"I can no longer bear the blame. I must take action."
Guilliman's emotions were complex.
He had learned much from Dukel, yet he dared not adopt such methods himself, even if he understood their necessity.
After the council of the Magi had concluded, he leaned in and whispered, "Brother, by coercing the Fabricator-General in this way, you have outright defied the Martian Covenant."
Dukel paused, momentarily taken aback.
The Martian Covenant?
Even now, Guilliman was still clinging to such ideals.
With a sigh, Dukel responded, "Brother, what do you truly believe is the relationship between the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Imperium?"
"The Mechanicus is the Imperium's most indispensable ally," Guilliman answered without hesitation.
Dukel shook his head. "That is the official stance. It is true—but it is not the full truth."
"Then what is?"
"The origins of the Mechanicus trace back to the second millennium, formed under the Emperor's guiding hand." Dukel ignored Guilliman's look of shock and continued. "In that era, the entity now known as the Dragon of Mars once fought against the Emperor upon ancient Terra. The Emperor bested it and entombed it beneath the surface of Mars. With the dragon shackled, He laid the foundation for the Adeptus Mechanicus, manipulating the creature's dreams until, millennia later, the first Tech-Priests emerged."
He folded his arms. "The Adeptus Mechanicus is not merely an ally—it is a creation of the Emperor. A tool of His will. And as those who wield tools, we must ensure they are fit for purpose, not venerate them."
Guilliman exhaled, nodding begrudgingly. "That does sound like something our father would do."
A brilliant general, but still only a general—Guilliman wrestled with his discomfort at the Emperor's ruthlessness. Yet he also understood the necessity of such cold pragmatism. The Lord of Mankind could not afford sentimentality. If the leader of humanity played favorites, how could justice ever be upheld?
"But, brother," Guilliman continued, his voice laden with concern, "this course of action will tarnish your reputation. It may seem inconsequential now, but should you ever stumble, those who resent you will seize upon it to vilify you."
Dukel acknowledged the logic of his brother's warning. In the realm of politics, reputation was a shield, the strongest defense against opposition. To lose it meant to lose power.
But Dukel was not a politician.
He saw the Imperium as a battlefield. His dominion was not built upon the illusion of honor or rank, but upon raw strength.
If a Primarch drew his sword, ten years of war would follow.
That was a reality Guilliman, steeped in the governance of states, could not fully accept. And so Dukel chose not to voice it.
"Why trouble yourself over reputation, my brother?" Dukel's eyes burned with unshakable resolve. "If I fail, I will be remembered as the architect of humanity's greatest delusion, deserving of every condemnation in the galaxy. But if I succeed—then, in the golden age we all dream of, scholars will debate my legacy."
Guilliman shuddered. His eyes reddened slightly.
He understood now. His brother was prepared to be the necessary sacrifice for the Imperium's future.
Against such a conviction, Guilliman could no longer argue. Instead, he silently resolved to act.
The events on Mars would not remain hidden forever. The Fabricator-General's forced suicide, the council of the Magi—these incidents would ripple through the Imperium, compelling factions to choose sides. Those who refused to submit to Dukel would turn against him.
Guilliman knew he could not stop the storm that was coming.
But he would not stand idly by.
For the dream of humanity, and for the brother he now admired more than ever, he would do whatever was necessary.
--
Dukel had no idea what Guilliman was thinking.
Nor did he care.
The Second Legion alone dictated reason—for no one else could impose reason upon them.
Before the Emperor relinquished the Golden Throne, the Warmaster had wielded the greatest power in the Imperium. Now, with the Emperor's silent approval and the support of his brother Primarchs, Dukel moved without restraint.
With the position of Warmaster unclaimed, what did he have to fear?
"Guilliman," Dukel spoke suddenly, as if just remembering something, "why have you come to Mars?"
The reminder caught Guilliman off guard. His primary purpose on Mars had been to persuade the Mechanicus conservatives of the necessity of the Primaris Space Marines.
But now…
The conservatives had been tamed.
"Nothing of consequence remains," he admitted.
In the span of a single day, Fabricator-General Diaan had taken his own life, consumed by fear of reprisal. The Archmagi had sworn fealty to the Primarch. Even the most obstinate conservatives realized too late that resistance was futile. Any opposition would bring only their own ruin.
In the following election, Gris secured over 90% of the vote and ascended as the new Fabricator-General of Mars, heralding the complete dominance of the radical faction. Knowledge that had been locked away was now brought to light.
Under the guidance of the Primarchs, the very definition of "truth" was rewritten. From Mars, a great academic upheaval radiated across the Imperium, unleashing a tempest of progress.
Dukel provided knowledge of his own. The Ultramarines, Dark Angels, and Blood Angels contributed relic STC fragments from their Legion vaults, bolstering Fabricator-General Gris's new vision.
Archmagos Cawl, seizing the moment, implemented long-forbidden terraforming technologies upon Mars, improving its hostile environment. In doing so, he demonstrated the benefits of unrestricted knowledge and cemented Gris's authority.
Soon, under the ceaseless work of Cawl's Mechanicus Ark, the first traces of green appeared on the Red Planet, and its atmosphere visibly improved.
With Terra and Mars now fully aligned, Dukel advanced his ultimate plan.
Many of the Imperium's administrative tasks were delegated to Lev, the President of the Supreme Council.
A monumental burden—one that could break an ordinary man a thousand times over.
But Dukel had no concerns.
"A man who controls 50,000 life-magnetic fields will be the Imperium's most tireless and devoted servant," he declared.
And so Lev, grateful for the Primarch's "benevolence," toiled ceaselessly without rest.
One of the most critical reforms was the direction of the Imperium's future.
The humans of the Golden Age had demonstrated that advanced AI could elevate humanity to unprecedented heights.
But their downfall proved that even science had limits in this universe.
So Dukel took a different path.
He abandoned science.
And chose metaphysics instead.
Dukel knew very well that time was not on humanity's side.
That was why he had to remove all obstacles as swiftly as possible and implement his plan without delay.
The Chaos Gods still treated the Milky Way as their playground, endlessly enacting their Great Game.
Abaddon, the Warmaster of the Ruinous Powers, was already planning the next Black Crusade. Even if the Imperium did not collapse entirely, it would still lose thousands of worlds, and over a trillion lives would be extinguished.
The Necrons were among the greatest threats in the material universe.
Imperial intelligence suggested that the full awakening of just a single Overlord Dynasty could be enough to annihilate the Imperium in its current state.
Fortunately, with the resurgence of several powerful dynasties, the Necrons were currently engaged in internecine conflict. Although this accelerated the general awakening of the ancient race, it also granted humanity a brief reprieve.
Until the Silent King and the Stormlord determined the final victor, the ancient overlords of the galaxy lacked the focus to reclaim the stars.
Meanwhile, the true bulk of the Tyranid Hive Fleets loomed on the outskirts of the galaxy. The great swarms that had already arrived—Leviathan, Behemoth, Kraken—were merely the vanguard.
In the last war, Dukel had sensed the Great Devourer's growing hunger, its fury rising in response to psychic distress. This would inevitably hasten its full arrival in the galaxy.
Against such an overwhelming threat, humanity's resistance was woefully insufficient.
Some astropaths with precognitive abilities had reported to Dukel that Ghazghkull Thraka, the self-proclaimed Prophet of Gork and Mork, had received another vision from his gods. A surging Green Tide was clashing with the Tyranid swarms in a war spanning thousands of light-years, with battle lines stretching to the very borders of the Imperium.
The astropaths were terrified. They feared that whichever force emerged victorious would become an even greater existential threat to mankind.
In response to these crises, a new technological marvel had swiftly gained traction within the Imperium—the Meditation Chambers.
These devices allowed even mortals with weak minds to safely project their consciousness into the virtual realm, granting them access to vast reserves of knowledge and training.
Dukel understood that talent varied among individuals. But talent was irrelevant. He was not interested in the strength of a single person.
He sought the advancement of all humanity.
Under his vision, even the least gifted citizen could, through rigorous practice in the virtual realm, develop the ability to manipulate life-force energy—what he termed the Life Magnetic Field.
With this standard, the recruitment threshold for the Astra Militarum would rise significantly.
The Adeptus Astartes would see their numbers increase, ensuring that no more aspirants would perish needlessly during gene-seed implantation.
Even the most common Imperial citizen, possessing only a modest grasp of the Life Magnetic Field, would be able to fight lower-tier daemons in the material realm with their bare hands.
Under this new paradigm, who could claim that humanity was not the most exceptional species in the galaxy?
Who would dare say that mankind was not destined to rule the stars?
In ages past, such an initiative would have sparked a firestorm within the Imperium.
There would have been countless voices of opposition. Dukel himself might have been declared a heretic.
Anyone proposing such radical reform would have been condemned by the Ecclesiarchy and the Inquisition alike.
But now, it was Dukel himself who spearheaded the project.
The Inquisition—under the command of Constantin Valdor, Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes—was focused on rooting out the heretics embedded within Terra.
The Ecclesiarchy, long a festering bureaucracy, saw its ranks dwindling by the millions daily. Meanwhile, the Lion El'Jonson-led Adeptus Arbites launched relentless investigations into their sudden disappearances.
Under the aegis of Sanguinius, the psykers of the Astronomican Court and the Navigator Houses lent their support to the Meditation Chambers—they were, after all, the ones most eager to sever their ties to the Warp. Once they had experienced the safety of the virtual realm, they no longer wished to be tethered to the immaterium.
Roboute Guilliman's Departmento Munitorum had begun incorporating Life Magnetic Field mastery into its recruitment and training protocols.
Amidst this turbulent age, everyone had their part to play.
Everything was shifting. Everything was being reshaped.
For the first time in centuries, many Imperial citizens glimpsed a sliver of hope. In their hearts, they felt it—the first rays of dawn piercing the darkness that had engulfed mankind for ten millennia.
In a matter of days, the Imperium itself had begun to change.
"Praise the Primarch!"
"Glory to the Savior of Mankind!"
"By His Divine Majesty's will!"
Across hive worlds and shrine cities, processions filled the streets.
Throngs of people—workers, soldiers, scholars—returned from the virtual realm, their bodies and minds rejuvenated. They marched together, their voices echoing through every avenue and hab-sector.
Some Ecclesiarchy priests, newly converted after experiencing the Meditation Chambers, strode among them. They bore Soulfire in their hands, proclaiming that the virtual realm was a divine gift—a manifestation of the Emperor's will.
At their words, more and more voices joined the cries of praise.
Factory workers, laborers, and menial serfs stood amidst the crowds, overcome with emotion.
The Meditation Chambers had freed them from exhaustion, cleansing years of accumulated fatigue. By merely meditating within the virtual realm, they could awaken with newfound vigor.
They, above all, revered Dukel.
They hailed him for purging the corruption festering within the Imperium. The parasitic nobles who had gorged themselves on the suffering of the faithful had been declared heretics and cast down.
For the first time in untold generations, workers' rights were acknowledged. Their wages were paid in full. Their hours of toil were reduced. Arbitrary deductions ceased.
And yet, Dukel had done nothing beyond enforcing existing Imperial law.
His mere presence had ensured that the workers received what was already theirs by right.
The workers were not greedy. They only wanted what was rightfully theirs—a life where they would not starve.
And now, for the first time, they could glimpse such a future.
Each day, they completed their assigned labor, then sought respite in the spiritual meditation rooms, washing away their fatigue. With their wages, they could finally provide for their families. No longer were they shackled by oppressive tithes and endless demands.
In the past, corrupt officials bled them dry, feeding off their suffering without a shred of concern for their survival. But that era had ended.
The Primarchs had safeguarded their rights, ensuring they received what was due to them.
And so, hope began to spread.
Yet the light of dawn had only begun to rise; it was still too weak to banish all shadows.
In the depths of Terra's underhive, in a hidden chamber wreathed in secrecy, a group of robed figures gathered. Their identities were obscured, their movements cautious, each one keenly aware of the need for secrecy. They seldom met, lest their presence be uncovered.
But the changes sweeping Terra had forced their hand.
Dukel's relentless actions had set them on edge. The Empire was shifting at a terrifying pace, and they had no choice but to exchange information.
"It has been confirmed—the Fabricator General of Mars made a pact with the Dark Gods," the hooded leader spoke in a distorted voice, producing a towering stack of documents. "He took his own life rather than face the Primarch's judgment."
Silence fell as the others stared at the massive collection of records.
"There are more," the leader continued, patting the documents. "These are but a fraction of those who have been judged."
"A fraction?" One figure could no longer contain their shock. "Are you certain all of them were servants of the Ruinous Powers?"
Murmurs of disbelief spread among the gathered conspirators. The sheer scale of the purge was staggering.
If so many high-ranking officials on Terra and Mars had been exposed as heretics, what did that make them? Were they now the true loyalists of the Imperium?
"This is madness!" Another figure slammed their hand on the table. "We cannot remain passive. If we do nothing, our master will think we came to Terra merely to take the fall for others!"
"You mean the plan?"
"Yes. We must release the Dragon immediately."
"But we are not fully prepared. The Dragon's guardians are ever watchful. The risk of failure is too great."
"There is no time to wait," the speaker insisted. "The Blood God's oracle has been received. A terrible legion is riding the tides of the Warp, bound for Terra. We must act before they arrive—to strike a mortal wound against the Imperium."
A pause. Then, with a voice edged in contempt, he added, "And Dukel… That faithless wretch follows no rules but his own. Who knows how many of us will fall before him next?"
The chamber fell into heavy silence. Each conspirator lowered their head, weighing the consequences.
"I agree."
The first voice rang out.
"I agree."
More followed. One by one, they voiced their support.
"I agree." The leader spoke at last, placing a small, worn notebook onto the table. "Then let it begin."
With a solemn finality, he declared, "We release the Dragon now. Let the Imperium tremble before us once more."
——
When Dahlia, the current Guardian of the Dragon on Mars, took over her sacred duty, a single notebook vanished from the Midnight Labyrinth.
And now, the catastrophe it foretold was about to unfold.