Rebirth of the Second Primarch

Awakening in a void, there was nothing; then, a voice commanded me to express my wishes. After only a moment's thought, I realized I never seemed to have enough, so I wished for a universe of my own, like a Minecraft world, infinite in resources. Next, I desired a system to guide me when I lost my way. Finally, I contemplated the most crucial trait of humanity: the ability to adapt. For without adaptation, I would perish.

A fleeting thought occurred to me: a great man requires an even greater name. Without a doubt, wherever I may find myself, I will become indispensable to those around me. Therefore, my name must embody the weight of this inevitable duty... I shall be known as Atlas Telamon, he who endures or carries the heavens.

What a powerful foundation you've wished for your self Atlas Telamon! By wishing for a universe of infinite resources, a guiding system, and the gift of adaptation, you've painted the image of someone who strives for mastery over their surroundings, yet remains aware of the importance of wisdom and change. The name "Atlas Telamon" is striking, evoking the mythic strength and duty of Atlas, who bore the heavens on his shoulders.

Your journey seems destined to explore the boundaries of creation, responsibility, and growth. Do you foresee any particular challenges or companions for yourself Atlas?

I smile and speak, even if my wishes are not granted encountering trouble is inevitable. You have reminded me of a quote I once heard: "I do not wish for a lighter burden, but for broader shoulders."

Just as I finish speaking, I am suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of joy, akin to that of a boy who feels his father's recognition of him as a man for the first time. 

For a moment, there is silence, then it speaks: "Atlas Telamon, you are worthy." After a pause, the voice speaks again, "Where do you wish to go? It can be anywhere at any time."

Not wanting my potential power to go to waste, I take a moment to consider where I could be of the most help. Widening my eyes, I think of the most doomed universe of mankind.

The grimdark universe of Warhammer 40k, set in the 41st millennium, would indeed benefit greatly from someone like me. Surrounded on all sides, with no hope in sight, humanity stands alone.

With my eyes closed and head bowed, I reflect on the ceaseless suffering, the eternal anguish inescapable, even beyond death.

Clenching my fists, I lift my gaze and voice my wish to be reborn as the second Primarch, regaining consciousness just before the Primarchs are dispersed across the galaxy in the late 30th millennium.

This is merely a request, but could you relieve Angron of the events leading to the surgical implantation of the Butcher's Nails into his head and punish those who committed such an act?

Certainly, are you prepared now, Atlas Telamon?

I AM!

In the infinite void between life and death, Atlas floated, weightless and disembodied, a soul untethered from time. Then, a mechanical voice, deep and resonant as the tolling of a bell, shattered the silence.

"You have arrived."

The voice was not warm, nor was it cruel. It was absolute. Before I could question it, reality rushed to meet me. The void peeled away, revealing a towering figure clad in shimmering gold armor—The Emperor of Mankind. His presence was overwhelming, a sun in human form.

Atlas, or whatever was left of him, felt an immense pull as his essence was poured into a new form. The pain was fleeting as if he were being remade in fire, but the result was undeniable—a body of perfection, power beyond comprehension. His skin was pale, his eyes gleamed with intelligence, and his muscles coiled with unimaginable strength.

"You are my second," the Emperor spoke, pride evident in his gaze. "You will lead, inspire, and reshape the galaxy. But first, you must grow, learn, and understand the depth of your purpose."

Atlas, now the Second Primarch, could feel the weight of the Emperor's words settles upon him, like a yoke of iron. This was a choice, but now it's destiny. And yet, deep within, he felt a strange satisfaction, a sense of fulfillment, as if this was what he had been born for, in one life or another.

The Emperor watching all twenty of the Primarchs, each crafted in his image, all imbued with a fragment of his unmatched power. As they stood encased within the pods of his creation, the Emperor stepped back, a silent guardian, watching over his sons. He had crafted them to be the ultimate generals, warriors, and leaders, each unique, each essential.

Yet, as it was decreed, fate would not permit the Emperor's grand plan to unfold without interruption.

In the darkness beyond the Emperor's throne, in the realm of the Warp, unseen forces stirred. The Chaos Gods, enraged by this creation of such perfect beings, saw them as a threat to their dominion over the galaxy. They schemed, twisted, and conspired.

 As the Second Primarch settled into his pod, drifting into a stasis-like sleep, the Warp and real space began to ripple, an unnatural disturbance in the fabric of reality.

The warp crackled with raw energy as the reborn man, now a Primarch, floated in the stasis pod, his consciousness teetering on the edge of oblivion. The Emperor of Mankind, standing before the array of his twenty gene-sons, watched them in silent contemplation. His eyes, ancient and knowing, scanned each pod in turn. This was the culmination of millennia of planning, the apex of his designs to unite humanity across the stars.

But something unusual stirred in the pod of the Second Primarch.

As the Emperor's gaze passed over it, the stasis field seemed to flicker for a fraction of a second, barely noticeable even to the Emperor's heightened senses. Within the pod, the Second Primarch felt a sudden jolt. His essence, newly forged and still coalescing, stirred. At that moment, without fully understanding how or why, his eyes snapped open.

For an instant, time itself seemed to freeze.

Glowing deep blue eyes met the glowing golden eyes of the Emperor. It was more than just a glance; it was a connection, as if a thread of understanding, deep and ancient, passed between them. The Primarch saw not just a father, but something far more immense, a being of cosmic significance whose vision stretched far beyond mortal comprehension. And the Emperor saw… something unexpected.

The Emperor's brow furrowed ever so slightly. This wasn't supposed to happen—none of his sons should have been conscious at this stage, not until they were fully matured and removed from their pods. Yet the Second Primarch's eyes were open, clear and burning with awareness. There was no fear in them, only recognition and a deep, undeniable sense of purpose.

The moment stretched on. The Emperor, for all his foresight and control, could not help but feel a spark of curiosity, a ripple of intrigue.

"He knows."

It was a thought that passed through the Emperor's mind with the weight of a whisper in the Warp. The Second Primarch's gaze was piercing, intense, as if somewhere deep inside him he understood his place in the grand scheme. The Emperor could feel it—the nascent willpower of this Primarch, a force that was already growing, already pushing against the chains of destiny.

But before the Emperor could react, reality itself bent and twisted.

A crackle of energy surged across the room, and a tear in the very fabric of existence formed. The Chaos Gods had struck, unleashing their malevolent power upon the Primarch project. The Emperor's attention snapped to the Warp storm that now engulfed the chamber. His psychic might flared, an Insurmountable force of control and will, but even he could not halt the storm entirely.

The Primarchs were being ripped from their pods, flung into the chaotic depths of the Warp, scattered across the galaxy.

But in that final, fleeting moment, the Second Primarch's eyes remained locked on the Emperor's. His body was already being pulled away, his form disappearing into the storm, but his gaze stayed resolute. There was no panic, no fear—only certainty.

"I will return." It wasn't spoken, but the Emperor felt it, that unspoken promise in his son's eyes.

And then he was gone, wrenched into the abyss like the others. The Emperor, his face still impassive but his mind racing stood alone in the aftermath of the attack. The Warp rift closed as quickly as it had opened, leaving the chamber eerily silent, save for the hum of machines and the empty pods that once held the future of humanity.

The Emperor stared at the empty space where the Second Primarch had been. There was something different about that one. Even now, the Emperor could feel it—an unbreakable thread that connected them still, a lingering promise in the currents of the Warp.

With a heavy heart and a mind filled with endless calculations, the Emperor turned and strode from the room. His sons had been scattered, their fates hidden from him. But he knew that somewhere, out in the vast expanse of the galaxy, the Second Primarch would rise. And when that time came, the Emperor would be waiting.

For in those brief moments, he had seen not just a warrior or a leader—but something more. Something destined to challenge even the gods themselves.

The Second Primarch's consciousness flickered in and out as he was hurled through the Warp, the laws of space and time warping around him. Flashes of terrifying, alien landscapes passed by in a blur. He could sense the malicious laughter of daemons, the poisonous touch of Chaos as it sought to corrupt him, to claim him for their dark designs.

But deep within him, something stirred. A defiance, an unyielding will. The Emperor's essence, the genetic strength woven into his very being, shielded him from the worst of the Warp's influence. And yet, something else protected him—buried deep within from his first life he could faintly remember. A wish to thrive, to adapt, to conquer.

The tempest of the Warp subsided, and the Second Primarch crashed onto an unknown world, his body half-buried in the mud and stone of an alien landscape. As he pulled himself from the earth, gasping for breath, he looked up at a blood-red sky, the twin suns casting long shadows across the barren land. He could feel the eyes of this world upon him—primitive, hungry, dangerous.

He was alone.

The Second Primarch rose to his feet, a pitiful boy in the rocky terrain, his new body still pulsing with the raw power of his rebirth. He looked up to the heavens, searching for any sign of his father or brothers. But there was nothing.

"Then I will carve my own path," he whispered, the voice that had once been human now filled with the gravitas of a demigod.

He had been cast away from his purpose, thrown to a hostile world, but he would not falter. The Emperor and his own wishes have shaped me to be a leader, a warrior, and he would be both. As the wind howled around him, he set out into the wilderness, ready to conquer this new world and, in time, find his way back to the stars. He would gather strength, build armies, and become the legend he was destined to be.

For he was the Second Primarch, and no force in the galaxy—not even the Chaos Gods—could stop him from fulfilling his purpose.

The Second Primarch, Atlas, was shrouded in thick, viscous mud that clung to his skin, while the air around him was heavy with the pungent stench of decay. His nascent senses were already sharp; he could discern the distant calls of unfamiliar creatures, the odor of the rotting swamp, and swarms of bugs flying around. Despite being only seven hours old, he stood as tall as a teenager, his physique filled with the latent power of a demigod.

The world he had landed on was nothing like the sterile sanctum of his father's lab. The Emperor—his creator, his father—was now a fading memory, an echo that lingered somewhere in the recesses of his mind. He had been torn from that place, thrust into this savage wilderness by forces beyond his understanding.

He rose from the muck, his powerful muscles already adapting to the unfamiliar gravity and terrain. All around him, thick trees with twisted roots loomed like ancient sentinels, their bark crawling with strange growths. Above, the sky was hidden by a dense canopy of leaves, letting through only fractured beams of sickly green light.

His keen eyes surveyed the swamp, taking in every detail. Movement. Something stirred in the shadows—multiple somethings. His instincts flared, and before he could fully grasp what was happening, the first of the creatures lunged from the underbrush.

It was a twisted thing, a grotesque fusion of reptile and mammal, with slick, scaled skin and six muscular legs tipped with claws. Its eyes were wide and hungry, glowing with a feral intensity. Without hesitation, the beast struck, aiming for the Primarch's throat.

He reacted instinctively, with a speed no human possessed. His bare hands snatched the creature mid-leap, seizing its neck and torso. With a ferocious roar, he pulled back his hand, still clutching the creature's throat, tearing out its windpipe in one savage move. The creature's body convulsed and then stilled, but as soon as he let it fall, more of them emerged.

Dozens of them emerged from the undergrowth, all similarly mutated—some with horns, others with additional limbs, but all filled with the same insatiable hunger. They circled him, their low growls reverberating through the thick, humid air.

The Primarch stood tall, mud and blood streaked across his pale skin, his eyes gleaming with the fierce will to survive. For a moment, he felt no fear, only a cold, calculating awareness. These creatures were beneath him. They were obstacles, nothing more.

The largest of the beast, easily twice the size of the others, charged from the rear. Despite its size, it moved swiftly, plowing through the sludge with a deafening roar. The Primarch whirled around just in time to drive his fist into the creature's chest. The force resembled that of a cannonball, crushing the beast's ribs under the impact. With his arm buried in the mutated creature's torso, Atlas was momentarily taken aback before snapping back to attention. He seized any intestines within reach and yanked forcefully. The beast emitted a piercing wail, collapsing into the mire, twitching as blood gushed out like a ruptured pipeline.

The remaining pack hesitated, momentarily thrown off by their leader's swift fall. But hunger drove them forward, and soon the air was filled with snapping jaws and flailing claws. The Primarch fought like a force of nature, his bare hands his only weapons. He grabbed one of the beasts by the throat, slamming its head into the trunk of a nearby tree with enough force to crack both skull and bark. Another came at him from the side, biting into his arm. Its fangs barely punctured his genetically enhanced flesh before he ripped it away, smashing its skull against a rock.

Looking back at his arm, Atlas was surprised to find the teeth of the mutated beast still embedded in his flesh. The creature's bite had been so deep that when Atlas flexed his muscles, they clamped around the tooth. This grip was so firm that, when Atlas pulled the beast off, his arm retained the teeth, effectively yanking them out of the beast's mouth. Relaxing his arm the teeth were pushed out of his arm a moment later.

Refocusing on the battle, Atlas moved with the speed and precision of someone far beyond his years, his body an impeccable machine of martial prowess. Every punch and kick was delivered with lethal intent. When a creature lunged for his legs, he executed a question mark kick, caving in its skull and ending its life instantly. As another swiped at his back, he spun around, extended his finger, and thrust forward, piercing through the monster's eye and into its brain, the gruesome crunch of bone resounding through the swamp.

Minutes passed, and soon, the swamp was silent again. The Primarch stood amidst the corpses of the mutated animals, his chest heaving with exertion, though he was far from exhausted. His pale skin was covered in a mixture of blood, mud, and sweat, but he was alive—more than alive. He had been tested, and he had emerged victorious.

He knelt beside one of the fallen creatures, studying it for a moment. These beasts had been strong, savage, but he had been stronger. His mind worked quickly, already understanding the necessity of learning from his enemies, of adapting to whatever this world threw at him. 

Glancing down, Atlas noticed his nakedness exposed to the world. Without much thought, he ripped the sturdy hide from the deceased beast as one would remove a sock. Then, just as easily, he draped a section of the hide from the largest creature around his waist, fashioning a makeshift garment to preserve his modesty.

The swamp remained eerily quiet, as if the very world had acknowledged his dominance. But he knew this was only the beginning. He had no idea where he was or what lay ahead, but he did know one thing with absolute certainty: he would survive. He would grow stronger.

With a final glance at the ruined bodies around him, the Second Primarch began to walk, deeper into the unknown wilderness. He could feel the weight of something greater stirring within him, a purpose not yet fully realized. The beasts of this swamp had tested him, but he knew there were far greater beasts ahead.

And he was ready.

For the first time, Atlas experienced hunger; a sensation unlike any he had known in his previous existence. Born into power, his form was sculpted to perfection by the Emperor. Yet there he was, half-buried in dense mud, the mutated beast's fangs looming for his throat, and the pangs of hunger made their presence acutely felt.

He ripped the beast's head off with a wet snap, tossing the headless, scaly corpse, small as a kitten, to the side. Another creature sprang from the shadows, its hideous mouth agape. Atlas countered with an uppercut, the force of the blow knocking the creature out, condemning it to drown face-down in the swamp's waist-high, watery mud. His breathing was rapid, his muscles tense and sore from hours of non-stop fighting. The night was heavy with humidity and shrouded in darkness, yet his enhanced vision sliced through the blackness as effortlessly as his fists dispatched his foes. 

And yet, something was wrong. He could feel it creeping through him—an insatiable hunger, a burning emptiness that throbbed in his gut. It wasn't like the human hunger for food he vaguely remembered from his old life. This was deeper, more primal. His body, engineered to be the ultimate weapon, demanded fuel—immediate and constant.

Atlas ripped a chunk of flesh from the beast lying at his feet. It was raw, still dripping with blood, and instinct screamed for him to devour it. Without hesitation, he bit into the meat, chewing and swallowing with savage efficiency. The taste was foul, alien, but his body welcomed it. As he chewed, another wave of creatures burst from the underbrush, screeching and snapping at him. Atlas didn't stop.

The hunger only grew as he fought. His hands and teeth worked in tandem—one moment grappling with a beast, the next tearing into its flesh for sustenance. There was no pause between the fight and the feast. He had no time for rest, no time for a proper meal. His body demanded more, more fuel to keep moving, more strength to keep fighting.

Atlas roared, his voice cutting through the night as he hurled another beast into the muck. He bent low, sinking his teeth into the corpse's flank, ripping a chunk of muscle free. Blood smeared across his face, mingling with the mud and sweat already covering his pale skin. The meat slid down his throat, thick and stringy, but it filled the void, if only for a moment.

He felt his strength surge with every bite. His muscles, already swollen with power, burned hotter, flexing with new energy. His body was adapting to this savage world, just as he had been designed to do. The beasts came faster now, their twisted forms growing more desperate, as if the swamp itself was throwing everything it had at him.

It didn't matter.

Atlas became a blur of violence and hunger, his mind laser-focused on survival. He lashed out at the nearest beast, driving his fist through ribs and grabbing the heart to eat mid-fall. The next creature leaped for his back—he ducked low, caught its leg, and tore it from its body, immediately biting into it.

The swamp seemed endless, a constant wave of predators testing his endurance. But with every kill, every bite of raw meat swallowed between battles, Atlas grew stronger. The hunger, while still there, was being fed. His instincts sharpened, his senses honed. He fought not just with his hands, but with his teeth, ripping into flesh as easily as any weapon would.

The night stretched on, the darkness broken only by the sounds of snapping bones, guttural roars, and the wet crunch of torn flesh. Atlas, submerged in the mud, battling and eating in the same savage rhythm, had long since lost track of time. He didn't need to know how long he had been fighting, how many beasts he had killed. The only thing that mattered was survival. And feeding the hunger.

Finally, the assault slowed. The creatures, sensing the inevitable, began to retreat into the depths of the swamp. Atlas stood alone, his body heaving, his hands slick with blood and muck, his face smeared with the remnants of his gruesome meal.

The hunger, for now, was sated. He breathed deeply, the cold night air filling his lungs as the last of the mutated beasts slunk away into the shadows. His body, though battered, was alive with power. He could feel the energy coursing through him, feeding his muscles, his mind.

Atlas gazed at the retreating darkness, his eyes glowing faintly in the night. He was still hungry, always hungry, but now he understood. This world would test him again, throw more beasts, more challenges, more pain. And with every fight, every bite, he would grow stronger.

This savage land was not his enemy—it was his proving ground. Here, he would feed, he would adapt, and he would thrive.

The beasts had been his first meal. The galaxy would be his next.

The first rays of sunlight pierced the dense canopy of the swamp, casting long, golden beams across the twisted trees and murky water. For the first time since his violent entry into this strange new world, Atlas felt a moment of calm. The beasts that had plagued him throughout the night were gone, retreating with the fading darkness. The swamp itself seemed to retreat, as though acknowledging his triumph, conceding the battle for survival.

Atlas stood at the edge of the swamp, his pale skin marred by streaks of mud, blood, and the remnants of a savage night. His body, having ceased its rapid growth for the moment, left him resembling a muscular middle schooler, despite being only 24 hours old—a testament to his power. Each muscle throbbed, aching not from fatigue but from relentless growth, as his form adapted and evolved to survive the harshness of his existence. His hunger, though briefly quelled, continued to lurk beneath the surface, a constant reminder that this world would grant him no respite.

He gazed out at the new terrain ahead: dry, cracked earth stretching far beyond the swamp's edge, an arid contrast to the humid, fetid mire. It seemed safer, and safety was a rare commodity in this hostile world. There were no mutated beasts lurking in the shadows here, no predators waiting to strike. The sun, rising steadily into the sky, promised at least a few hours of peace.

Atlas's mind, though still infantile in its development, was sharp, filled with instinct and tactical reasoning. He knew he needed rest, not just to recover from the night but to prepare for whatever came next. Climbing a tree seemed impractical—he had no reason to trust the branches wouldn't break under his weight or that beasts wouldn't find him. He needed a place to hide, to secure himself from any potential threats.

A hole, he reasoned, would do. Somewhere deep, beneath the surface, away from the watchful eyes of predators. The swamp was too risky to dig near; water could seep through, flooding any refuge he created. But the dry land beyond? That would be his sanctuary.

Without wasting time, Atlas moved further inland, his bare feet crunching on the cracked, parched soil. He found a spot about a mile from the swamp's boundary—a place where the ground felt firm, unyielding beneath his feet. It was as good a place as any. He knelt down, driving his fingers into the earth. The soil was hard, but his enhanced strength made easy work of it.

He dug quickly, and efficiently, his powerful hands scooping out chunks of dirt with every motion. The hole grew deeper with each passing second, the rhythm of his digging almost meditative. His body, though weary from the night's battles, moved with mechanical precision, every motion deliberate. He could feel the tension in his muscles easing as the physical labor distracted him from the lingering hunger and the wild instincts that surged beneath his surface.

 After just a minute Atlas created a shelter deep enough to protect him, deep enough to ensure he could rest without the constant threat of another battle. Strangely it was perfectly square. But he wasn't finished. He kept digging, carving out more space, his mind set on creating a refuge that would last. His fingers tore through the soil like blades, unrelenting, until finally, the hole was as deep as a small cave—more than enough for his needs.

Atlas emerged, taking stock of his efforts. The sun was just beginning to rise, its heat slowly intensifying, yet he had triumphed. The pit was deep, cool, and secure, situated at a safe distance from the swamp to prevent flooding, and secluded enough to escape the notice of roaming creatures. It was the most secure location he could fashion under his circumstances.

With the hole ready, Atlas descended back into it, lying down for the first time since his birth. The cool earth cradled his form, soothing the aches and bruises from the night before. For the first time in his short life, he felt a semblance of peace. His mind, still processing the primal instincts of survival, relaxed ever so slightly.

He stared up at the lip of the hole, the blue sky visible in a narrow strip above him. Thoughts drifted through his mind—flashes of the Emperor's face, the sensation of being torn from the stasis pod, the beasts of the swamp, the hunger. Always, the hunger.

But here, in this hole, in the quiet of the day, he allowed himself to rest. His eyelids grew heavy, his muscles slackened, and though his senses remained sharp—listening for the slightest disturbance—he let himself drift into sleep. A short respite, perhaps, but a necessary one.

Atlas knew he would rise again, stronger than before. He had survived his first night in this unforgiving universe, battled creatures that would have destroyed any lesser being, and endured. The swamp had tested him, and he had emerged victorious.

He was the Second Primarch, reborn in a world that sought to break him. But it would not.

This was only the beginning.