Fulgrim's face was drenched in blood.
He had made his choice—and he would no longer pursue hollow perfection.
In that moment, as his once-flawless visage was marred, Fulgrim felt something he hadn't known in millennia: clarity. No longer did he stand before Dukel as the vain specter of the Phoenician, haunted by obsession and enslaved by pride.
Now he stood as the demigod who had once saved his homeworld. As the fallen hero of the Imperium. As a would-be redeemer, heavy with remorse toward his brother, Ferrus Manus.
His spirit seemed transported back—before the corruption of the Larsi System, before he set foot on that ill-starred world that had twisted his soul and steered him toward damnation.
He had once been the proud Primarch of the Emperor's Children, the savior who purged the Larsi system of a savage xenos race. There, he took the Sword of the Thorn, a relic venerated in the Temple of the Thorn.
But Fulgrim, like many of his brothers, had been woefully ignorant of the Warp. He could not have known the blade was host to a Daemon of Slaanesh.
The whispers came first—insidious, constant. Day and night, the daemon's voice coiled into his thoughts. Under its influence, his flaws—once minor—were magnified into monstrous extremes.
He began to envy his brothers' achievements.
Even Ferrus Manus's kindness felt like mockery. The counsel of the Second Primarch—Dukel—was twisted by Fulgrim's pride into condescension.
How could Ferrus mean well? Hadn't he risked his life time and again, not out of brotherhood, but to prove that the Iron Hands' gene-sire was the better man?
What was so special about Dukel? Why did the Second get to stand as the Emperor's favored son?
The brothers were malicious. The Emperor—aloof and cold. The Imperium itself seemed to want nothing from him.
Bitterness festered. Fulgrim no longer noticed how far he had fallen—his obsession with perfection morphing into decadence, indulgence, hedonism.
Then came Horus.
When the Warmaster revealed his ambition—his intent to wield the power of the Ruinous Powers to usurp the Emperor and lead mankind to a new golden age—Fulgrim faltered.
And followed.
On Istvaan V, amidst the blackest betrayal, Fulgrim lost all. Possessed once more by the daemon bound to the Sword of the Thorn, he struck down Ferrus Manus—beheading his closest brother with his own hands.
When he awoke, the daemon's control lifted, the reality was unbearable. In his hands was the corpse of Ferrus, the head clutched tightly.
Even lost in the Warp, that image haunted him.
When he learned of Fabius Bile's cloning experiments, his first reaction was not anger—but a command.
"Clone Ferrus."
Fabius succeeded. Ferrus returned—alive, whole.
But the clone was no servant. He stood with the Emperor and tried to kill Fulgrim.
Fulgrim destroyed the clone.
Then ordered another.
And another.
Each time, the same. Each death hollowed him further, feeding the agonizing cycle of guilt and denial.
Eventually, Fulgrim gave up. He abandoned truth. Drowned himself in endless ecstasy and denied the stars above.
But now—now it was different.
This clone of Fulgrim had chosen another path.
He disfigured himself. Scratched away the image of perfection he once clung to. His face, hideous, bloodied, raw—he no longer sought beauty for its own sake.
He had not abandoned the pursuit of perfection entirely. But superficial perfection? That died the moment his blade met his skin.
Bright red blood poured down, soaking his ruined face, dripping freely onto the metal floor. And though a Primarch's regeneration was near miraculous, his wound would not close.
Could not close.
The pain was unbearable.
Knife wounds often numb in the moment—sharpness gliding like ice across skin. But afterward, when the flesh is left exposed, the pain comes—hot, raw, searing.
Fulgrim had fought for millennia, suffered wounds few could imagine. Normally, he'd shrug off a gaping chest wound.
But this—this was like a thousand serpents gnawing at his nerves.
Even his iron will couldn't prevent his jaw from clenching, his face from twitching in agony.
But the pain wasn't what troubled him most.
Why wasn't he healing?
Fulgrim probed his biology. His self-repair systems should've already begun regeneration. The fault wasn't in him.
It was the sword.
He looked at the weapon Dukel had handed him. A blade radiant like liquid flame, its translucent red aura shimmered with runes even a Primarch couldn't comprehend.
"Brother, scream if it hurts," Magnus jeered from his lev-sled. "We'll all have a good laugh."
Fulgrim's lip twitched.
Ignoring Magnus, he turned to Dukel. "Brother… what is this sword?"
Magnus leaned forward, eager to display his knowledge. "That sword is—"
But Dukel silenced him with a glare.
"This sword is mine," Dukel said gravely. "A relic of the Second Legion. A sacred blade of judgment."
He held it with reverence.
"Its edge reaches beyond flesh—it cleaves the soul. It does not merely kill. It seals. A precise thrust can pierce deep into the soul-sea and trap even the vilest daemon."
Fulgrim's eyes narrowed. Such a weapon… it defied belief.
"But it is not without limits," Dukel continued. "A full-powered strike burns a monumental amount of energy. At full charge, it can unleash only three such attacks. After that, it must be recharged—with the souls of daemons."
He exhaled.
"For this reason, it is not suited for battlefields. It is a weapon of reckoning. One best reserved for…"
He had asked for nothing in return—because he knew no promise, no matter how sincere, could ever measure up to the gift he had just received.
And truly, what could possibly repay the Warmaster's trust?
Seeing Fulgrim like this, Dukel felt reassured.
In truth, the Blade of Judgment possessed another trait Dukel had not disclosed.
The blade held a soul—a will of its own. Through advanced telepathic bindings, it would only heed those of the Second Legion's genetic bloodline.
Even now, as Fulgrim wielded it, he could not truly claim the blade's allegiance.
Dukel's hidden intent had always been clear: if this clone of Fulgrim strayed toward Chaos again, the blade would end him—utterly and without hesitation.
Once, it had been a daemon-bound sword that led Fulgrim to damnation. Now, the Blade of Judgment would ensure he never walked that path again.
Yet Dukel hadn't expected Fulgrim's first swing to be aimed at him.
Had the clone possessed even slightly more strength, the outcome might've been irreversible.
After all, this sword was forged for a singular purpose: to deliver a deathblow to the strongest foes. Its lethality was beyond question.
Looking at Fulgrim, Dukel spoke again—his tone steady, resolute.
"Your choice earns you this chance, Fulgrim. Once, you fell. Now, I will give you the means to redeem yourself—and I will not hold back. Redeem your name. Set your history back on course. Fabius. Horus. The Endless legions of the Necrons—all of them watch your every step like starving beasts, eager to tear you apart."
"I will grant you the power to withstand them. So that you may complete the task I entrust to you."
He gestured toward the sword.
"This is only the beginning. Before you depart, I will arm you with a fleet worthy of a Primarch."
Dukel was nothing if not generous. After all, Fulgrim had accepted a mission that would take him straight into the eye of the storm.
But Fulgrim surprised him—he refused.
No explanation was given.
The truth was this: Fulgrim had already encountered some of his corrupted progeny. Upon seeing him, they had fallen to their knees and pledged loyalty without hesitation.
And Fulgrim, broken yet yearning, could not bear to turn them away.
He feared that if Dukel learned of their existence, he would annihilate them on the spot.
So he kept silent.
Dukel didn't press. He simply nodded, as though he understood.
He rang the summoning bell.
From the shadows emerged the Doom Slayers and the Sisters of the Mind.
"Traitor! How dare you draw a blade before the Warmaster!" The moment Doom entered the chamber, his eyes locked on the Blade of Judgment in Fulgrim's hand.
He raised his weapon instantly, ready to strike.
Fulgrim lowered the blade at once. Doom surged forward, pinning the Primarch down in a flash of brutal efficiency.
"Be at ease, my son," Dukel said calmly. "We were only talking. Fulgrim meant me no harm."
"Escort him to Macragge's Glory," Dukel ordered. "Have him held with the other Fulgrim."
"Understood, my lord."
Nearby, Sister Shivara, black-haired and black-eyed, studied the scene with keen interest—her gaze drifting between Dukel, Fulgrim, and the blade.
Then, she stepped forward and bowed.
"My lord, I believe this mission is too dangerous for ordinary guards. A being like Fulgrim should be escorted by the Sisters of the Heart. I will personally see it done."
Dukel raised a brow. He couldn't quite read her intent—but he nodded all the same.
"Very well."
"Rest assured, my lord. I will see it through."
With that, Shivara and her Sisters escorted Fulgrim from the chamber.
The Doom Slayers remained behind, silent sentinels guarding their Warmaster.
But it wasn't long before Shivara returned—with an uncharacteristic look of frustration on her face.
She reported failure.
Fulgrim had escaped custody. And she stressed—perhaps too much—that she had not intended to let him go.
Dukel's eye twitched.
A Primarch, even a clone, was no easy prisoner. They were warriors of impossible caliber—swift, cunning, unrelenting.
When Magnus had been taken captive, Dukel had decapitated him. Not out of cruelty—but as the only means to keep him contained.
To prevent escape, Magnus's head had been hung at Dukel's side throughout every battle, great and small. Only after returning to Terra and building this specialized psychic prison did Dukel finally stop carrying the head of the Crimson King with him.
Even now, the prison wasn't foolproof.
But Magnus—ever the scholar—was content so long as he had books. As long as the library remained vast, his will to escape remained dormant.
Fulgrim, however…
For him to vanish so swiftly—slipping through the Sisters' watchful eyes?
Dukel didn't buy it.
No, this had been no accident. Shivara had made her choice.
She had let him go.
This was exactly what Dukel wanted.
At that moment, Shivara approached and bowed her head respectfully.
"My lord," she said solemnly, "I failed to complete your orders. I accept full responsibility and am prepared to atone—imprison me for a hundred years, as you once did with Efilar."
"Very well," Dukel replied without hesitation. "Then I shall assign you to a cloister on Ophelia VII. For the next century, you are forbidden from leaving the monastery grounds."
"…Ah?" Shivara blinked, clearly caught off guard. This was not the punishment she had anticipated.
"You don't wish to go?" Dukel raised an eyebrow, voice dry. "Forget it then. I was only jesting. Even Guilliman, stiff as he is, manages to show a shred of humor on occasion."
He gave her a casual pat on the head.
"As you command, my lord," Shivara muttered with a frustrated sigh.
Dukel turned back to Magnus, and the two resumed their quiet, intense discussion. Once it concluded, Dukel strode from the chamber.
As he walked, ripples shimmered in the air around him—space tearing softly as a portal opened into the Immaterium. From within that warp breach, Dukel reached in and drew out another Sword of Judgment, its blade blazing with ethereal flame.
Doom, walking behind him, hesitated before speaking.
"Father… I thought this sword was the sacred relic of our Legion. I saw Fulgrim take it with my own eyes. How can there be another?"
Dukel chuckled. "Who said a Legion may only possess one holy relic?"
There was a glint in Doom's eyes. "Then… can I have one as well?"
Dukel turned to him, nodding. "Take your first cadre of brothers and report to the armory at the Argentum Energy Forge. Claim your blades—but use them sparingly. The production capacity of the Sword of Judgment remains limited."
As soon as the words left the Primarch's mouth, Doom and the Slayers behind him brightened, their war-hardened faces lit with something like childlike joy.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
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