Dukel stepped into the chamber where Magnus awaited.
Behind him followed Anna, a reporter from the Imperial Herald. The moment she crossed the threshold, she instinctively covered her mouth, eyes wide with a silent, visceral terror. In her short life, she had never encountered anything so utterly horrifying. If she hadn't been shadowing the Warmaster, she might have fled on the spot.
She looked up, forcing herself to survey the room.
The chamber was sealed tight, the only entrance being the door through which they had entered. Along the walls, arcane runes were inscribed in dense patterns, still smoldering with lingering psychic fire.
Above the runes, a row of transparent stasis cabinets displayed human heads, each floating in pale yellow nutrient solution. Metallic collars gripped their necks, with neat bundles of cables and fluid conduits trailing downward.
As they stepped inside, the heads activated.
Eyes lit up with cold, pale blue luminescence, and the data-crystals embedded in their skulls emitted a faint hum. Anna recoiled under their collective gaze.
She didn't know what these constructs were—perhaps servo-skulls, or some dark Mechanicus creation—but as dozens of glowing eyes fell upon her, she felt her very thoughts exposed. There were no secrets here. Not anymore.
The rest of the chamber was a chaotic cathedral of bookshelves, rising like jagged towers. Tomes lay piled high and askew, forming mountains of forbidden lore.
There was no need to open them. Each book was alive—pages twitching like muscle fibers, spines flexing like jaws. Their voices screeched in overlapping cacophony, each reciting its inscribed knowledge in razor-sharp tones.
Anna's ears rang as she tried to decipher them. But within seconds, agony split through her skull.
It was as if all the knowledge of the Mechanicus, the Black Library, and forbidden daemon-scrolls had been dumped into her mind in a raw, unfiltered torrent. She could feel her thoughts eroding, as if the very folds of her brain were being flattened, leaving behind only stunned, trembling awareness.
At the heart of the room, a cylindrical stasis-capsule floated above an anti-grav platform, surrounded by the shimmer of an active force field.
Inside was the head of the Crimson Cyclops.
Magnus was listening, basking in the screaming chorus of books. Where Anna felt agony, he found music.
Only when Dukel stepped forward did Magnus open his one remaining eye, reluctantly leaving his rapture.
"Fulgrim? Isn't he imprisoned on Macragge?" Dukel asked, brow furrowing.
Magnus chuckled. "No—another one."
"Did he escape?"
"Not exactly. This one's different. Not the purple-skinned monster you're thinking of."
Magnus gestured, and a brazier of spices on the table erupted in flame without ignition. The smoke twisted into images—reflections across time and dimensions.
In the rising smoke, the form of Fulgrim appeared.
Dukel said nothing.
He didn't know the full story, but he could guess. This Fulgrim was almost certainly a clone, likely crafted by that ancient gene-artificer—the one called Fabius Bile—to barter with the Infinite Collector, Trazyn.
According to Bile, this clone was as doomed as the original.
Character determines fate. The clone had inherited Fulgrim's mind, his memories, his obsessions. And that meant his doom was inevitable.
He was a man driven by perfection—a trait that led the original to betrayal, and would do the same to any copy.
Fabius had cloned at least three Primarchs: Ferrus Manus of the Iron Hands, Horus the Warmaster, and Fulgrim of the Emperor's Children. He had even attempted to clone the Emperor Himself, but that attempt was destroyed by a strike force of Blood Angels before it could be realized.
Every clone was designed to be loyal to the Imperium. Every one compassionate to mankind.
And yet...
Dukel couldn't decide how to feel.
If a being shares your face, your mind, your ideals—are they you? Or something new? Or simply a shadow resurrected from the past?
"Do you want to meet him?" Magnus asked with a smile. "Our little phoenix is eager to see you."
"You sound... amused," Dukel replied, eye narrowing.
Magnus chuckled again. "Oh, I am."
"Ten thousand years ago, Fulgrim—the so-called noble aesthete, the golden phoenix, the preening peacock—murdered his most beloved brother with his own hand."
Magnus leaned closer, voice dripping with irony.
"Now imagine that man, now reborn, begging you for forgiveness. Glorious, isn't it?"
It was true that Fulgrim was not the strongest of the Primarchs, but his achievements were formidable.
On Isstvan V, he killed Ferrus Manus, his closest brother.
Later, as a Daemon Prince, he drove his blade into Roboute Guilliman, leaving the Lord Commander of the Imperium in a near-death stasis field—saved only by the intervention of Cawl, the Eldar Harlequins, and the Ynnari.
In effect, Fulgrim had slain two Primarchs.
"Do you see them as the same person?" Dukel asked.
"Why wouldn't I?" Magnus said, shrugging. "Their thoughts are identical. From what I've seen, he is Fulgrim."
Dukel was silent for a long time.
Then he turned to Shivara, the Sister of the Mind who stood loyally by his side.
She understood instantly.
Without a word, she left the chamber, leading a team from the Inner Fire on a fast grav-craft. They returned shortly.
This time, they brought a man cloaked in a heavy robe. His form was hidden, but his massive frame made it impossible to mistake him for anything but a Primarch.
On the deck of the ship Soul Fire, even hardened veterans paused to stare.
Back in the chamber, Dukel and Magnus turned to face the newcomer.
He pulled back his hood.
Light blazed from his visage.
Handsome, radiant, and youthful—just as they remembered him.
"Leave us," Dukel ordered the Sisters of the Mind and the Slayers of Destruction.
"My lord... he is dangerous," Shivara said, her voice laced with concern.
The Sisters refused to move, their minds clouded with warnings from their psychic senses.
But Dukel merely raised a hand.
"He cannot harm me."
His words carried the weight of finality.
The Sisters of the Mind and the Slayers of Destruction—Dukel's personal guard—exchanged glances. Though their instincts screamed to remain, they obeyed the Warmaster's command and filed out, standing vigil outside the sealed door. Their senses were honed, ready to breach the chamber at the first sign of danger.
With a resounding hiss, the reinforced adamantium door shut, sealing the chamber. Inside remained only three figures—Primarchs, each a living relic of a shattered age.
Tension lay thick in the room.
Their reunion was not one of camaraderie. Ten thousand years ago, their relationships had frayed under the weight of pride, ideology, and betrayal. Now, whatever familiarity they once had was layered in bitterness and uncertainty.
Fulgrim—the clone, at least—stood still beneath the flickering lumen strips, eyes meeting Dukel's for the first time.
Back in the days of the Great Crusade, Fulgrim had privately dismissed Dukel as a sanctimonious hypocrite. In return, Dukel had seen Fulgrim as vain, self-absorbed, and dangerously obsessed with unattainable ideals.
"I trust you understand who you are," Dukel said evenly, his gaze calm but piercing.
The man before him was a clone—a perfect facsimile of Fulgrim the Phoenician, complete with the memories, personality, and passions of the original.
"I was created by a son who longed for my guidance," Fulgrim replied, voice low and bitter. "Then discarded by him as though I were nothing."
Though he had destroyed one of Fabius Bile's earlier clones, the anger remained.
Dukel stepped closer. At five meters tall, he cut an imposing figure, his presence magnified by the quiet gravity of his words.
"Fulgrim," he said, voice carrying across the room like a verdict, "Your name alone is a wound the Imperium has yet to heal. The betrayal you enacted left scars that span entire sectors."
"There was a time we shared the same ideals. We were brothers forged by the Emperor's will, willing to die for unity. Yet you—along with the others—strangled that vision in its cradle. Why should I, or the Imperium, trust you now?"
A flicker of vulnerability crossed Fulgrim's face. He hesitated, lips parting, searching for words that didn't come easily to one born of pride.
"I am not him," he said at last. "I carry his memories, yes. But I am not bound to his sins. I can be different."
Dukel shook his head.
"You wear his name. His face. You carry his memories, his desires, his ambition. You inherited everything from him, Fulgrim—including his fall. You may not have raised the blade, but you carry its shadow."
The words struck hard.
Fulgrim looked down, pain etched into his features. He knew what the original Fulgrim had done—murdered Ferrus Manus, the brother he had once loved most; plunged a daemon blade through Guilliman's throat, nearly killing the Lord Commander of the Imperium.
How many trillions had perished in the wake of the Phoenician's betrayal?
"I know the Imperium may never forgive me," Fulgrim murmured, his voice barely audible. "But please... grant me a chance to seek redemption. If not for the Imperium, then for myself. Brother."
A Primarch, lowering his head in supplication—such a sight was unthinkable. The sons of the Emperor had always been creatures of pride and fire. They bowed only to the Master of Mankind.
Even during the Great Crusade, their bonds were brittle. Brotherhood existed, yes—but tainted by jealousy, ambition, and silent rivalries.
And yet, here stood Fulgrim, broken not in body, but in spirit.
He was still the same Phoenician who once chased perfection with relentless fervor—vulnerable to corruption, seduced by promises of transcendence.
But this clone had also seen the cost.
He had escaped the clutches of the Infinite—Trazyn the Infinite, most likely—and struck down one of Fabius Bile's earlier creations. In that clone's eyes, he had seen agony and confusion, a mirror of his own fate. It had shaken him.
It seemed no one could look at him without seeing that Fulgrim.
"Perhaps your sins were not entirely your own," Dukel said after a moment. "But tell me—how many throughout history were born monsters? Evil is rarely inherent. It is forged in choices, in failure."
"I may choose to trust you. But they—" Dukel gestured to the galaxy beyond the chamber walls—"the people, the soldiers, the millions who still curse your name—they will not forgive so easily."
Fulgrim's shoulders sagged, the weight of truth pressing down like gravity.
He knew it. As long as he bore the name Fulgrim, he would never truly be free.
But if he cast it aside—his name, his identity, his power, even his memories—what would remain?
Who would he become?
Then came a sudden sound.
Clang—
A sword was drawn.
Startled, Fulgrim flinched instinctively, as though expecting judgment.
But Dukel stepped forward—and extended the weapon to him.
The blade glowed with a deep, searing red—its edge kissed by fire, its form reminiscent of ancient Terran craftsmanship, yet bound with Martian technology.
It was not an execution.
It was an offering.
"Now," Dukel said, voice calm and resolute, "I give you two paths."
He stepped forward, the fire-red blade in his hand glowing faintly with restrained power.
"If you seek redemption—then take this sword. Fight for me, for the Imperium, and for whatever remains of your soul. I don't know what the Endless One had in mind when he released you—but whatever his scheme, this blade is sharp enough to sever it."
"Make this choice, and you become a sinner—a shadow of a legend—walking forever in the darkness cast by the Imperium's light."
Dukel paused before continuing, his expression darkening.
"I have received word that Fabius Bile has surfaced in the Gallagher System. His grand experiment nears completion—twenty cloned Primarchs are on the brink of birth. I want you to set aside your hatred and monitor him closely. The moment his work is complete, you will destroy him. Entirely. No fragments, no resurgence."
He raised the blade slightly.
"That is the first path."
"As for the second—" Dukel's tone softened, but only slightly. "I will grant you a prosperous world. You will relinquish all that ties you to Fulgrim: your name, your identity, your power. Everything. You will live out your days in peace and luxury. But you will never leave that world. Ever. This I swear. I will not stain my blade with the blood of my brother—so long as you never give me reason."
Fulgrim remained silent.
A heavy stillness settled across the chamber. For a long time, the clone of the Phoenician stood motionless, his thoughts veiled.
Then, wordlessly, he reached out and took the sword.
The blade flared for a moment as it left Dukel's hand—no violence erupted. Instead, Fulgrim turned the weapon inward.
With swift, brutal precision, he carved a deep, ragged scar across his own face.
A gash split his once-perfect features. Blood ran freely, pooling at his feet.
He had struck without hesitation. Dukel could have stopped him—but did not. He recognized the act for what it was: not self-harm, but conviction.
The face that had once captivated entire worlds was now marred—flawed.
"I choose to atone for his sins," Fulgrim said softly, the blade still in his grip. "But I am not him."
It was a declaration of war—not against the Imperium, but against fate itself.
Dukel said nothing.
But a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
He understood.
This was not weakness. This was strength reborn—no longer shackled to the hollow pursuit of superficial perfection. Fulgrim, in destroying the illusion of flawlessness, had perhaps taken his first true step toward it.
Because perfection—true perfection—was never skin deep.
...
TN:
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