The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 118: Primeborn



Cherry blossoms danced endlessly through an impossible sky, each petal catching ethereal light in ways that defied material physics. Denzel Washington, First Captain of the Liberty Eagles, stood unmoved in his ceremonial samurai armor, twin swords Kusanagi and Totsuka held in a relaxed but ready stance. The surreal battlefield stretched infinitely before him, a dreamscape where time held no meaning and reality bent to will rather than reason.

To his right sat Franklin Valorian, manifested as a noble Shogun, his presence radiating an aura of absolute authority tempered by benevolent wisdom. The Primarch sat in perfect seiza position, his expression serene as he watched the trial unfold. To the left, writhing in barely contained malice, lounged Slaanesh's avatar, a being of such terrible beauty that reality itself seemed to recoil from its presence.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Between them stood the Fallen Samurai, a Keeper of Secrets whose form mocked everything Denzel held sacred. Its armor, while perfectly crafted, was an abomination of excess - each plate etched with scenes of sublime depravity, each joint articulated with unnecessary complexity. It moved with uncanny fluiditiy that somehow seemed wrong, as if the very concept of martial discipline had been twisted into a perverse dance.

"Denzel Washington," the daemon's voice was silk over steel, each word perfectly formed yet hollow. "Why do you persist in this charade of duty? Your skill rivals the greatest swordsmen of any age. Why chain yourself to concepts like 'liberty' when you could experience perfect freedom in abandon?"

Denzel's response came without hesitation, his voice steady and clear as a temple bell. "My duty is not a chain - it is a choice renewed with every breath. True freedom lies not in abandon, but in the power to choose one's path and hold to it."

The daemon's blade whistled through the air, a weapon that hummed with forbidden harmonics. Denzel met it with Kusanagi, the clash sending ripples through the storm of cherry blossoms. Each exchange was perfect, a demonstration of skill that transcended mere combat.

"Your Primarch sends you to die for his ideals," the Keeper pressed, its movements becoming more fluid, more seductive. "How many battles? How many sacrifices? And for what? A concept as ephemeral as these petals?"

Denzel's counter-strike with Totsuka forced the daemon back, the blade's edge gleaming with righteous purpose. "Every battle was my choice. Every sacrifice strengthened my resolve. You speak of freedom but understand only slavery to desire."

The duel intensified, reality warping around them as their philosophical debate manifested in violence. The Keeper of Secrets launched a series of perfect strikes, each one designed not just to kill but to overwhelm the senses with their beauty.

"I offer you perfection," it whispered, its voice bypassing Denzel's ears to speak directly to his soul. "Eternal glory. Power beyond measure. No more doubt, no more pain, no more compromise."

Denzel moved like water, his defense absolute yet effortless. "You offer a cage gilded with lies. True perfection lies in the struggle, in the daily choice to rise above our base nature. In liberty, we find purpose. In purpose, we find strength."

The daemon's attacks grew more desperate, more raw. It showed him visions of possible futures - worlds where he ruled as an immortal warlord, realities where his every desire was fulfilled instantly. Each was perfect, and each was utterly hollow.

"Even your Primarch knows the truth," it hissed, its perfect form beginning to crack under Denzel's unwavering resolve. "All beings serve something. Chaos, order, duty, desire - all are chains. Why not choose the sweetest bondage?"

A slight smile crossed Denzel's face, the first expression he had shown since the trial began. "You speak of service as if it negates freedom. My loyalty to Franklin Valorian isn't blind devotion - it's a conscious choice renewed each day. He leads because we choose to follow. He commands because we trust his vision. That is the essence of liberty."

The Keeper of Secrets screamed in frustration, its carefully maintained form starting to dissolve around the edges. Its attacks became wild, sacrificing precision for raw power. But Denzel remained unmoved, his defense absolute.

"You cannot break me," Denzel stated simply, advancing with measured steps. "Your promises are dust. Your perfection is stagnation. Liberty demands vigilance, sacrifice, and the courage to choose the harder path. These are not burdens - they are the proof of our freedom."

In a final, desperate assault, the daemon unleashed everything it had. Reality buckled as it showed Denzel visions of his own death, of the Legion's fall, of Franklin's failure. But where it expected to find doubt, it found only steel.

Denzel's counter-attack was sublime in its simplicity. Kusanagi and Totsuka moved in perfect harmony, guided by unwavering conviction. The Keeper of Secrets' defenses, built on the shifting sands of desire and excess, crumbled before the solid rock of principle.

"Liberty," Denzel spoke as his blades found their mark, "is not the freedom to do as you please. It is the freedom to do what is right."

The Keeper of Secrets dissolved into motes of light, its form breaking apart like cherry blossoms in a storm. As reality reasserted itself, Denzel found himself back on the battlefield, his armor bearing fresh scars but his spirit unshaken.

A Slaaneshi daemon lunged at him, its claws seeking his throat. Without pause, without doubt, Denzel bisected it with a single clean stroke. The motion was efficient, purposeful, devoid of flourish - everything the Keeper of Secrets had not been.

His vox crackled to life. "First Captain," Henry Cavill's voice carried a note of concern, "you disappeared suddenly, like the other Primeborn. Are you well?"

"I am well, Brother," Denzel replied, his voice carrying the same steady confidence it always had. "The enemy sought to test our resolve. They found it unbreakable."

In the distance, Franklin Valorian's battle with the Warshard lit up the sky like a second sun. Denzel allowed himself a moment of pride - not in his victory, but in the privilege of serving a cause worthy of such dedication.

The transition was instant - one moment Armstrong stood amid the carnage of the Crone World, the next he found himself hurled into the realm of endless slaughter. Above him stretched a sky of boiling crimson, weeping droplets of scalding blood that hissed against his armor. The ground beneath his feet was a mosaic of crushed skulls and cracked earth, each step releasing whispers of ancient deaths.

Brass gates towered before him, their surface etched with countless battles, each panel depicting greater acts of violence than the last. The air itself felt thick with rage, every breath carrying the metallic taste of spilled blood and the acrid stench of war eternal.

At eleven feet tall, the Primeborn captain towered over most Space Marines, though here he felt almost small beneath the titan-scale architecture of the Blood God's realm. Brass gates large enough to admit Imperator Titans stood before him, their surfaces carved with skulls that wept real blood. The very ground beneath his feet was a mosaic of shattered bones and ancient weapons, all submerged in a shallow lake of eternally fresh blood.

Khorne's challenge echoed not through the air, but through the marrow of Armstrong's enhanced bones: "PROVE YOUR STRENGTH, MORTAL! OR DIE AND BECOME NOTHING!" A lesser warrior might have felt fear. Armstrong felt only irritation. The gates swung open with a screech of tortured metal, and hell itself poured forth

They came first in a wave of red flesh and burning steel - Bloodletters by the Hundreds of Thousands, their Hellblades leaving trails of fire through the air. Armstrong met them with the fury of the Liberty Eagles, his power fists crackling with energy as nanomachines reinforced every strike.

The first daemon to reach him simply ceased to exist, its form collapsing into particles as Armstrong's fist passed through where its chest had been. The second lost its head to a backhand that would have shattered a tank. The third, fourth, and fifth died in a single sweeping blow that sent their essence screaming back to the void.

But they kept coming.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" The cry echoed from countless throats.

Armstrong's laughter cut through their chanting. "Sorry, boys - this blood's spoken for!" His armor, already reinforcing itself, grew denser with each impact. Nanomachines swarmed across its surface like liquid metal, sealing breaches before they could form, strengthening

weak points before they could be exploited.

The bloodlust was insidious. With each daemon he destroyed, Armstrong felt it creeping at the edges of his consciousness - the urge to lose himself in the slaughter, to become nothing more than an engine of destruction. But he was his father's son, forged in the fires of liberty,

and no god's puppet.

"I am the Liberator's Executioner," he growled, slamming two Bloodletters' heads together with enough force to shatter reality. "And I. Don't. Break."

The Flesh Hounds came next, their brass collars gleaming with unholy light. They moved like liquid death, too fast for mortal eyes to track. But Armstrong was far beyond mortal.

The first hound's teeth shattered against his reinforced gauntlet. He used its momentum to swing it like a flail, crushing three of its pack-mates before throwing the broken corpse aside. "Down, boy! Bad dog!"

His armor took hits that would have torn through Terminator plate like paper. But the nanomachines adapted, learning from each impact, becoming stronger. Patches of his Exo- armor were torn away, revealing the miracle of technology beneath - a constantly shifting lattice of microscopic machines that refused to yield.

Blood flowed from a dozen wounds, but Armstrong's Primeborn physiology clotted them almost instantly. He was his father's son in more than spirit - his body was a masterwork of transhuman engineering, capable of surviving injuries that would kill even a Custodian. The ground trembled with the approach of the Juggernauts - brass-clad behemoths that served as living battering rams for Khorne's armies. Their charge would have broken bunker walls, but Armstrong stood his ground. As the first beast reached him, he ducked under its horns and seized its legs, muscles straining against daemonic might.

The impact when they met shook the very foundations of Khorne's realm. Armstrong's power fists, now practically solid masses of hypercompressed nanomachines, struck with force enough to shatter tanks. Brass armor crumpled, daemon-flesh split, and inhuman screams echoed across the battlefield.

But they extracted their toll. A Juggernaut's horn pierced his left pauldron, tearing through multiple layers of armor before Armstrong could twist away. Another's charge caught him full

in the chest, sending him skidding across the blood-soaked ground.

Blood - his own this time - began to flow.

"Sorry," he grunted, lifting the massive creature, "but I learned from the best!" With a roar

that matched any daemon's, he hurled the Juggernaut into its companions, sending them tumbling in a cascade of brass and blood.

Armstrong crushed their riders underfoot as he pulverized the heads of the Juggernauts using his Power fists. His Exo-Armor bore the scars of continuous combat - great rents and tears that slowly knit themselves back together, the microscopic machines working tirelessly to maintain their host's fighting capability.

His breaths came harder, each movement requiring more conscious effort. Yet he persevered, his gene-father's unbending will manifesting in every defiant gesture.

He tore through Khornite daemons and their cursed hounds he has lost count on how many he had felled for in this realm of war and blood there was no end to them.

Hours passed. Or perhaps days - time held no meaning in this realm of eternal warfare. The air split with a thunderous crack as the Bloodthirster descended, its wings blotting out the burning sky. The Greater Daemon towered over Armstrong, its axe alone larger than a Dreadnought. Yet the Captain stood his ground, blood dripping from his gauntlets as the nanomachines continued their endless work of repair and reinforcement. YOU WILL FALL, MORTAL! YOUR SKULL FOR KHORNE!"

Armstrong's response was to slam his power fists together, sending a shockwave of force across the blood strewn ground "Blood for the Emperor," he snarled, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "Skulls for the Golden Throne!"

The battle that followed would have been immortalized in epic verse, had any Imperial Iterator witnessed it. The Bloodthirster's axe met Armstrong's fists in explosions of force that cracked reality itself. Its whip carved furrows in his armor that the nanomachines struggled to

seal, each lash carrying enough force to shatter mountains.

Where the Bloodthirster's strikes should have ended him, he endured. Where its defenses

should have been impenetrable, he found openings.

"The problem with you daemons," Armstrong panted, ducking under a swing that would have decapitated him, "is that you rely too much on fear." His fist connected with the daemon's knee, shattering its brass armor. "And I stopped being afraid a long time ago."

The final exchange lasted seconds but contained enough violence to fill a thousand normal

battles. Armstrong, his reserves of nanomachines nearly depleted, his armor more concept than reality, launched himself straight at the Bloodthirster's chest. The daemon's axe came down in a killing arc, its whip lashed out to intercept - and Armstrong went through both. His power fist, now a solid mass of hyperdense nanomachines, punched clean through the Greater Daemon's chest. The creature's death scream echoed across dimensions, its essence unraveling back into the Warp.

Reality snapped back like an overstretched rubber band. Armstrong found himself once more

on the battlefield of the Crone World, surrounded by lesser daemons that suddenly seemed far

less threatening.

"Captain Armstrong," Cavill's voice crackled through his partially functioning vox. "Welcome back. I trust your interdimensional excursion was productive?I took care of the command with you and the others absence"

Armstrong looked down at his armor - more holes than plate, nanomachines still frantically

trying to rebuild what was lost. His wounds, grievous enough to have killed any other space marine several times over, were already beginning to heal thanks to his Primeborn physiology.

Armstrong crushed a Bloodletter's skull with a casual backhand, watching the nanomachines

repair another section of his armor. "Yeah," he grunted, throwing another daemon into its fellows. "Seems the Ruinous Powers wanted to test us. They failed." "Liberty," he roared, lifting a daemon overhead, "or nothing!" The creature's spine shattered as he brought it down across his knee, its death scream lost in the cacophony of battle. The war wasn't over, but Armstrong had proven something eternal - that the strength of

tyranny, no matter how ancient or powerful, would always break against the will of those who fought for freedom.

The Warp twisted around Vladimir like a serpent made of impossible geometries and broken mathematics. One moment he had been directing his Techno-Seers against the daemon hordes, the next he found himself hurled through reality's cracks into Tzeentch's labyrinth. Multi-colored flames licked at the edges of his consciousness as whispers of forbidden knowledge tried to worm their way into his mind.

"Ah," Vladimir muttered, reaching into his armor's compartment to retrieve a flask of Libertan Vodka. "One of those days, da?" He took a long pull from the flask, the burn of the alcohol providing a familiar anchor against the unreality surrounding him.

"Koschei," Vladimir subvocalized to his AI companion, "status report."

[LOCATION: CLASSIFIED/ERROR/UNDEFINED]

[REALITY COEFFICIENT: UNSTABLE]

[THREAT LEVEL: OMEGA]

[INITIATING ENHANCED DEFENSE PROTOCOLS]

"Ah, perfect," he muttered in a thick accent, lips curling in a wry smile. "Another glorious day

in this paradise, da? Just like home: cold, unforgiving, and filled with fools.

The space before him twisted, reality folding like origami until it formed a towering figure of iridescent feathers and watching eyes. The Lord of Change materialized fully, its massive tome of writhing shadows and rainbow flame held aloft in claws that could shred reality

itself. "Vladimir Mendelev," the daemon's voice echoed with countless whispers. "First among the Techno-Seers, master of machine spirits, and son of the Liberator." Its beak curved in what might have been a smile. "How small your understanding is, how limited your vision." Vladimir raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "And you are very tall. What

next? Sky is blue? Water is wet? Perhaps we skip obvious and talk about why you waste my time."

The daemon unfurled its wings, each feather containing a universe of knowledge. "Behold, the Codex of Infinite Truth. Within these pages lie the answers to questions you dare not ask. The Emperor's true origin, the forbidden science of Primarch creation, spells capable of unmaking reality itself." It leaned forward "All this knowledge could be yours. Think of what

you could become - greater than your gene-father, than the Primeborn, than even the False Emperor himself."

"Ah, bozhe moy," Vladimir exclaimed, his thick Russian accent laced with a sardonic tone as

he wiped a tear from his eye. "This is best Tzeentch can do? Is like bad propaganda poster from ancient Terra."

The Lord of Change's feathers bristled with offended pride. "You dare mock the gifts of the Changer of Ways?"

"Da, I dare," Vladimir retorted, adjusting his visor with an exaggerated shrug. "Secrets of Emperor? Why bother when Comrade Franklin tells me over kvass? He speaks to Khaine- actual Ancient God, not oversized chicken with ego problem."

"And spells to unmake galaxies? Bah! Have you seen our flagship, Sweet Liberty? It could do same thing, only without madness, mutations, or questionable taste in decor." He waved a hand at the chaotic surroundings, smirking. "Honestly, who designed this place? Drunk artist with no sense of balance? Even snowstorm in Neo-Siberia has more order than this!"

[DETECTING SPIKE IN HOSTILE WARP ENERGIES]

[RECOMMENDATION: PERHAPS ANTAGONIZING GREATER DAEMON NOT OPTIMAL

STRATEGY]

"Noted, Koschei," Vladimir muttered. "But sometimes, most logical response to madness is

to point out how silly it is."

Vladimir looked at the Lord of Change "I see obvious waste of processing power. Basic cost- benefit analysis. Your offers require soul, sanity, humanity? And in return? Knowledge that might be lies, power that mutates body, and title in hierarchy that is pointless." He waved

dismissively. "Even village idiot with abacus would know bad deal."

The realm cracked under his words, logic unraveling Tzeentch's illusions. The Lord of Change flickered, grandeur diminished beneath cold practicality.

"Also," Vladimir added, smirking, "if Tzeench were all-knowing, it would predict this failure. So, you are not all-knowing, da? Which means your book is incomplete-perhaps fake. Obvious, no?"

The daemon's form began to shift, its carefully crafted appearance of majesty melting away

to reveal its true horror - a twisted mass of eyes, wings, and burning Warp-stuff that defied

sanity. "YOU DARE REJECT MY GIFTS? THEN WITNESS TRUE POWER!" Vladimir activated his neural link. "Koschei, battle protocols. And queue up gene-father

Franklin's Special playlist."

"Affirmative," the AI responded. "Warning: several of these spells violate multiple theoretical Wizard Geneva Conventions."

Reality buckled as the Lord of Change unleashed its first attack - a wave of pure mutation that

would have transformed any normal being into a gibbering spawn. Instead, it met a precisely

calculated counter-spell, dispersing harmlessly.

"My turn," Vladimir grinned, raising his Augur Staff. "Let's start with something classic.

ELDRITCH BLAST!"

The energy spiraled toward the daemon, who swatted it away with disdain. Vladimir shrugged, already weaving his next spell. "Hmm, how about... Mirror Dimension?" Reality shattered like glass, reflecting the battlefield in infinite fragments. The daemon laughed, its voice booming. "YOU DARE TO PLAY WITH ILLUSIONS IN MY DOMAIN?" Vladimir's grin turned wolfish. "Illusions? Nyet, just distraction. Now, let us see if you handle... Tungsten Ballsack!"

With a resounding clang, a massive iron sphere materialized into the daemon's lower regions.

Its many eyes widened in disbelief. "WHAT... WHAT IS THIS NONSENSE?"

"YOUR SPELLS MAKE NO SENSE!"

"Da, that is point," Vladimir grinned, taking another swig. "You want to play game of

madness with son of Franklin Valorian? Man who turned bureaucracy into special forces? This

is Tuesday training for us."

His neural-link visor was throwing up warning signs about psychic strain, and Koschei was

working overtime to optimize his energy output. "But wait, there's more! POWER WORD: EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA!" The resulting chaos was, thankfully, mostly hidden by the warp energies swirling around

them. The Lord of Change howled in a mixture of rage and indignity, its attacks becoming increasingly erratic. Vladimir blocked and countered, but each spell was taking its toll. Sweat poured down his face, and his hands shook as he gripped his staff.

[Warning Psychic reserves at 40% and dropping].

[These reality-bending spells are highly inefficient against a being of pure warp energy.]

"Tell me something I don't know," Vladimir gasped, dodging a bolt of pure change that

turned a section of the library into singing fish. "But they're really annoying it, which is the point. Calculate weakness in its defense pattern."

The battle continued, reality warping and twisting around them. Vladimir emptied his flask,

using the burn of the vodka to focus his mind. Each spell he cast was another strain on his already overtaxed powers, but he could see the daemon's frustration growing. Its attacks, while still devastatingly powerful, were becoming less coordinated.

Pattern detected, Koschei announced. Recommend targeting the crystalline matrix of its left wing

joint in 3... 2... 1....

"LOBOTOMIZE ENEMY!" Vladimir roared, channeling everything he had left into one final assault. The spell, combined with Koschei's precise targeting, struck true. The Lord of Change screamed as its form began to unravel, its carefully maintained reality collapsing around it.

Reality snapped back into place. Vladimir found himself in the battlefield as he smited a Pink

Horror who tried to blast him with a spell with Firebolt.

"Someone, please tell Comrade Primarch his common sense works even in hell. Also, we're

going to need more vodka."