of the Supreme Heaven, all manner of warp-beings wailed in despair. Here, five mighty powers—Emperor, Nurgle, Khorne, Slaanesh, Tzeentch—revealed their hands in a titanic struggle.
Every shift of power was like the flip of a trump card, each move capable of unmaking suns and breaking the wills of worlds.
Khorne's realm now served as the battlefield—an infernal poker table upon which gods wagered legions. The Emperor stood among them, not as a guest, but as a rival god. And He did not lose.
While the Dark Gods turned on one another—sometimes allies, often enemies—the Master of Mankind wove discord into opportunity. When Nurgle, Slaanesh, and Tzeentch moved to dismantle Khorne's domain, just as they had done to Tzeentch before, it was the Emperor's golden blade that interposed itself between the Blood God and annihilation.
He defended the Brass Citadel with radiant fury, denying all parties their prize.
And so chaos became more chaotic. Betrayal followed betrayal. War flared anew among the Five. No alliance held. No order prevailed.
This was a war only gods could wage.
Five presences, five thrones—locked in an endless cycle of deceit and carnage. Each waited for a moment of weakness. None dared look away.
Their legions clashed in Khorne's ravaged dominion, while the Cursed Legion of heroic spirits—reborn in the Emperor's light—held the balance.
They stabilized the battle. When one side surged, they resisted. When it faltered, they countered. Balance was the key. Attrition, the cost.
Khorne's realm roared in torment.
Meanwhile, in the Materium—upon Holy Terra itself...
As the Blood God's influence withdrew, Angron's manifestation collapsed. The Daemon Primarch was no longer a threat.
Dukel, Supreme Warmaster, stood unshaken. The fall of his tragic brother elicited no sorrow. Without the Butcher's Nails driving him, Angron was already a broken weapon.
And now, he was merely broken.
It is Khorne who must grieve his fallen champion.
Dukel stood amid the fires and gore of Terra's battlefield, one hand clutching the Sky Eagle Banner of Destiny, the other gripping a blazing power sword. Each footstep burned righteous conviction into the ground.
All around him, daemons and cultists—abandoned by their master—shrank in terror.
The towering Warmaster, avatar of the Emperor's fury, raised his voice—a final decree to all who dared defy the Imperium.
"In the name of the Supreme Warmaster, I command you—take up arms! Spill your blood for our people! Expel the enemy from our sacred soil! Victory is ours, for the Emperor, for the Primarchs, and for the glory of Humanity!"
Dukel's voice thundered with psychic might. Even the deaf could hear him; even the blind saw his radiance.
The chorus of artillery and battle cries merged into one anthem of defiance.
"For the Warmaster! For the Lion! For the Emperor!"
General Waldo, commander of the Imperial Guard, roared from atop Lion Gate Tower.
The Custodes charged, their golden armor forming a tide of living divinity. For the first time in millennia, the weapons forged by the Emperor's own hand sang together again in perfect harmony.
Halberds crackled with force fields. Daemons perished by the hundreds. Blood drenched gold. The Custodian Guard fought not as soldiers, but as demigods among men.
The Lion had returned. Sanguinius, radiant and stained with the blood of traitors, took wing once more. And countless other loyal heroes followed—shouting their unyielding vows to Terra and the Emperor.
No daemon could stand before them.
Warp-spawned limbs withered to ash beneath humanity's fury. Mountains of demonic flesh were reduced to rancid sludge.
And above all—Carlos's Destiny Sky Eagle Banner shone like a second sun.
It strengthened loyalists. It burned daemons.
The warp recoiled. Khorne's power waned. The scarlet skies bled away, replaced by the golden radiance of the Emperor's will.
In orbit above Terra...
The Indomitable Fleet, led by Lord Guilliman and reinforced by the Imperial Fists, brought annihilation to Khorne's armada.
Debris from voidships streaked across the heavens like burning comets.
Below, Terra was aflame. A golden sky thick with ash and fireballs crowned the greatest battle in human history.
For those gathered dignitaries—planetary nobles and sector rulers who had come to witness Dukel's ascension—this war was both curse and blessing.
They were soaked in blood, bruised, and battered. But none complained. They wept. They knelt. They praised.
They had seen the might of humanity. They had felt the Emperor's wrath—and His love.
Even in death, they would die with hope.
Every soul knew, deep within their being, that this day would mark the end of the Long Night. That humanity's ten-thousand-year agony would become a mere footnote in the chronicles of the Great Reclamation.
At the temples of the Ecclesiarchy...
The faithful prostrated themselves in worship. They no longer cried out only to the Emperor, but to the Warmaster who now bore the burden of command.
"Long live the Warmaster!" became their cry of salvation.
That faith—irrational and absolute—did not remain confined to ritual.
It fed the greatest weapon humanity had forged.
Above Terra, in the black-gold depths of the void, the Star of Judgement burned brighter. A dark star of divine flame, born of belief, fueled by the Ecclesiarchy and the dreams of billions.
Where it passed, Chaos withered.
The priests, zealots, and martyrs of the Imperial Cult poured themselves into the virtual realm, fighting alongside the Emperor's chosen. Even in death, they sang. Even in defeat, they rose again.
This was no longer simple faith. It was war—fought with bodies of light and minds of iron.
In this realm, the dead lived anew. Every fallen priest became a weapon.
The Virtual Realm had become Dukel's finest creation. A divine technology. A final answer to Chaos.
Under the banners of the Warmaster...
The Slayers of Destruction and the Sisters of the Soul, paragons of post-human warfare, struck down Greater Daemons as if they were mere beasts.
No counterattack availed them. No infernal curse could halt their advance.
And when the skies above Terra finally fell silent, the fleets of Guilliman, the Imperial Fists, the Solar Guard, and all the mighty Legions descended to finish the work.
All who dared to threaten the Imperium had paid the ultimate price.
Now the lions of humanity marched to reclaim what was theirs—step by blood-soaked step—toward Lion Gate and beyond.
Eighty-eight daemon armies—terrifying and legion—and countless cultists lured by the promises of Chaos. Once thought unstoppable, now reduced to broken meat and ash beneath the iron tide of the Imperium.
One by one, the defensive bastions of Terra were reclaimed.
Altars were overturned, profane rituals crushed beneath the boots of righteous warriors, and heretics found no quarter. Even those who dared burrow deep beneath the crust of Holy Terra were not safe—for the Dark Angels, long acquainted with the subterranean underworld, hunted them down with precision, dragging them screaming into the light to be executed in the name of the Emperor.
They believed their strongholds hidden.
They did not know the Lion had already marked them for death.
Meanwhile, the Warmaster's Celebration proceeded unimpeded by the war.
Such was the decree of Dukel.
The administratum sprang into action with unprecedented efficiency. Even the Mechanicus toiled with fervor, presenting offerings prepared long in advance.
One such gift eclipsed all others.
It was no ancient relic scavenged from the ruins of a lost age—but a new artifact, forged to herald a new era.
A suit of power armor like none before it—crafted for the Supreme Warmaster.
The eyes of the Imperium would bear witness to the ceremony, where Dukel would don this sacred war-plate. An omen of destiny. A symbol of dominion.
The Mechanicus dared not fail. Not today.
Fabricator General Gris, newly risen from the red plains of Mars, personally oversaw the final calibrations. Even among the venerable Magos, his reputation for precision was legendary. As he inspected the armor, awe tempered with discipline, he uttered low binharic blessings.
The armor gleamed with black, gold, and crimson—its surface etched with arcane circuitry and sigils of protection. Ferocious scarlet eyes, inlaid like daemon-gems, glowered from the breastplate, pauldrons, and vambraces.
Vertical pupils, draconic in shape, exuded a terrifying presence—an aura of judgment, as though a god walked among men.
But they were more than decoration.
To look into them was to hear a whisper—a draconic roar, distant and ancient. A resonance from beyond the veil.
These eyes were vessels—containing the echoing wrath of the Void Dragon.
It had not been tamed. Not yet. But its will thrashed within the armor like a caged beast, waiting for a worthy master to bend it to purpose.
As he scrutinized the final data logs, Fabricator Gris's augmented frame—over two meters of blessed steel and sinew—seemed diminutive beside the breastplate, now hoisted by a crane.
Dukel had named the war-plate simply: Dragon Armor.
No need for excess ceremony.
The name alone conveyed its origin. Its might.
Seated atop a marble dais, Dukel waited.
The celebration would begin soon.
Gunships descended through the crimson skies, landing with mechanical grace. The ramps hissed open—and his brothers stepped forth.
"Dukel," came Guilliman's voice, calm yet firm, "perhaps we should postpone the celebration."
From this high platform behind the Lion's Gate, the shattered remains of the battlefield stretched far and wide—an open wound upon Holy Terra. Smoke still rose from the ruins. Blood soaked the stones. The Regent of Ultramar's expression darkened.
"Brother," he continued, "the cradle of humanity lies in ruin. To ascend now—under these skies—may dishonor your triumph."
The Lion and the Angel—El'Jonson and Sanguinius—nodded in solemn agreement.
The Warmaster's ascension should be heralded with hymns and banners, with vox-hailers echoing endless praise. With cheering millions, not smoldering corpses.
But Dukel only smiled.
"Isn't this perfect?" he asked softly. "Victory—bathed in the blood of the blasphemous."
"You know me, brother. I have no patience for ceremony. And what could be more glorious than triumph in war?"
"This—this moment—is the finest celebration I could ask for."
As he spoke, squads of Sisters of Battle marched in formation, carrying monstrous heads and mounting them atop iron pikes surrounding the stage.
The severed heads of daemon princes and Chaos gods.
Each one the size of a Titan's helm.
"I must apologize, Your Excellency," said Efilar, stepping forth and bowing. "On the battlefield, we recovered only twenty-two daemon heads intact enough to display."
"It is enough," Dukel replied with a wave of his gauntleted hand.
He turned toward his brothers.
"Tell me—look at these trophies, their grotesque majesty. When else could such gifts be gathered?"
The Primarchs said nothing.
They stared—silent, grim, and awestruck.
Even in death, the faces of the Ruinous Powers bore traces of the madness and fury they had once commanded.
There was envy in their eyes.
Even the Lion looked long at the display.
Then he nodded.
"Well fought, brother. No other gift could surpass this."
Guilliman and Sanguinius followed, offering their congratulations without further reluctance.
They took their seats beside the Warmaster.
Time passed.
And beneath the platform, dignitaries and warriors of every order gathered—drawn like moths to the flame of ascendant glory.
The sacred square pulsed with fervor.
Countless high-ranking members of the Adeptus Ministorum moved among the assembled masses, chanting litanies and reciting grand verses of praise. Hymns honoring Dukel echoed across the spires, soaring into the heavens as if to stir the Golden Throne itself.
Battle Sisters stood vigilant atop elevated balconies and towers, bolt launchers in hand, scanning the crowd with unwavering eyes. These faithful daughters of the Emperor guarded their newly anointed master with unshakable resolve.
One by one, the highest bureaucrats of Terra—true giants in the vast machine of the Imperium—knelt humbly before the throne of the Primarch, their pride silenced beneath the weight of history unfolding.
The priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus toiled without pause, overseeing every aspect of the great ceremony. Even the Fabricator General of Mars was present, personally inspecting the sanctified armor prepared for this momentous occasion.
The gods of war—the Primarchs—sat upon their thrones in calm discourse, their presence alone stirring awe.
Every First Founding Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes had dispatched envoys, bearing relics and pledging fealty to the Primarch who was soon to assume the mantle of Warmaster.
Among the off-world nobility, those with keen instincts for the tides of power watched in stunned silence. The evidence was irrefutable:
Dukel had returned—and all the powers of the Imperium had rallied behind him.
For the first time in ten thousand years, the disparate strengths of the Imperium were unified. The fractured might of mankind had twisted back into form, coalescing into a single unstoppable will.
And yet... the Emperor had not stirred from His Throne.
In that moment, the nobles understood the unspoken truth:
The one who dons the Warmaster's mantle today is already the ruler of the Imperium.
The square quieted in a single breath, as if Terra itself paused to bear witness.
From the throne, a towering figure rose—nearly five meters tall, a living monument of genetic perfection.
Every gaze turned to him. The air thickened. The silence deepened.
The great armor, forged through the will of Mars and sanctified by the blessings of the Omnissiah, hummed with restrained fury. Ancient machine-spirits stirred. Even the wrathful echoes of the Void Dragon within could not shake the iron will of the one who now wore it.
Dukel stepped into his war-plate as if it were forged solely for him—black, gold, and crimson glistening like the sigils of judgment. His cloak flared behind him like a banner soaked in the blood of demigods. Sword in hand, he stood atop the world, and the world looked back.
Before the gathered masses—warriors, nobles, saints, and machines—Dukel spoke the sacred oath. His voice cut across the square like a thunderclap:
"I accept this burden because the Imperium bleeds.
I accept this charge because I know no fear.
I accept this sacred office as the Supreme Commander of Mankind's armies.
I shall face the heretic, the mutant, the alien—
And I shall be merciless. I shall never retreat. I shall never yield.
In the name of war, I find honor.
I march to battle with my brothers and my kin.
I am fire. I am fury. I am destruction!"
Then he lifted his eyes to the heavens and made a vow—not just to the Imperium, but to the species he had sworn to lead.
"Humanity is greater than any false god's creation. We are the apex. The greatest race in this galaxy. I fight for mankind! And I will not rest until our glory is secure!"
"We command the stars. We gaze upon them not in awe, but with dominion. We enthrone ourselves upon the heavens. We are the true kings of the galaxy!"
"This is our destiny!"
And as his final word rang out—
BOOM.
All across Terra, every statue of the Emperor blazed with halos of blinding flame—rings of divine fire too radiant to be stared at directly.
The Master of Mankind remained upon His Throne, still locked in divine warfare. Yet His presence was felt. A miracle stirred.
And the faithful responded.
Thousands fell to their knees, weeping and shouting in unison. A tidal wave of emotion surged through the warp—a storm of faith and unity that shook the Sea of Souls.
Upon the high dais, Dukel stared beyond the celebration. His gaze rested on the blood-soaked fields of Terra—land scorched by Chaos, yet now reclaimed in the name of humanity.
In that fire, in that sacred carnage, the Warmaster saw something he had longed to see since the days of yore:
The dawn of humanity's escape from the darkness.
The dawn of a new Imperium.
—Next volume begins tomorrow: Dawn of the Empire!