Chapter 82: Skull Offering to the Golden Throne

The air was heavy with a scent crafted by the Dark Prince himself. Its heady allure was irresistible, a symphony of sin that painted the most exquisite dreams upon the canvas of the mind.

A single inhalation could ignite the fires of endless ecstasy, plunging one into a realm of absolute euphoria, where the flesh became an instrument of indulgence. It was a nightmare of unrestrained hedonism, a sensory overload that promised eternal rapture. Would you dare partake?

The fragrance whispered promises: Why stop at mere desire when you can possess? Why limit yourself to one when many await your claim?

You are no common man. You crave not only beauty but the very essence of your desires. The beating heart of your beloved, the taste of their blood, the poetry in their screams—all are yours to claim. You are an artist, your canvas painted with the agony of those who dared love you. The melody of your harp, strung with sinew, serenades your nights with haunting memories of passion and despair.

This intoxicating aroma, however, was but a prelude to something far greater.

At the heart of this depraved spectacle was a daemon ascension ritual, orchestrated by Slaanesh for Dukel. Six hundred and sixty-six succubi, hand-picked by the Dark Prince, danced and writhed in ecstatic devotion. They were sacrifices, destined to perish in an orgy of agony and pleasure, their lives a mere offering to entice the Emperor's second son into the abyss.

Fulgrim observed this with cold certainty. He knew these sacrifices would meet gruesome ends—strangled, dismembered, consumed in frenzied ecstasy. Slaanesh would pay any price to see Dukel fall, even if it meant sacrificing countless servants. Such was the love of the Lord of Excess.

Yet Fulgrim's hope was misplaced.

Dukel was unyielding. Any daemon foolish enough to approach met a swift and merciless end. His blade tore through them without hesitation, his heart untouched by rage or indulgence. The Blood God would not claim him, nor would the Lord of Change ensnare him.

Magnus, trapped within a shard of Dukel's armor, sensed the anomaly and called out.

"Fulgrim, tread carefully. The second's state is... unnatural. He has not succumbed to the Ruinous Powers but exists entirely within his own realm."

Fulgrim sneered at the warning. "Magnus, your endless insights bore me. Just when I think you couldn't embarrass yourself further, you outdo yourself. Look at you now—dangling like a trophy. What a pitiful sight. Shall I imagine what you'll degrade into next time we meet?"

Magnus fell silent, his warnings unheeded.

Dukel's chainsword ceased its roar. A radiant light, impossible to gaze upon, erupted from his body, consuming the succubi in an instant. His eyes burned with clarity, his mind sharper than ever.

The spiritual barrier that had bound him for so long shattered. With it, his psychic prowess surged to unprecedented heights. In this moment of ascension, his intuition reached its zenith. No illusion could ensnare him; no trick could evade his preternatural awareness. His body acted with flawless precision, guided by instinct alone.

Even the incense of Slaanesh, potent as it was, had failed to corrupt him.

Fulgrim's serpentine form moved with deceptive grace, his blade coated in a venom so lethal it had left Guilliman in stasis for millennia. His transformation into a Daemon Primarch had twisted his body into a grotesque, yet strangely beautiful, caricature of his former self. His legs had become a sinuous tail, his features elongated and alien.

To behold Fulgrim was to witness perfection distorted into horror. His movements were mesmerizing, his beauty intoxicating, yet beneath it all lay a revulsion so profound it turned admiration into dread.

"Brother," Fulgrim hissed, his voice a mix of silken allure and serpentine malice. "You, the Emperor's beloved son, look at what you've done to me. Day and night, I dreamed of this moment when I could repay you a hundredfold."

Dukel met Fulgrim's gaze, his tone light, almost mocking. "I've been busy serving the Imperium. Perhaps I should've spared the time to beat some sense into you. Ask Carlos; he's seen me handle worse."

Magnus, hanging from Dukel's armor, interrupted with characteristic bluntness.

"Enough talk. Chop off his head! Let's see how long he keeps running that mouth."

Dukel chuckled, nodding. "Not a bad idea."

Fulgrim's expression twisted into a mixture of mockery and curiosity. "Cut off my head? How banal. Tell me, what do you plan to do with it?"

"Present it to the Golden Throne," Dukel replied coldly.

"How dull," Fulgrim sneered. "Still the Emperor's lapdog after all these millennia. Are you hoping Father will pat your head for bringing back such a pathetic trophy?"

Dukel's eyes narrowed. "No. Perhaps the Emperor thinks you can still be redeemed. I'll bring you back so He can abandon that foolish notion once and for all."

Fulgrim's amused mask faltered. He lunged forward, his blade tracing an elegant yet deadly arc. The confrontation had begun.

...

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