Chapter 199: Doom – “Who Cares for the Ridicule of the Bun?”

Through the dark grey clouds above Ducas, a thousand blazing lights tore the sky as drop pods descended like a storm of meteors. To the beleaguered loyalist forces, it was a sight more divine than anything in the galaxy.

"Throne of Terra... angels, real angels!" Vice Admiral Moti, resigned to death mere minutes ago, could not contain himself. The flickering fire of re-entry illuminated his weathered face, and for once, the battle-hardened officer shed his composure.

With thunderous detonations, the vanguard of the Second Legion landed.

From the pods surged black-and-green-clad Krieg Death Korps, silent and merciless. They poured forth like a creeping tide of annihilation—no words, no hesitation, only the grim efficiency of men long since dead inside.

Massive war engines followed.

Above, the shriek of Firewing-pattern interceptors ripped across the sky. Their strafing runs carved fiery trails through the Chaos front lines. Explosions bloomed like deadly flowers, immolating traitors and cultists alike.

The Doom Slayers had arrived.

These re-engineered Primaris Astartes, honed for daemon warfare, plunged into the most corrupted depths of the battlefield. Where they landed, the enemies of the Emperor were butchered in moments. Chaos Sorcerers, warped champions of the Warp, Arch-Fiends conjured from the deepest hells—all fell like brittle leaves in an autumn gale.

The heretic lines buckled. With relentless momentum, Imperial forces reclaimed vast swathes of lost ground.

"If this is a dream," Moti muttered, staring through the auspex, "then let me never awaken."

On the display, the Doom Slayers charged with surgical precision. Every sweep of their blades turned rebels and cultists into red mist. No mercy, no reprieve—only holy extermination.

And yet, a peculiar pattern emerged.

The Doom Slayers, instead of executing all Chaos-tainted survivors, captured many. Heretics were shackled and locked into rune-etched iron cages—tools of containment rather than instant death. It was... unusual.

Far from the battlefield, the Chaos general overseeing the invasion received grim news.

Seventy percent of the Chaos fleet—destroyed the moment the Imperial navy appeared in orbit.

Shock. Rage.

How?

The Black Crusades had raged for millennia. Why did the Imperium still possess such power?

The commander of the Chaos host that conquered Ducas was Hellseed Sexus, hand-picked by Abaddon himself. A warlord of considerable renown, he had razed worlds in the name of Khorne, draining them of every drop of blood, every resource, every soul. As leader of the Abaddon's Hounds—a brutal warband of Khorne Berserkers—he viewed Imperial soldiers as little more than soft meat to be shredded by chainaxe and claw.

Now, his pride was bleeding out into the mud.

He knew nothing of the Second Legion's resurgence.

He may have heard whispers of Dukel's campaigns, perhaps dismissed them as exaggerations buried in Imperial propaganda. But of Doom—the spearhead of the Second Legion—he knew nothing.

Had he understood just how many Greater Daemons had fallen to Doom's blade, he might have ordered a retreat the moment those black-and-green drop pods breached the sky.

But the Primarch's brilliance cast long shadows, and the glories of his sons were oft overlooked.

To Hellseed Sexus, the absence of Dukel meant there was no true threat. He scoffed at the thought of a mere successor Chapter halting his horde.

And so, he counterattacked.

The Demon Alliance pulled back from encircling the surviving Imperial troops and focused its might on the newcomers.

He would crush them and trap the reinforcements here. Ducas would be a tomb world for the Imperium—a baited trap that would lure in more soldiers to be slaughtered in the teeth of Chaos.

But folly follows arrogance.

Low-flying Firewing craft broke the skies open, their payloads reducing the cultists' bunkers to ash. The ruins of once-proud Gothic cathedrals were consumed in holy fire. The blood of the Emperor's people had soaked this land once. Now, it was the blood of daemons that stained the soil.

The Doom Slayers led the vanguard, flanked by Krieg's Death Korps. Together, they carved a path of steel and vengeance. The daemonic coalition faltered, crumbling under the twin hammer blows of tactical precision and overwhelming firepower.

Artillery roared like the voice of the Emperor Himself. Shells rained upon Chaos bastions, detonating in firestorms that purified corruption with each blast. Orbital bombardments from the Imperial fleet followed, annihilating swaths of heretic concentrations. The mud turned red.

Whenever a breach opened, Doom Slayers and Death Korps soldiers surged into it, tearing open the wounds of Chaos until the enemy lines bled out and died. Daemonic engines—icons of bloodlust and terror—were crushed beneath ceramite boots or torn apart by melta-fire before they could even retaliate.

The front collapsed. There was no retreat, no rally.

"This is impossible!" Sexus roared, consumed by fury and disbelief.

He had welcomed the coming of Imperial reinforcements, thinking to drown them in blood.

He had not anticipated Doom.

The sky above the battlefield of the Ducas world was torn open as a storm of airborne pods descended like meteors, streaking through the dark gray clouds. For the nearly broken loyalist warriors below, the sight was nothing short of miraculous, a divine spectacle unlike anything they'd ever seen before.

"God-Emperor, thank you for sending your angels to this forsaken world!" The glow of re-entry fire reflected off Moti's grim face as the Imperial Navy Vice Admiral shouted with fervor. His earlier stoicism was gone, replaced by an urgency born of a desperate faith in his final moments.

The roar of explosions echoed through the sky as the landing forces of the Second Legion hit the ground with thunderous impact.

Cold and relentless, the Krieg Death Troopers in their signature black and green uniforms surged from the airborne containers, a living tide of death. These soldiers, silent and unyielding, were weapons of war—nothing more, nothing less.

Behind them, towering war machines thundered across the battlefield, adding to the relentless barrage of destruction.

In the air, the shriek of engines filled the sky as Firewing fighters cleared the path for the ground assault, their rockets lighting up the heavens. Each explosion was a message: the minions of Chaos had no hope.

The Doom Slayers, the upgraded Primaris Space Marines, descended upon the most perilous positions on the battlefield, their enhanced physiques and deadly weaponry transforming them into near-unstoppable forces of war. Even the daemonic warriors of Khorne would have little chance of survival when faced with their might.

The Chaos wizards and self-proclaimed Arch-Devils were obliterated with terrifying efficiency, like leaves caught in the autumn wind, falling before the Doom Slayers' charge.

As the lines of Chaos crumbled, the Empire swiftly reclaimed its lost territory, pushing the enemy back at a pace that defied belief.

Moti, observing from his command post, could scarcely believe his eyes. Through the reconnaissance equipment, he watched in stunned awe as the soldiers of the Emperor—those once thought to be mere mortals—turned the tide of battle. Khorne Berserkers were crushed underfoot, demons caged like animals, and the forces of Chaos were torn apart by the relentless advance of the Imperial war machine.

His disbelief turned to a grim admiration. The strength of the Imperial Legion was like nothing he had ever imagined.

But there was something strange. The Imperial forces, despite their overwhelming might, did not execute every enemy they captured. Instead, the heretics were imprisoned—locked away in rune-inscribed iron cages. Moti could not fathom this mercy.

At that moment, word of the space battle reached the commander of the Chaos forces, and a deep fury stirred within him. When he learned that more than 70% of the Chaos fleet had been obliterated the moment the Imperial reinforcements arrived, his shock turned to rage.

"How can this be? How does the Empire still possess such power? After all these Black Crusades, we thought we had crushed their spirit!"

The commander of the Black Legion, Hellseed Kaerthos, had personally overseen the conquest of Ducas. Known for his ruthless methods, Kaerthos had always considered the soldiers of the Imperium weak—mere fodder to feed the bloodlust of the Chaos legions. But this time, he had underestimated the resolve of the Second Legion.

Though Kaerthos had heard whispers of Dukel's war feats, he was unaware of Doom's own reputation, overshadowed by the deeds of his Primarch. If he had known the true nature of Doom, perhaps his first reaction would have been to retreat, not rage against the forces arrayed before him.

But the glory of the Lion El'Jonson had dimmed the light of his progeny, and Kaerthos, consumed by pride, thought he could still win.

"The Seed of Hell will not fail," Kaerthos thought as he gave the order to mobilize the full strength of his forces against the new threat.

The Eye of Terror's support, the endless supply of daemonic power, was his secret weapon. With each passing moment, his legions would grow stronger, replenishing their numbers in ways the Imperium could not.

Kaerthos had already secured his true objective: to expand the reach of the Eye of Terror. The conquest of Ducas, in his mind, was secondary. If he could unleash the full power of the Chaos array and draw the Eye's influence over the world, the Imperium would never again be able to hold it.

As he stood at the fortress's peak, Kaerthos watched as the battle raged below. His eyes narrowed as the Imperium's forces pressed on. Doom had entered the final charge, and with it, the ultimate test of victory.

"I shall end this myself," Kaerthos thought, his chains glowing ominously in the dark. He hid in the shadows, awaiting the moment to strike.

Doom, leading the Doom Slayers, moved forward. His presence was an unstoppable force. As Kaerthos launched himself from the ruins, his chains snapping through the air, his voice roared, "Humble mortal, your death is here!"

But Kaerthos's strike never landed.

With a single thunderous shot from Doom's double-barreled shotgun, the chains shattered, and the demon within was obliterated.

Kaerthos faltered for a moment, stunned. He could not understand what had just happened—his chains, forged by the darkest powers of the Warp, had been destroyed with ease.

Before he could react, Doom seized him by the head, smashing him repeatedly into the debris-laden ground. With each strike, the bones of the once-mighty general cracked, his body breaking under the relentless assault.

"Another fine specimen," Doom muttered under his breath, his voice cold as the grave.

Kaerthos, broken and barely conscious, managed a twisted grin. "You may defeat me, servant of the false Emperor... but even if you take back Ducas, you will never stop Chaos. The Eye of Destruction will consume this world and more. The Chaos Array is already in place. The Eye of Terror is expanding."

Kaerthos laughed, a deep, mocking sound that filled the ruins. His true victory was not in this battle but in the power that would soon engulf Ducas. The Eye's influence would spread, and nothing could stand in its way.

Doom's voice was grave as he responded, "I truly do not understand your Chaos array."

The Doom Slayer was unperturbed by the mockery of the demon. To him, demons were mere expendables—consumables that ultimately fed the Empire. He thought of them no differently than food, regardless of their grotesque appearance. After all, no one would mourn the insult of a loaf of bread while they were eating it.

"But there is one thing I know for certain," he said, his tone unwavering, "The function of any magic circle is tied to the energy of the Warp. If the connection between the two is severed, the circle will collapse on its own."

The Seed of Hell laughed in disbelief. "Hahaha! You think you can stop this? You are helpless, doomed to fail. This place is so close to the Eye of Terror; how could you possibly..."

His laughter died in his throat as he saw something utterly impossible. Every soldier—whether Doom Slayers or Krieg troopers—was surrounded by an almost tangible force field. This field, visible to the naked eye, dispelled the swirling chaotic energies of the Warp, creating ripples in the air that expanded outward. The force fields combined, each soldier acting as a node, forming a vast matrix that began to encompass the entire world.

The Seed of Hell's eyes widened in horror. "This is impossible! How can every one of you possess such power?"

His voice quivered with disbelief. This was beyond comprehension. If every Imperial soldier had access to such technology, how could Cadia have fallen? How could Abaddon's expeditions have been victorious time after time?

Doom did not respond. Instead, a Krieg squad arrived, carrying an iron cage inscribed with runes. Doom's mind shifted. The demon would soon become raw material for the Argent factory. He had no more time for conversation with food.

"By the throne, we win!" Vice Admiral Moti's voice rang out as he emerged from the castle, flanked by the remaining survivors of the Weepers.

They removed their helmets, revealing bloodstained smiles.

"Battle brother, thank you for your rescue," said the Chapter Master of the Lamenters, offering Doom a formal gesture of gratitude.

"I had no idea there were warriors of your caliber in the Empire," he continued, with a slight bow.

The Weepers had been isolated for years, trapped by Warp storms, and had never heard of Dukel or Sanguinius.

"We are of the Second Legion," Doom replied, his voice filled with pride. "We are the descendants of Dukel, the Lord of the Second Legion, the Destroyer King, and the Supreme Warmaster of the Empire."

The name "Dukel" brought an unmistakable sense of pride to Doom's words.

As they spoke, the Krieg soldiers began the grim task of clearing the battlefield. Only in the briefest pauses did these grim and stoic soldiers—known for their cruelty—raise their eyes to look at the Doom Slayers. A fleeting glimmer of hope crossed their faces, a desire to one day join the ranks of such proud warriors.

"Brother," one Doom Slayer approached Doom. "What is our next move?"

Doom turned to him, his expression solemn but determined. "We rest here for one day, then we move on to the next rescue coordinates."

Moti, standing nearby, couldn't hide his reluctance. One day for rest, he thought, though it would be used mostly for cleaning up the battlefield. A pang of sorrow filled his eyes as he considered the grim truth: these warriors, so noble and proud, could not afford the luxury of rest for long.

But Doom's response was different. His face lit up with a rare joy.

"Really? We don't have to return to the factory immediately? We continue the rescue mission?" he said, his tone one of excitement. "It's rare that father gives us so much time."

"Indeed, it's a rare bit of leisure," Doom agreed, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "I'd almost forgotten what it's like."

Doom paused for a moment, then continued, "Father plans to increase the output of Argent weapons and expand the Slayer program. To achieve that, we need to consume hundreds of millions of demons every day. That's why he allowed us to leave the factory."

He clapped the other Slayer on the shoulder and gave him a knowing smile. "Enjoy this time, brother, despite the challenges ahead."

Turning to Vice Admiral Moti, Doom spoke again, his tone now serious.

"We will leave three thousand technicians here."

Moti blinked in confusion. "Here? But... sir, this place is so close to the Eye of Terror."

Doom met his gaze, unwavering. "Yes. The Second Legion needs a factory here."

The seed of a new mission was planted—one that would require sacrifice, but one that would also ensure the continued strength and expansion of the Imperium's might in this forsaken world.