2nd Primarch

Thanks to the timely arrival of the expeditionary fleet, this agricultural world narrowly avoided impending disaster.

The green-skinned Orks are an undeniable menace to the Imperium. Their terrifying reproductive efficiency, if left unchecked, can spiral into a nightmare of unimaginable proportions.

Most Space Marine Chapters would resort to issuing Exterminatus orders, annihilating all life on any world tainted by xenos corruption.

On the battlefield, the Orks unleashed a cacophony of chaotic and guttural roars.

A massive warlord piloted an intimidating war machine, exuding the crude and destructive essence of a Waaagh! The behemoth lumbered out of the mob of Ork Boyz, its feral eyes fixed on the distant Imperial defensive line.

This war machine, comparable in size to a Knight Titan, boasted two colossal tusks and a massive wooden stake driven through its head, lending it an utterly horrifying appearance.

With a guttural roar, the Ork warlord commanded his Boyz, and the green tide surged forward, crashing against the Imperial defenses like a relentless wave.

Within the defensive line stood an unusual force of Imperial soldiers.

Clad in pitch-black uniforms and armed with silent resolve, they were a grim and foreboding sight. Their gas masks concealed their faces, but the emptiness in their eyes—cold, indifferent—was palpable.

The political commissar paced among them, wielding a laspistol and firing into the air to ensure order. His voice blared from a mechanical loudspeaker, cutting through the din with grating intensity:

"Attention, soldiers!

No one charges without orders!

Repeat: No charges without orders!

Cavalry, hear me—anyone who disobeys will be shot on sight!"

The commissar's voice was raw from shouting, and the tension in the air was palpable. His job wasn't merely to command—it was to ensure discipline, even at gunpoint. Without his iron fist, the soldiers might launch an uncontrolled and suicidal charge against the enemy.

These soldiers were different. They didn't fear death; they seemed to embrace it, driven by a feral need to kill or be killed.

"Keep the artillery fire constant!" the commissar barked into the vox.

The plains ahead became a hellscape of explosions, flamethrowers, and relentless gunfire. Orks fell by the dozens, but for every one slain, more emerged from the inferno, their ramshackle vehicles roaring across the battlefield.

The Imperial infantry stood ready, fixing bayonets in grim silence. Madness simmered beneath their blank stares as they waited for the order to charge.

And then,

BOOM!

A massive figure descended like a meteor, crashing into the battlefield with a force that sent shockwaves rippling through the Ork ranks. The impact created a massive crater, scattering Orks in all directions.

The warlord's mob halted, staring at the plume of smoke and dust in confusion and unease.

"What's that?"

"Looks bad, real bad."

"Shut up and get ready to krump it!"

Out of the smoke emerged a towering figure, a juggernaut of destruction. He tore through the Ork lines with brutal efficiency, leaving a trail of carnage in his wake.

It was the Primarch, Dukel. His purpose was clear—to face the warlord and shatter the Orks' will to fight. As he advanced, every greenskin in his path fell, unable to withstand his raw power.

Inside the defensive line, the commissar saw his chance. Blowing a sharp whistle, he signaled the charge.

The soldiers, who had been itching for this moment, surged forward without a sound. Their cold, silent assault was a stark contrast to the roaring Orks. They fought like beasts, tearing into their foes with reckless abandon.

A cavalryman, half-crushed by an Ork, crawled to his attacker and detonated a melta-bomb strapped to his chest, obliterating them both. Others continued their assault, their eyes devoid of fear or hesitation.

Yet this time, they felt something unfamiliar: hope.

Ahead of them, the towering figure of Dukel cleaved through the greenskins like a beacon in the darkness, leading them forward. For the first time, they felt as though they weren't alone.

Dukel reached the warlord—a monstrous figure, swollen with Waaagh! energy. In the Beast Wars, such warlords had grown so powerful that even the Salamanders' Primarch struggled to match their strength. But Dukel was undeterred.

The clash of force fields—mental and Waaagh!—created a shockwave that shattered the greenskins' resolve. Dukel struck the warlord down with a single, devastating punch. The Ork's enormous frame crumpled, his confusion evident even as life drained from his eyes.

With a roar, Dukel grabbed the warlord's head, ripped it clean from his shoulders, and hoisted it high, spine still dangling.

The greenskins froze. Their leader, the embodiment of their Waaagh!, had been slain. Panic rippled through the mob, and their fighting spirit shattered.

Dukel struck a triumphant pose, holding the severed head aloft. Drones circled him, capturing every angle for a calculated psychological campaign.

This wasn't just a victory—it was a message.

The seeds of fear would be sown in the hearts of the Orks, a strategy devised to undermine their Waaagh! energy and weaken their resolve.

The Primarch's mission was clear:

Kill the warlord. (Complete)Strike a commanding pose. (Complete)Document the victory. (In progress)

Soon, these images would spread across Ork-held worlds, planting the idea that this human was unstoppable. And for Orks, belief is everything.

Dukel smiled grimly. The war was far from over, but today, the seeds of victory had been sown.