Having executed the Martian Fabricator-General, Dukel stood amidst the devastation, his expression calm. Through his mind network, he bypassed all conventional communication detection and issued silent instructions to Lev.
At that moment, the security forces within the Fabricator-General's residence finally reacted.
As the supreme leader of the Mechanicus, Diaan naturally maintained a corps of elite guards. But under the constraints of the Martian Covenant, no one had ever imagined that two Primarchs would dare to assassinate the Fabricator-General within the heart of Mars itself.
Dukel and Guilliman had followed proper diplomatic protocol, gaining entry as honored guests.
The notion that a Primarch would strike down the Fabricator-General in the midst of a diplomatic visit was unfathomable to them.
To the Martian authorities, even the Emperor himself would not lightly violate a sacred covenant established ten thousand years ago.
Thus, when the guards finally processed the reality before them, they found themselves paralyzed—both by shock and the limits of their augmetics. Black smoke curled from the skulls of many, their machine minds caught in paradox. Only when they gazed upon the dismembered remains of their Fabricator-General did full comprehension set in.
A Lancer-pattern Knight, assigned to protect the Fabricator-General on behalf of the Knight Households, reacted violently to the sight.
This was no ordinary war machine—it was a rare and formidable Viper-class Knight, an aggressive close-combat variant known for speed and strength far exceeding that of standard war engines. Its Machine Spirit was volatile, its temperament known to overwhelm all but the most glory-hungry and reckless of pilots.
The Knight's pilot, seated upon the Throne Mechanicum, felt a surge of righteous fury crash over him like a tidal wave. His ancestors' voices roared within his mind, their wrath merging with his own as his consciousness blurred under the weight of centuries-old oaths and unyielding rage.
"You killed the Fabricator-General!"
To a Knight, honor and duty outweighed life itself. He had been entrusted with the Fabricator-General's protection by none other than the King of Knights.
And now, his charge was dead.
"How dare you?!"
The pilot's rationality fractured under the assault of his ancestors' fury. The Machine Spirit of the Knight raged in unison, amplifying the bloodlust consuming his mind.
"You have betrayed the Martian Compact! All are entitled to strike you down!"
The pilot made his decision.
With a furious bellow, the Knight charged, its massive power lance leveled toward Dukel.
Before Dukel could move, Guilliman stepped forward in silence.
The Emperor's Sword ignited in his grip, golden flames roaring to life, drawing a line of searing light between them and their assailants.
"Anyone who crosses this line will be judged a traitor!"
A mere Knight dared to challenge a Primarch.
The corruption of Mars ran deeper than Guilliman had feared. To some, the sanctity of the Adeptus Mechanicus had eclipsed even the Imperium itself.
Guilt gnawed at Guilliman—hesitation had stayed his hand earlier, but now? Now these fools sought to strike at his brother?
He was furious.
"Brother, allow me to remove this obstacle for you."
Dukel observed the scene with measured amusement as more and more Skitarii, Knight war engines, and even senior Magi of the Mechanicus converged on their location.
"Brother, are you certain you can handle all of this alone?"
Guilliman stiffened, his anger faltering for a moment. His face darkened.
"Why were so many Knights hidden within the Fabricator-General's palace? And such a large force of priesthood guards? What was he planning?"
In truth, Guilliman misjudged the situation.
Under normal circumstances, such a force would not have been stationed here. But the Fabricator-General had been deeply unsettled ever since Dukel's return to Terra—watching as a swath of Imperial aristocrats mysteriously "committed suicide" in their own homes.
Though he considered himself orthodox, the Fabricator-General could not shake the feeling that Terra's executioner would eventually come for him as well. In response, he had consolidated every ounce of military strength he could muster within his domain.
That included this Knight—who had only arrived days ago from a feudal world, still steeped in medieval traditions.
These warriors, raised in near-isolation, had little understanding of the broader Imperium, let alone the complexities of interstellar politics.
Yet even with his reinforcements, the Fabricator-General had failed. His guards had been so caught off guard that they played no meaningful role before their master's death.
Guilliman, having declared his intent to handle the situation alone, now found himself slightly overwhelmed.
A lapse in judgment.
Even as a Primarch wielding the Emperor's Sword, he was but one warrior. Against a Mechanicus force composed of Skitarii Legions, Archmagi, and Knight war engines, even he would struggle to hold the line.
The Mechanicus was far more formidable than most realized. For much of the Imperium's history, they had been the most powerful single force within the galaxy. Some would argue, the only force.
Yet despite being surrounded, Dukel remained unfazed.
His personal might was absolute. While his mastery of the Warp was shallow, his physical form had ascended beyond mortal limitations. His demigod body had reached the apex of what was possible within the material universe—unstoppable in battle.
In terms of sheer physicality, not even the Emperor of the 30th Millennium could match him.
The Emperor had excelled in sorcery and the arcane. But Dukel? He was a warrior.
The only concern on his mind was Guilliman's well-being.
He had no desire to see the esteemed Regent of the Imperium critically injured at the hands of a rabid Crusader.
"Guilliman, handle the Knight."
Dukel didn't know what had driven this particular war engine into such a frenzy, but the murderous intent emanating from both the pilot and the Machine Spirit was palpable.
Guilliman nodded and advanced.
A warrior of his caliber instantly recognized the battlefield's key threats. Among the gathered forces, none burned with more murderous rage than this particular Knight.
Dukel, meanwhile, turned to the assembled Mechanicus forces.
"Are you certain you wish to partake in open rebellion against the Imperium?"
Though surrounded, his voice carried unwavering authority. The weight of his presence alone pressed down upon the Magi, and many felt an unexplainable pressure constricting their augmetic bodies.
"As the Emperor's sons, do we not retain the right to purge heretics?"
One of the senior Magi, already aware of the purges occurring on Terra, hesitated before asking:
"Does Your Highness claim that the Fabricator-General was a heretic?"
Dukel nodded, pleased.
"This Great Sage possesses clarity and has not been deceived by the Fabricator-General's facade."
The Magos quickly retracted his words, anxiety evident even through his synthesized voice.
"Forgive me, Your Highness. I merely question—how could so many heretics exist within the Imperium itself?"
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the ranks of the gathered Tech-Priests.
On Terra, they had accepted Dukel's purges. The nobility had long been rife with corruption.
But now? Now even the Fabricator-General was declared a heretic?
The Magi were no longer so easily convinced.
One of the senior Archmagi dared to ask:
"What proof do you have that the Fabricator-General was tainted by Chaos?"
Guilliman, still dueling the enraged Knight, bellowed:
"I can prove it!"
The Magi exchanged glances but remained skeptical.
Dukel smiled.
"A reasonable request."
The next moment, Dukel strode toward the wreckage of the Fabricator-General's war engine and retrieved a spherical core device from its remains.
As soon as the device was exposed, the entire chamber seemed to shift, as if an ancient, malevolent entity were struggling to break free from its prison. A cacophony of tortured wails echoed through the palace, their shrillness tearing at the sanity of those present.
A miasma of corruption spread like a living entity, twisting the once-imposing halls into a pulsating, flesh-like labyrinth. The walls throbbed, and insidious whispers slithered into the ears of every gathered Tech-Priest. The acrid stench of gore filled the air, and an unnatural horror gnawed at their souls.
"Gulu—"
With utter nonchalance, Dukel tossed the core device toward the gathered Magi. The sphere, a prison of dark intent, rolled across the warped floor, pulsating with an eerie glow.
The Tech-Priests hesitated but ultimately approached. They would not be easily shaken by the taint of the Warp—yet as they examined the device, expressions of disbelief flickered across their augmetic-laden faces.
Dukel regarded them impassively, though within his piercing gaze lurked something indescribable—an emotion too complex to name.
The Forger-General is not a heretic corrupted by Chaos.
The Forger-General is a heretic corrupted by Chaos!
The madness enveloping the palace was no mere illusion but a grim reality. And because Dukel declared the Fabricator-General a heretic, the universe itself conspired to make it so.
None could contest it. No amount of scrutiny could alter this irrefutable truth.
This was the culmination of the Waaagh! energy field generated by billions of Orks, interwoven with the esoteric technology of the Mechanicum's highest-tier Noospheric manipulations—an intersection of faith, belief, and the immaterial.
As Dukel had once told Magnus:
"Perhaps this universe is nothing more than an absurd dream—"
In this warped reality, shaped by sheer force of will, the supposed 'untainted' truth was rewritten. The Fabricator-General's innocence was reduced to a falsehood, and the Fabricator-General's damnation was now undeniable fact.
Of course, this was the edge of Dukel's ability—for now. His current power alone was insufficient to shape all of existence at will.
"You believe me now," Dukel's voice was cold, unwavering.
"I do not falsely accuse the innocent."
Most of the Tech-Priests accepted the undeniable conclusion. They cross-referenced their calculations, verified the device's authenticity, and reached the same inevitable truth.
They could not afford doubt.
A few among them, however, regarded Dukel with newfound reverence—no, with fear. A fear that gnawed at the rational constructs of their minds. They had heard rumors that the Primarch possessed a psychic presence capable of distorting reality.
But this?
The Fabricator-General, a man who by all known logic should have been beyond the grasp of Chaos, had been transformed—an immutable law of existence rewritten in an instant.
Now, Dukel's words echoed in their minds with terrifying clarity:
"I would never wrongly accuse a good man."
"Sizzle!—"
Suddenly, bursts of blue arcs crackled across the mechanical brains of several Tech-Priests. The sheer impossibility of what had transpired overloaded their logic engines. This defiance of reason, this reconfiguration of reality itself, unraveled their very understanding of the material universe.
If truth could be altered at a whim, then what was truth?
The fundamental laws of knowledge, the very pillars upon which they had built their lives—
Did they even exist?
"Zzzt—Zzzzt—"
The voltage coursing through their bodies grew violent. Internal warning klaxons blared, yet they paid them no heed. Their faith in the certainty of existence was crumbling, and with it, their will to function.
If logic was meaningless, then so was existence itself.
"What's happening to them?"
A nearby Tech-Priest, witnessing their near-terminal state, spoke with concern. They could not fathom how the revelation of the Fabricator-General's heresy could reduce their peers to this state.
Dukel turned his gaze toward them.
The moment his eyes locked onto theirs, those on the brink of collapse felt an overwhelming surge of something alien—
Courage.
An all-consuming, inviolable courage filled their fractured minds, drowning out despair. Their internal failures halted. Their bodies stabilized. Their spiraling consciousnesses reasserted themselves.
They stood once more, staring at Dukel in silent, awed realization.
What should they feel at this moment?
Terror? Horror? Despair?
No. There was no room for such emotions.
They could only feel faith.
"Hahahahahaha—"
A Tech-Priest, overwhelmed, burst into manic laughter and fell to his knees before Dukel's armored form.
"Praise you, O Great One."
His laughter was tinged with something beyond madness—an acceptance of something greater. Though his body overflowed with unshakable courage, a single tear streaked down the last vestige of organic tissue he still possessed.
He was convinced.
As the gathered Tech-Priests processed this revelation, Dukel's gaze drifted toward the battlefield. A towering Knight suit was still locked in combat with Roboute Guilliman.
"Why is that Knight still engaging Guilliman?" he asked, his tone sharp.
One of the Tech-Priests answered, "Lord, he is a scion of a Knightly House sworn to the Legio Titanicus." A pause. Then, a quiet clarification: "It is his first time leaving his homeworld."
Dukel understood immediately.
Many Knightly Houses had pledged themselves to the Great Crusade. Those who had spent their lives confined to their homeworlds often found the greater galaxy overwhelming, and their inexperience in wider conflicts often led to misjudgment.
This particular Knight's erratic movements made it evident—
He was not in control.
The Throne Mechanicum's machine spirit had overtaken its pilot, consumed by an artificial battle-lust. Such things were not unheard of—Dukel had seen Knights continue to fight long after their pilots had perished, their hulking war engines driven by nothing but the machine spirits' relentless wrath.
"The Legio Titanicus and the Knightly Houses were both staunch supporters of the Fabricator-General." Dukel's voice was thoughtful, yet final. "Now that he has been proven to be tainted, it stands to reason that his allies are tainted as well."
The Tech-Priests recoiled at the sheer weight of the implication.
And then—
As if in answer to Dukel's words, rivulets of blood seeped from the joints of the Knight's armor, staining the adamantium shell with dark, unnatural ichor.
Whispers, thick with malignant intent, slithered through the air, invading the minds of all present.
And then came the voice.
"Who dares interrupt this honorable duel?!"
The knight roared, struggling to shake off the insidious whispers gnawing at his mind.
But in an instant, his body stiffened, and his gaze turned vacant.
When awareness returned, he found himself in a surreal realm, a vast expanse dominated by a burning halo of thorns suspended high above.
"Your Majesty, forgive me." The knight knelt on one knee, bowing before the fiery crown.
Within the immaterium, the knight recalled his charge against the Primarch and felt a deep pang of regret.
On the battlefield, his Knight suit had suddenly faltered.
A fatal hesitation.
Guilliman's blade had pierced through the cockpit.
Yet, something about the event gnawed at the Regent's mind.
"Why did this knight suddenly cease functioning?" Guilliman mused, his expression thoughtful.
Dukel considered the matter, then spoke. "Brother, it is clear. He was afflicted by the taint of Chaos."
Guilliman gave a slow nod. "I see."
The gathered Magi of the Mechanicus remained silent, their cybernetic visages unreadable.
With the corrupted Knight dealt with, the Primarchs turned their attention to them.
"Blood seeps from the cracks in this war machine. It reeks of Chaos. All present bear witness to this corruption," one of the Astartes remarked.
Guilliman affirmed, "Indeed, I have seen it with my own eyes. The ties between this Knight House and the Ruinous Powers run deeper than we anticipated."
This time, Guilliman had no reason to suspect subterfuge or manipulation.
The truth was evident.
The Mechanicus priests stood in tense silence.
At that moment, Lev, the President of the Supreme Council of Terra, arrived precisely on time.
"What happened here?"
His eyes widened in horror at the torn and scattered remains of the Fabricator-General. A pale, uneasy expression settled on his face.
"Fabricator-General... what in the Emperor's name occurred?"
The presence of the Supreme Council's highest authority brought a sense of stability to the gathered Magi of Mars. Many among them had been shaken by the sheer brutality of what had transpired. Yet, unknown to them, Lev had already sworn his allegiance to Dukel.
The Primarchs rarely, if ever, made official appearances before the High Council. It was a known yet unspoken truth.
That night, Lev had visited Dukel in secrecy, summoned by a shadowy specter of death itself.
The Fabricator-General held a seat on the Supreme Council, and by established convention, when a member perished, their fellow Councilors were responsible for enacting justice in their stead. It was the natural order of things.
To most within the Imperium, the Supreme Council still represented the pinnacle of governance and authority. Thus, the gathered Magi wasted no time in reporting the incident to Lev, detailing every known aspect of the grim scene before them.
Lev listened carefully, his expression darkening further. When the last of the report was given, he exhaled sharply, his voice heavy with disbelief.
"How could this be?"
He turned to Dukel, searching for answers.
"My lord... are you saying that the Fabricator-General had fallen to Chaos?"
Dukel gave a slow, deliberate nod.
He was not concerned about the Martian Priesthood's response, nor did he care if they suspected him. He only allowed them to believe what they dared to in their hearts. On the surface, the truth was clear: His Highness Dukel had slain a heretic. Nothing more, nothing less.
Even if the Emperor Himself were to descend, the judgment would remain unchanged. Heresy must be purged.
How could a tainted Primarch be entrusted with the role of Warmaster? How could one defiled by the Ruinous Powers lead the Imperium in fulfilling its manifest destiny of dominion over the galaxy?
He must be—he would be—holy.
Dukel's thoughts remained his own, but his words would always reflect the righteousness of a true son of the Emperor.
Justice and truth in the Imperium would always align with the Primarchs.
Lev's face remained ashen, his body rigid with tension.
"My Lords... is there evidence to prove the Fabricator-General's heresy?"
Dukel nodded again, his voice unwavering. "Of course. You need not concern yourself. I always act with proof."
Lev exhaled, relief washing over his features—though whether it was feigned or genuine, none could say.
"Then, my lord, may I ask directly... did you kill the Fabricator-General?"
Dukel shook his head, his expression unreadable. "Captain, I have killed no one. Did anyone witness me strike him down?"
Lev's gaze swept over the assembled Magi.
Silence.
A quiet realization settled over them. Until this very moment, not a single one of them had actually seen Dukel deliver the killing blow.
Lev's voice grew cautious. "Then how did the Fabricator-General die?"
Dukel lowered his gaze, surveying the scattered remains, as if analyzing the wreckage piece by piece. His voice was calm, methodical.
"The Fabricator-General was exposed as a heretic—his corruption unveiled by myself and the Imperial Regent. Knowing that the Imperium's justice would be swift and merciless... he took his own life rather than face the Emperor's wrath."
None dared challenge his words.