2nd Primarch

Dukel swung the chainsword in a deadly arc, its teeth screaming with every stroke. The relentless tide of Nurgle's daemons surged into the Imperial defense line, but their advance was short-lived. Each grotesque form that breached the line was obliterated in an instant, cleaved apart before its corrupted gaze could take in the battlefield.

The chainsword burned with the fire of a righteous soul, its surface untainted by the ichor of the Warp. Each sweep of its blade left behind not blood, but brilliant, purifying flames.

For a fleeting moment, the battlefield was a river of gore.

Kane's expression shifted—his initial unease and misgivings fading, replaced by the dawning awe of a warrior witnessing a force of nature. But as the larger, more powerful daemons of Nurgle's putrid host lumbered forward, his heart once again tightened with dread.

"Your Highness, beware! The Plague Apostle approaches!" Kane's shout cut through the cacophony, his voice edged with worry.

Plague Apostles—the vile cornerstone of Nurgle's armies. Among the so-called "loving father's" forces, these were warriors who had endured the Rotfather's blight longer than most. Their souls, corrupted yet indomitable, were reforged into harbingers of pestilence. They carried with them diseases concocted by Nurgle's cruel imagination—afflictions so insidious they could break even the mightiest of defenders.

With a resounding crack, Dukel's power fist smashed into an approaching Plague Apostle, obliterating it in a single blow. Gore splattered the walls of the defense line as Dukel turned, his tone flat but tinged with curiosity.

"What did you say just now?"

The battlefield's din—daemonic howls and the symphony of destruction—was so deafening that even Kane's warnings struggled to reach him.

Kane could only sigh. "Never mind... just keep going."

Despite their formidable reputation, the Plague Apostles fell like chaff before the scythe. Even the elite of Nurgle's legions—the Plague Lords themselves—were helpless in the face of Dukel's relentless onslaught. Their battle formations, designed to stall even Primarchs under normal circumstances, were rendered useless in the confined corridors of the mountain defense line.

The narrow space worked against Nurgle's forces, funneling them into a meat grinder of righteous fury. Here, the tactical brilliance of the Expeditionary Corps' think tanks became clear. Their positioning of Dukel was no coincidence; it was a calculated move. They had foreseen this moment of carnage long before it began.

Kane watched in awe as Dukel methodically dismantled the daemonic horde. His chainsword roared with every swing, and the flames it birthed danced with unholy beauty. The once-dreaded Plague Apostles now seemed like lambs led to the slaughter.

Meanwhile, aboard the Mind Fire in high orbit, panic reigned. Think tanks, normally the picture of composure, scurried like headless grox. The connection to the mountain defense line had been severed, and uncertainty gnawed at their resolve.

"What's happening down there?" one psychic strategist demanded. "Has His Highness Dukel been overwhelmed?"

"Contact Efilar in the Iron Fortress!" another shouted. "Have her prepare the wounded and reinforce the mountain defense line immediately!"

They could only hope the battle below wasn't lost.

Yet on the ground, morale soared. The sight of Dukel carving through the daemons with cold precision was a balm to the spirits of the Imperial troops. His sheer presence radiated an aura of unyielding defiance. Fear melted away, replaced by the fervor to fight alongside their Primarch. Even the most hesitant warriors felt compelled to charge headlong into battle, their hearts set ablaze by Dukel's example.

Outside the mountain's defensive bastion, the Great Unclean One Lymphas loomed—a colossal heap of pestilent flesh and decay. His bloated visage contorted into visible confusion.

"What is happening?" he rumbled, his voice thick with decay. "Why has there been no word from within the mountain? Where is my army?"

The Plague Lord at his side hesitated before replying. "My lord, the forces that entered... they vanished. There was no signal, no trace. It is as if they were devoured whole."

Lymphas scowled. "Nonsense! No trap can withstand the will of Nurgle forever."

But even as he spoke, doubt crept into his rotting heart.

The mountain defense line, fortified by the Emperor's Light and the meticulous planning of mortal minds, was proving impenetrable. Every daemon that breached its walls was erased from existence. Lymphas's grotesque features twisted in frustration.

"No more delays!" Lymphas bellowed, his bulk shuddering. "I shall go myself!"

The Great Unclean One moved toward the gap, his immense form surrounded by a miasma of toxic corruption. Behind him, the Nurgle host roared in unison, their confidence bolstered by the arrival of their vile champion.

Within the defense line, Dukel paused as the tide of lesser daemons began to ebb. His piercing gaze fell upon the gargantuan figure trudging through the gap—a walking mountain of filth and rot.

Kane's face paled. "That's... that's a Great Unclean One!" he stammered. "The stuff of nightmares..."

But Dukel remained calm, his voice steady. "Have we met before?"

Lymphas sneered, though his tone was oddly cordial. "Ah, Your Highness, the Second Primarch! It's been some ten thousand years, hasn't it? Tell me—how have you been?"

Dukel tilted his head, his expression unimpressed. "Who are you again?"

The Primarch's dismissive response echoed through the defense line, cutting through the tension like his chainsword through daemon flesh. In that moment, it was clear: Dukel wasn't here to reminisce—he was here to end this.