Deep beneath the red sands of Mars, within the sacred vaults of the Noosphere-linked Library, Dukel studied the ancient manuscripts penned by the Emperor himself ten thousand years ago. This repository of wisdom, revered by the Magi and guarded by the Tech-priests, held knowledge most mortals could scarcely comprehend.
As he read, inspiration bloomed. Each faded line gave him greater insight into his latest and most audacious concept: the Star God Power Armor.
Technological advancement in the Imperium had always walked a knife's edge. Abominable Intelligences—AI—once betrayed mankind in the Dark Age of Technology. The machine spirit, meanwhile, was venerated as sacred. Yet to many within the Cult Mechanicus, the line between the two remained dangerously blurred.
Dukel had long pondered this dichotomy.
To him, the difference was clear: AI operated within rigid logic matrices, cold and unfeeling. The machine spirit, by contrast, possessed emotions—echoes of sentience. It responded to reverence. It was, in its own right, a form of life.
So Dukel resolved to go further. To create not merely a tool, but a companion. A living war-machine.
By tearing apart the living metal shells once forged by the Necrontyr for the C'tan—those Star Gods who defied death—he would bind them into a new purpose. These ancient horrors, reduced to suits of warplate, would become mankind's ultimate weapon.
Even he admitted it was madness.
But it was madness worth attempting.
Just as he scratched another glyph onto his parchment with a quill, his hand froze. The air around him chilled. His expression darkened. A murderous aura, invisible yet unmistakable, radiated from him.
The temperature plummeted.
Servo-skulls and servitors nearby paused, their augmetic limbs twitching as if sensing the wrath of a god.
"Dukel? What's wrong?" Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the XIII Legion, approached with a tome on the philosophy of war in hand.
Dukel's voice was low, heavy with dread. "A Warp storm brews. The currents are violent—flooding from the Great Rift. I smell blood. Khorne's stench chokes the ether. His minions dare perform a blood ritual on Holy Terra itself. Lunacy."
Guilliman's brows furrowed. Though a tactical genius and peerless warrior, he lacked Dukel's affinity for the Immaterium. Still, he understood enough. He set the book aside, lips tightening.
On Terra itself, Commander Valdor—shield of the Emperor, leader of the Adeptus Custodes—stood upon a bastion near the Lion's Gate.
Before him, the sky was aflame.
Ritual circles of gore, shrieking cultists, and howling daemons spilled from the shadows. The defenders of the Throneworld faced an incursion that echoed the worst horrors of the Horus Heresy.
Yet Terra was not unguarded.
The Primarchs had returned.
Dukel and Guilliman remained on Mars, but their Legions could deploy in moments. More importantly, even the Emperor stirred once more—though this truth remained buried beneath a veil of secrecy.
Still, Khorne's forces pressed forward.
Valdor's instincts screamed danger. He activated the vox. "Muster the Legions."
Around him, thousands of Custodians and elite Guard formations surged into motion. The ban on full mobilization within the Imperial Palace had recently lifted, allowing for greater response.
"We will defend this holy soil," Valdor growled, golden armor gleaming. "In His name."
The call to arms echoed across the Hive-spires. Under his command, a force of ten thousand mobilized to defend the Lion's Gate, long known as a prime breach point. During the Siege of Terra, corpses once lay in piles meters thick here.
The ground remembered blood.
Now it would drink more.
Turrets hummed as they aligned. Chanting Magos activated void shields. Above the planet, Terra's orbital defense platforms lit up, their spear-lances of light charging to fire.
But Valdor remained uneasy.
The Warmaster's ascension ceremony—Dukel's ascension—was imminent. Dignitaries from a hundred systems had arrived. Should they die in this Chaos incursion, many worlds would be left rudderless.
Civil war would follow.
Mankind's self-destruction would become a feast for the Ruinous Powers.
A thunderous roar broke his thoughts. Valdor turned skyward as Blood Angels aircraft descended in tight formation. One ship peeled away and descended toward him.
It landed. The ramp lowered.
Out stepped Sanguinius.
His golden wings folded behind his back, his expression both youthful and ancient. Beside him strode Chief Librarian Mephiston, his psychic presence a coiled storm.
Valdor approached, spear in hand, and saluted. "Lord Sanguinius. I didn't expect even you to descend. We failed."
"No," Sanguinius said softly. "This is not your failure. This is only the beginning."
He glanced back at the burning horizon. "The Star Tongue Court's seers have gone mad. They babble of omens—the Crimson Path, the Lord of the Skull rising. I have had them confined to meditation. Only silence grants them peace now."
Valdor's eyes widened.
"You mean... this attack is just the precursor? That Khorne sends his armies to Terra itself?"
Sanguinius nodded, solemn. "He does."
Valdor trembled. "This is Terra. The Throneworld. Seat of the God-Emperor of Mankind. And yet daemons now stain it?"
"Hold your wrath," the Primarch said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We must act. Rage alone will not save the Imperium."
They ascended the elevator platform to the walls. Gun batteries aligned. Soldiers constructed barricades. The war-machinery of mankind spun into motion.
Sanguinius gazed over the walls, to the scorched ground beyond.
Ten thousand years ago, he bled here.
He had died here.
And now—again—Terra burned.
The skies were crimson. The cultists chanted, spilling blood not for victory, but for summoning. Even their deaths advanced Khorne's ritual.
"Father..." he murmured, "is this the future you foresaw?"
He could see it clearly now.
Khorne's horde would arrive.
It could not be stopped.
And yet, he stood tall—blade in hand—just as he had during the Siege.
No matter how many times Terra fell into fire... he would fight to raise it again from the ash.
Deep within the Imperial Palace, inside the sanctum of the Throne Hall, the golden light of the Master of Mankind still shone undiminished.
Seated atop the Golden Throne, the Emperor of Mankind radiated a divine brilliance—unchanging, eternal.
At the base of the throne, three Captains of the Adeptus Custodes stood vigilant. For over ten thousand years, they had served as the final line of defense, even in this age of mounting unrest and war.
Though resolute in duty, the three Captains—brothers forged in battle—could not help but occasionally glance back at the Emperor. Since the installation of the speaker system upon the Golden Throne, they had known the truth: the Emperor had stirred.
He was awake.
This knowledge, shared only among the highest echelons, had not dulled their reverence. If anything, it had made them more attuned to the weight of every silence.
Now, amidst the storm battering Terra itself, the Custodians quietly wondered—would their master show any sign of feeling?
But the Emperor remained still.
Even as His domain was desecrated by unholy rites…
Even as His people bled in the streets…
Even as the warp tainted the cradle of mankind…
The radiant form upon the Throne did not stir.
Eyes closed, expression unreadable, He seemed more like a slumbering god than a man once mortal. And perhaps, that was true.
The three Captains exchanged glances—wordless communication honed by millennia of brotherhood.
"This armor... I still find it stiff."
"So do I, but it's needed. We are at war again."
"Have you noticed how quiet the speaker's been today?"
"Likely deactivated."
"Who would dare silence His voice?"
"The Lion visited in secret last night. After he left, the speaker fell silent."
"The Lion? You mean Lion El'Jonson? By the Emperor… why would he do that? The speaker is the only means through which His Majesty communicates now!"
"Should we restart it?"
"Agreed."
"Seconded."
With unanimous consent, one of the Custodes stepped forward with reverence. Approaching the Throne, he knelt and bowed his head.
"Forgive us, Lord of Mankind. Your humble servants seek your guidance."
With utmost care, he reactivated the vox mechanism.
BZZZ—KRK—
A crackle of static…
And then—
"Suck, suck, suck, suck, suck—"
"You bastard! Move your dog-brain closer! Closer! Suck, suck, suck—"
"Suck… suck…"
The three Captains of the Custodes: "..."
CLICK.
The speaker was shut off.
The Custodian calmly returned to his post, expression grave. "Our Master is clearly occupied. Let us not disturb Him further."
"Agreed."
"Seconded."
Without another word, they resumed their vigil, standing once more as statues beneath the Throne.
The hall returned to silence.
"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!"
The blasphemous chorus roared across the lower hive of Terra. A sea of cultists, maddened and blood-drenched, surged through the underhive in a frenzy of violence.
At their head, a champion of Khorne—blessed by the Blood God himself—led the charge. The cultists carved abominable runes in blood across walls and corpses alike, turning the very hive into a ritual altar.
Artillery fire rained down upon them, but the dark power shielding them deflected much of it. Those who died did so screaming praises to Khorne, their bodies reduced to chunks of gore and shrapnel—but not before their sacrifice fed the Warp.
They fought not merely to kill… but to summon.
Warp storms boiled in the heavens. Blood flowed freely, drenching steel and stone alike. The ritual progressed—each death, each scream, each stroke of a sacrificial blade pulling Terra closer to damnation.
Reality itself groaned under the weight of the ritual.
The veil thinned.
From the howling skies, a storm of crimson began to manifest, a Warp-born entity clawing at the edges of realspace. The psychic barrier that shielded Terra—already strained by the Great Rift—threatened to collapse.
They were coming.
They were coming.
Astropaths and sanctioned psykers fell to their knees in agony, retreating into mental sanctuaries to avoid being consumed. Nightmares plagued them—visions of blood, endless death, and a hunger that could not be sated.
Something vast and terrible pressed against the world.
In this moment, all that mattered was slaughter.
Upon the battlements of the Lion's Gate, two legendary figures stood watch:
Sanguinius, the Angel, Primarch of the Blood Angels—his white wings folded but tense with restrained fury.
And beside him, Constantin Valdor, the Emperor's Shield and Lord Commander of the Custodes—his golden armor dulled only by the soot of war.
Together, they watched the blood-maddened cultists throw themselves at the gates of Terra's sacred heart.
Khorne's blessings had twisted them—grotesque, oversized limbs bulging with unholy strength. Their weapons were crude, but their savagery terrifying.
They were not just enemies.
They were sacrifices.
The ritual was in motion. Every cultist who died brought the Warp closer to Terra.
The Immaterium thinned like parchment soaked in oil.
"Prepare to strike," Sanguinius ordered, his voice low but ironclad. He unfurled his wings with a thunderous snap, his aura blazing with divine fury. "We end this quickly. Before the gate breaks."
Valdor gave a silent nod.
There could be no retreat.
If the barrier fell—if even one Greater Daemon breached the palace—then all might be lost.
Valdor followed his orders with unwavering resolve. The thunder of artillery never ceased as waves of cultists surged forward, undeterred by death, screaming prayers to the Blood God.
From the bastions and towers of the hive's inner walls, concentrated firepower tore into their ranks. Each salvo ripped apart scores of corrupted flesh, the unrelenting barrage a wall of righteous death.
Yet through the carnage, one figure endured.
Amidst the shattered remnants of the cultist horde, one man strode forward—untouched, unflinching, chosen. Sanguinius's eyes narrowed as they fell upon him.
Despite the inferno of gunfire, the man advanced unscathed, protected by the dark blessings of Khorne. Artillery that could vaporize tanks barely singed his warped flesh.
A familiar fire stirred within Sanguinius—battle lust, tempered by purpose. His soul, long denied the battlefield, now burned with a familiar hunger.
"Lord Sanguinius!" one of the Adeptus Custodes shouted from the ramparts. "Allow me the honor of striking him down!"
It was a gesture of loyalty—but also of concern.
The angelic Primarch, though unmistakable in presence, appeared as a child. Since his resurrection, Sanguinius's form was incomplete—rejuvenated in body, but yet to recover the full measure of his divine might.
A ten-year-old Primarch was still a god among mortals—but to what extent did he retain his former glory?
"Remain at your post, Custodian," Sanguinius commanded, wings spreading. "I am not weak."
With that, he took flight.
Arcs of energy danced along the tip of his golden spear—an elegant, phase-shrouded weapon forged anew by the artisans of the Second Legion's forges. His armor, though different from the panoply he once bore at Signus Prime, radiated a quiet authority.
Sanguinius soared from the wall, descending like a comet wreathed in holy light.
Since his return, the Angel had yet to fully join the war effort. His fragmented soul—scattered across time and space—had left him diminished. But Dukel's virtual realm project had changed that. In the simulation, he had reclaimed pieces of himself—reforging not just memory, but understanding.
Within the realm of thought, he had trained—studied forgotten disciplines, mastered psychic cohesion, and attuned himself to his own life-magnetic field.
And now, he returned to war—not in rage, but in clarity.
The cultist—bloated with warp-spawned muscle, his flesh pulsing with malignant life—stared up at the angel descending toward him. What remained of his mind dissolved into fury.
"Die, servant of the False Emperor!" the heretic bellowed, voice twisted by hate. "I will bathe in your blood!"
The roar carried across the battlefield, a shockwave of malice that made mortal soldiers falter. Gone was the awe the heretic might once have felt before the Angel. Only rage remained.
He charged.
Sanguinius met the challenge without hesitation. Mid-air, he twisted his body and suddenly beat his right wing in a sharp burst. The force propelled him sideways, dodging the cultist's massive blade with balletic grace.
The heretic's back was exposed.
In a flash, the Archangel's spear struck.
Zheng!
The phase-wreathed weapon pierced through tainted muscle and cracked bone, driving deep into Terra's sacred ground beneath.
Sanguinius pulled the trigger. The weapon surged with controlled fury, discharging a payload of energy within the cultist's core. Crimson flames erupted from the wound.
The monster howled. Even pain—a distant memory to one so warped—found him again. But he fought on, his wrath drowning sense or caution. With guttural cries, he struck wildly at the Primarch.
Sanguinius moved with elegance and calm. His white wings beat once. The air shimmered.
Another gap in the cultist's guard.
The golden spear arced through the air—its edge like the Emperor's judgment—and severed the heretic's head cleanly from his body.
The corpse collapsed. Fire consumed it. From within the blaze, whispers echoed—the screams of a damned soul being pulled back into the Warp.
Above it all, Sanguinius rose.
His wings caught the wind, and he lifted his weapon high—haloed by flame and fury, a shining beacon amid the ruin.
He called out, voice ringing across vox-nets and over the thunder of war.
"Noble warriors of the Imperium—fear not the darkness!
Our blades do not break, our spears do not bend.
We stand invincible, not for our strength, but for our purity!"
…
T.N.:
Not gonna lie, I was confused by the "suck suck suck" bit at first too 😅. Pretty sure it's the vox glitching or corrupting 📻⚡, which makes the whole thing sound absurd 😂. Poor Custodes probably got traumatized for life.