Dukel carried the Goddess of Life and strode confidently out of the Imperial Palace on Terra, unnoticed by all. This was not stealth but a sheer distortion of perception. Ever since he had first mastered the rudiments of his psychic training, he could influence the minds of others with ease. Now, with his mastery at its peak, rewriting the thoughts of mortals was as simple as painting on a blank canvas.
He returned to his Soul Fire and struck the Emperor with a blow he had never dared land ten millennia ago. The result was miraculous—the Emperor was resurrected, and the greatest existential threat to the Imperium was eradicated. A profound relief settled upon Dukel, but his gains extended far beyond that.
In his chambers, Dukel examined the weapon in his hands—the Sword of Mind. Psychic energy surged through the blade, and golden flames roared to life along its edge. This was no longer a mere weapon; it was an artifact infused with the Emperor's power and spiritual essence. Even a Primarch would find it heavy in their grasp.
Dukel named it the God-Killer. A fitting title, for this blade now possessed the potency to wound even a true deity.
Had he wielded it during his battle in Nurgle's Garden, he would not have merely wounded the Plague God—he would have left an eternal scar upon that festering realm.
"And Curze… so the rumors were true."
Dukel muttered to himself. He had found traces of another Primarch—his estranged and tormented brother, the Night Haunter.
Legends whispered of Curze's shadow lingering beneath the Golden Throne, a silent specter watching over the Emperor even in death. Some custodians swore they had seen a tall, gaunt figure standing before the Throne during their patrols, but few dared to believe the tales.
Dukel, however, had seen it with his own eyes. It was no mere myth.
The tragic phantom of the Midnight Clad had lingered in the Throne Room for ten thousand years, escaping the torment of prophecy only in death. At last, Curze had found a kind of freedom—an ironic fate for one who had spent his life as a prisoner of his own visions.
The revelation unsettled Dukel, but there was no time to dwell on it. He turned his attention to the unfolding chaos across Terra.
The news spread like wildfire—the Emperor had been assassinated in his throne room.
The Adeptus Custodes and the Imperial Guard did their utmost to contain the rumors, but their attempts at secrecy only fueled the growing hysteria. The more they tried to suppress the truth, the more the people believed it.
Terran dignitaries flooded the palace gates, demanding answers, but the Imperial Guard stood firm, refusing to grant them entry. The silence of the authorities only served to confirm the worst fears of the Imperium.
The Adeptus Arbites, the Inquisition, and even the Officio Assassinorum mobilized, each faction determined to take control of the investigation. The power struggle had begun.
Meanwhile, aboard the Fire of the Heart—
"BANG!"
Dukel's palm slammed onto the table, his furious voice filling the chamber.
"WHAT?! Someone dared to assassinate the Emperor?! In broad daylight?! On the sacred soil of Terra?! They struck at the Savior of Mankind?!"
His wrath was palpable, his presence akin to a caged beast ready to pounce.
Magnus, watching the outburst, sighed and rubbed his temples. "Brother, I can see why Fulgrim calls you a hypocrite. This whole charade is truly nauseating."
"Shut up."
Dukel's response was swift and dismissive. Without another word, he activated the vox.
Moments later, every high-ranking authority on Terra received the same transmission—the Expeditionary Crusade was assuming full control of the investigation.
The justification was impeccable. The assassination had occurred on Terra, meaning every soul on the Throneworld was a suspect. Every soul—except Dukel himself, who had yet to step foot on the planet and had an irrefutable alibi.
As a Primarch, Dukel did not need approval to issue such a decree. The message was sent. The wheels were in motion.
Responses flooded in almost immediately:
Commander of the Imperial Guard, Valdor: "My lord, are you serious?"
Guilliman: "Brother, what is your next move? I can provide assistance."
The Lion: "Dukel, there are many on Terra who do not deserve death."
Dukel reviewed the messages, his expression unreadable.
Magnus, however, was unimpressed. "Tell me, brother, how do you plan to resolve this? You are the one who assassinated the Emperor. You are the one who spread the rumors of his assassination. And now, you are the one investigating the case. Are you going to fabricate a culprit? The power players of Terra are not fools."
"Who said the murderer doesn't exist?" Dukel smirked.
Lifting the flaming sword, he established a psychic connection with the Emperor.
"Old man," he said, "lend me Curze for a while."
Konrad Curze, the Nightmare of Nostramo.
A monster to most of his brothers. A madman who reveled in fear and bloodshed. Yet, to himself, he was merely a product of his environment.
Nostramo had been a world of rot—corruption, violence, and lawlessness. Curze had brought order through terror, proving that only fear could ensure obedience. Under his rule, Nostramo had known peace, but it was the peace of a graveyard.
During the Horus Heresy, he had sided with the traitors—not out of loyalty, but because he had foreseen it. He had long known his fate, had always walked the road toward his own demise.
And when his time had come, he had accepted his death without resistance.
Dukel turned to Magnus and gestured toward the darkness.
"Who said there was no murderer?" he asked, his smile widening.
From the shadows, a towering figure emerged, his cold eyes gleaming like a predator's.
Konrad Curze was awake.
Curze gazed upon Terra, his expression unreadable.
The world had changed. It had decayed.
Chaos, ignorance, and corruption ran rampant. The Imperium was a twisted reflection of what it had once been.
He sighed, shaking his head. "What am I supposed to do?" he muttered.
The Emperor had given him no orders. Dukel had offered no directives.
Does that mean I should do what I do best?
A familiar madness flickered in his gaze.
Where should I begin?
Perched atop a Gothic spire, he surveyed the hive city below. A predator once more.
Over the following nights, a horror legend took shape on Terra.
The powerful and corrupt began dying—horribly. Executed in ways that left even hardened Inquisitors shaken.
Rumors spread like wildfire. The entity responsible became known as The Murderous Ghost.
Panic gripped the heart of the Imperium.
And in the whispers of the fearful, a new theory took hold—
The ghost was the Emperor's assassin.
The hunt had begun.
Even in these recent days, no matter which city or district one visited on Holy Terra, whispers of a spectral assassin attempting to strike down the Emperor filled the streets.
Some claimed to have seen the wraith themselves, detailing its every movement with eerie precision.
As time passed, more and more citizens of the Imperium became convinced—the assassin of the Emperor was real.
Amidst this atmosphere of dread, all eyes turned to Dukel. The faithful awaited the arrival of the Second Primarch, hoping that he would dispense justice and bring the supposed murderer to account.
After half a month of bureaucratic maneuvering, the expedition fleet, operating under the highest efficiency of the Administratum, finally received approval to enter Terra's orbit.
The Endless Palace, designated as the temporary residence of a Primarch, had been prepared in anticipation of Dukel's arrival. Even the grand starport of Terra had restored an ancient landing platform, kept in pristine condition for occasions such as this.
Wreathed in the light of sacred braziers, surrounded by statues of Imperial saints, the platform stood as a monument to the Imperium's unwavering devotion.
Despite differing opinions among Terra's elite, and many high-ranking officials privately resenting the return of the Primarchs, no one dared display their discontent openly. To the common citizen, the Primarchs remained the Emperor's sons—divinely sanctioned rulers of mankind.
Thus, the ceremony was conducted with the highest honors.
Nobles and dignitaries, clad in opulent robes, gathered in anticipation. Every breath of Terra's air was filled with hymns exalting the Emperor. The twelve High Lords of Terra stood at the forefront of the welcoming assembly, alongside thousands of Imperial officials, each representing the vast power of the Imperium.
Priests of the Adeptus Ministorum wove through the crowd, murmuring prayers, while emissaries of noble houses bore sigils of their lineage. The atmosphere was electric with expectation.
Then, the moment arrived.
As the landing ramp descended, a thousand warriors of the Doom Slayers and a thousand Blood Angels marched forth, their steps synchronized, their presence momentarily stilling the crowd.
The sight of these transhuman warriors—towering, armored, and exuding absolute authority—silenced even the most fervent voices. These Primaris Space Marines embodied the Imperium's highest ideals of martial glory.
Yet, for all their grandeur, they were but sentinels, lining the sacred path leading to the awaiting Primarchs.
Dukel and the young Sanguinius descended together.
The instant their forms were revealed, a tidal wave of devotion crashed upon the starport. The cheers returned, louder than ever, a hurricane of sound shaking the very foundations of the Imperial heartworld.
A god had come to walk among mortals.
Thousands fell to their knees, pressing foreheads against stone consecrated by millennia of faith. Hands formed the sign of the Aquila, and voices trembled with oaths of loyalty. Countless souls wept tears of joy at witnessing the return of the Emperor's progeny.
For a fleeting moment, the Immaterium stirred.
Some among the faithful claimed to see halos of divine light around the Primarchs. Others sobbed, believing themselves honored to bear witness to the Emperor's will made manifest.
Little Sanguinius forced a warm smile, but Dukel's face remained cold, severe.
Under the protection of the Doom Slayers and the Blood Angels, they advanced through the surging crowd with unshaken composure.
Yet, even the Primarchs could not help but feel the weight of the moment.
"It has been ten thousand years since I last stood on Terra," Little Sanguinius murmured. His voice, though youthful, carried the wisdom of centuries. "I once fought for the truth of the Imperium on this world. I even slew my own kin."
His gaze swept over the skyline of the Throneworld, the endless spires once symbols of mankind's relentless progress. Now, all he saw were towering cathedrals and shrines—monuments to blind faith rather than reason.
"Terra once shone with ambition and determination," he sighed. "Now, it is a world of zealotry. Look at these temples of ignorance, Dukel. It is only now, standing here, that I truly understand why our father opposed religion. It shackles the human spirit, stifles progress, and nurtures stagnation."
A deep sorrow settled in his heart. Ten thousand years had passed. The Imperium had changed beyond recognition.
"It is not their fault," Dukel said, his voice unexpectedly measured.
The response caught Little Sanguinius off guard. Dukel, ever the fiery warrior, was unexpectedly calm.
"Religion is a poison," Dukel admitted. "It clouds judgment, breeds ignorance, and corrupts reason. By our father's design, it has no place in the Imperium."
He paused, surveying the throngs of fervent worshippers.
"But this poison has served a purpose. For ten thousand years, as Chaos clawed at the gates, as xenos and heretics sought to tear the Imperium apart, the Emperor was silent, and the Primarchs were but myths. Without faith, mankind would have perished."
His gaze hardened.
"The Imperium was like a dying man, Sanguinius. Without medicine, he had only poison to delay the end. The people had no choice but to drink."
Little Sanguinius fell silent, contemplating the weight of his brother's words. His golden eyes softened, no longer filled with contempt but with understanding—and sorrow.
"We will make things right, brother," Dukel declared.
His words were simple, but within them echoed a promise of fire and blood.
Sanguinius turned his gaze back to the people. The road to the Imperial Palace was a sea of humanity. Men, women, and children alike, held back by the Imperial Guard, reached out toward them with desperate reverence.
They cheered, they wept, they worshipped.
None could have imagined, in their fevered devotion, that their god had already passed judgment upon them.
Some would perish in the coming storm. But others—those who endured—would witness the rebirth of the Imperium.
Sanguinius steeled himself.
Under the watchful eyes of billions, the two Primarchs crossed the threshold of the Imperial Palace.
Awaiting them was Constantin Valdor, the Lord Commander of the Adeptus Custodes.
The moment he laid eyes upon Dukel, his body, concealed beneath his auramite armor, trembled. Even one as unshakable as Valdor could not forget the presence of the Second Primarch.
For minutes, the two conversed. Valdor, ever wary, observed Dukel closely.
Then, the Primarch's expression shifted.
"The investigation into the Emperor's assassination is now under my authority," Dukel declared. "I will begin immediately. Do you have any objections?"
Valdor stiffened. A heartbeat passed.
"Your Highness, do you truly wish to pursue this?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
His fingers twitched. Others may not know the truth behind the Emperor's assassination. But he did.
A Primarch, leading his legion, now played the role of executioner before the Lord Commander of the Custodes.
"It is nearly nightfall," Valdor ventured. "Would it not be prudent to begin tomorrow?"
Dukel placed a firm hand on Valdor's shoulder. A weight settled upon the Custodian's soul.
With a slight smile, Dukel said, "You may not know me well yet. Throughout the horrors of the Great Rift, I have solved countless cases like this. I may kill many, but I never make mistakes."
His smile widened.
"I am the Imperium's greatest detective."
Valdor said nothing. He would need time to adjust to the Second Primarch's methods.
Dukel's voice rang out, loud and resolute:
"Justice will be done."