The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 76: Deep Shit



From the heart of the ritual circle, Franklin Valorian witnessed hell unleashed. His form, a divine construct of avian majesty and metallic fury, stood immobile yet far from powerless. Through eyes that saw beyond mortal limitations, he watched as four titanic tears rent the fabric of reality.

Well, shit, Franklin thought, his mental voice a mixture of grim humor and tactical assessment. Looks like we've got the whole family coming to dinner.

Greater Daemons manifested, each a nightmarish avatar of their respective Chaos God. Khorne's bloodthirsters champion materialized in a geyser of boiling gore. Tzeentch's lords of change shimmered into existence, Nurgle's plaguebearers lumbered forth, reality rotting around it. And there, already locked in combat with Khaine, Slaanesh's empowered Keepers of Secrets danced a seductive waltz of blades and temptation.

But it was the sudden shift in the godly battle that truly caught Franklin's attention. Khorne himself had entered the fray, his avatar a mountain of brass and fury. The Blood God's axe swung for Khaine's head, even as Slaanesh's avatar hissed in displeasure at the interruption.

Khaine's voice boomed across the battlefield, a sound of clashing steel and burning cities: "It's a rematch then!"

Talk about déjà vu, Franklin mused, recognizing the parallel to Khaine's original shattering. But this time, you've got backup, old friend.

Unable to move from the ritual circle, Franklin became a stationary engine of destruction. His mech-suit began to spew death and ordinance, Wherever he pointed his array of weapons, daemons ceased to exist in sprays of ethereal ichor and fading screams.

"It's like the galaxy's most twisted shooting gallery," Franklin muttered, his words lost in the cacophony of battle. Yet for all his firepower, he knew his impact was limited. The explosive ordinance, while devastating, could only reach so far. And with literal hell spewing forth daemons from every conceivable angle, it felt like trying to empty an ocean with a teaspoon.

Franklin's gaze swept the battlefield, assessing the situation with the cold clarity of a Primarch's tactical genius. The Aeldari lines were slowly receding, pushed back by the relentless tide of daemonic hordes flushing in from both corrupted Webway portals and tears in reality itself.

A flash of color caught his eye - a Harlequin troupe dancing through the chaos, their movements a deadly ballet that left daemons bisected in their wake. At least Cegorach's got some skin in the game, Franklin thought, allowing himself a moment of grim satisfaction. His son, Henry, caught his attention next. The captain moved with inhuman grace, his movements perfectly synchronized with the Aspect Warriors around him. Pride swelled in Franklin's chest, tempered by the knowledge of the future Henry fought to protect.

We're in deep shit, Franklin concluded, his mind racing through probabilities and outcomes. The arrival of the Greater Daemons had tipped the scales dangerously. Even with Khaine unleashed, even with the combined might of Craftworld Altansar, victory seemed to be slipping through their fingers like sand.

As if in response to his thoughts, reality tore once more. This new wound in the universe disgorged a fresh wave of daemons, but these bore a sigil that sent a chill even through Franklin's divine form: the eight-pointed star of Chaos Undivided.

Oh, come on! he thought, a mixture of exasperation and grim determination coloring his mental voice. As if four flavors of Chaos weren't enough, now we get the variety pack?

A particularly massive daemon took flight, its grey form dominated by two massive horns and flesh wings that seemed to drink in the light around them.

As the monstrosity barreled towards him like a warp-touched freight train, Franklin's mind kicked into overdrive. Time to show this overgrown bat why they call me the Liberator, he thought, a fierce grin splitting his avian skull visage.

Every weapon in Franklin's considerable arsenal locked onto the incoming threat. Gravity- defying rounds, plasma bursts, and exotic munitions beyond mortal comprehension poured forth. The daemon, clearly underestimating the firepower at Franklin's disposal, took the full brunt of the assault.

"That's right, ugly," Franklin growled, his voice a mixture of mortal determination and divine power. "No matter where you fly, no matter how you twist, I've got your number."

The daemon roared in pain and fury as Franklin's ordnance found its mark again and again. Chunks of daemonic flesh were vaporized, only to reform moments later. But Franklin pressed the attack.

Yet even as he focused on this immediate threat, Franklin's mind raced through the larger strategic picture. The ritual circle beneath him pulsed with power, channeling the faith and psychic might of an entire craftworld. He could feel Khaine drawing on this energy, using it to match the combined onslaught of Khorne and Slaanesh's avatars.

We're holding, Franklin assessed, but for how long? This isn't just a battle; it's a war of attrition against the very forces of Chaos itself.

In the distance, he saw Maugan Ra locked in combat with Nurgle's Greater Daemon. The Autarch Ilrathan stood alone against a tide of lesser daemons, his leadership keeping a pocket of resistance alive amidst the madness.

Franklin's son, Henry, had led his group of Aspect Warriors to reinforce a faltering section of the defensive line. The future knowledge Henry carried seemed to guide his every move, positioning him exactly where he needed to be to preserve the timeline he sought to protect.

As another wave of daemons crashed against the Aeldari defenses, as Khaine traded earth- shattering blows with the avatars of Khorne and Slaanesh, as the very fabric of the craftworld groaned under the strain of divine combat, Franklin made a decision.

Franklin, maintained his focus on empowering Khaine while managing the relentless assault of daemonic forces. His attention was particularly drawn to a persistent daemon that refused to fall despite the overwhelming firepower directed at it.

This one's got to have a name, Franklin mused, his thoughts tinged with grim amusement. Probably something pretentious like 'Skull-Render the Undying' or 'Bob from Accounting'. Either way, I'm starting to take this personally."

As Franklin juggled the threads of concentration, a chill ran through his enhanced form-the realization hit him: this was a daemon of Chaos Undivided. Memories of his own Chaos- touched doppelganger, vanquished years ago, flickered through his mind. These entities were on a different level, forged from the combined power of all four Chaos Gods. They were the heavyweight champions of the Warp, and this one proved its pedigree with every regenerated limb and reformed organ.

As the daemon angled into a steep dive, clearly intent on a kamikaze run, Franklin's arsenal responded with mechanical precision. His massive rotary cannons and Smart Missile Pods, which had been laying waste to swathes of lesser daemons across the battlefield, swiveled as one to track the incoming threat. The air itself seemed to scream as a hail of warp-touched munitions and explosions converged on the diving terror.

The impact was spectacular, even by the standards of this reality-bending conflict. The daemon's form erupted in a cataclysm of ethereal fire and shredded warp-stuff. For a moment, Franklin hoped that perhaps this would be the end of it.

But hope, as ever in the grim darkness of the far future, proved fleeting.

From the dissipating explosion emerged a figure that defied mortal comprehension. Its torso was a ruined mess, right arm entirely missing, a portion of it's face missing, and its entire form riddled with holes that would have felled a titan. Yet still it came, driven by a

malevolence that transcended physical form.

As the daemon closed the final distance, Franklin made a split-second decision. He couldn't leave the ritual circle - the connection to Khaine was too crucial to risk. With a thought, he commanded his mech-suit to disassemble, transforming into a network of automated turrets to support the broader battlefield. The Primarch knew that with this monstrosity in his face, his ability to provide wide-range fire support would be severely limited.

The mech-suit peeled away, leaving Franklin in his core armor, wings of steel mantled behind him like an avenging angel. The Deathsword thrummed in his grip, eager for the taste of daemonic essence. As the last pieces of the suit reconfigured into defensive positions, Franklin found himself face to face with one of the most infamous entities in the Warp's long

and terrible history.

"Well then," Franklin said, his voice carrying both challenge and amusement, "shall we dispense with the pleasantries? You've come an awfully long way just to say hello." The daemon drew itself up to its full, imposing height. When it spoke, its voice was like gravel being crushed beneath the weight of millennia. "I am Be'lakor, the Dark Master, First of the Daemon Princes. And you, Liberator, have proven to be a most... interesting adversary." Franklin's eyebrows would have risen if he had any in his current form. "Be'lakor? Well, aren't I the lucky one. To what do I owe the pleasure of a personal visit from Chaos Undivided's favorite son?"

Be'lakor's laughter echoed like the shattering of realities. "Franklin Valorian, your flippancy amuses me, godling. The Liberator. The so-called Hand of Khaine. I must commend your... resilience. It's been an age since any being posed such a challenge, even in mere approach."

"I aim to please," Franklin replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Though I have to say, your persistence is admirable. Most entities take the hint after the first few thousand high- yield explosives to the face."

As they conversed, Franklin was acutely aware of the battle raging around them. The Aeldari lines were slowly but surely being pushed back, the relentless tide of daemons taking its toll. His automated turrets were making a difference, but he knew it wouldn't be enough in the

long run.

"Now with the pleasantries out of the way, I don't suppose you'd consider turning around and heading back to whatever hell you crawled out of?"

Be'lakor's laughter was the sound of galaxies dying. "Oh, but I'm exactly where I need to be, Primarch. This little ritual of yours... it's drawn the attention of powers beyond your comprehension. Did you truly believe you could change fated things without consequences? The Crone Sword and now you dare to change Altansar's fate?" "Consequences?" Franklin retorted, injecting a bravado into his voice that he didn't entirely feel. "I eat consequences for breakfast. It's part of my balanced diet of impossible odds and averted catastrophes."

The daemon's form shimmered, wounds knitting closed even as they spoke. "Your wit won't save you, Valorian. Nor will it save this pathetic craftworld or your Aeldari allies. The Eye of Terror hungers, and Altansar will sate its appetite."

Franklin's mind raced, calculating odds and potential strategies. He couldn't leave the ritual circle, but neither could he allow Be'lakor free rein to wreak havoc. The Deathsword pulsed in his grip, Khaine's power flowing through it and into him.

"You know, Be'lakor, for a being of pure chaos, you're awfully fixated on this plan of yours," Franklin said, stalling for time as he reached out with his psychic senses, trying to gauge the broader flow of the battle. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that variety is the spice of life? Or

unlife, in your case."

Be'lakor's eyes narrowed, clearly aware of Franklin's attempt at distraction. "Your prattle

changes nothing, Primarch. The forces of Chaos are infinite. For every daemon you slay, a thousand more stand ready to take its place. How long can your precious Aeldari hold out? How long before Khaine himself is overwhelmed?"

As if in response to the daemon's words, a great cry went up from the Aeldari lines. Franklin

saw a section of their defense collapse, daemons pouring through the gap like a tide of nightmares made flesh.

This is bad, Franklin thought, his jocular facade slipping for a moment. We're losing ground, and fast. If we don't turn this around soon...

But even as the situation seemed bleakest, Franklin felt something stir within him. The power

flowing through him from the ritual, the desperate bravery of the Aeldari - it all coalesced into a moment of crystal clarity.

Khaine, the Aeldari God of War and Murder, found himself locked in combat with not one, but

two Avatars of Chaos. To his left, the Avatar of Slaanesh, a being of impossible beauty and horrific excess. To his right, the Avatar of Khorne, a mountain of muscle and rage incarnate.

The conflict raged across multiple planes of existence simultaneously, each blow reshaping reality itself.

As Khaine parried a strike from Slaanesh's razor-sharp claws, he felt a disturbance in the warp. The Dead were stirring, drawn to the colossal psychic energies being unleashed. But it wasn't just the majesty of battle attracting them. No, Khaine realized with a surge of fury, Slaanesh was attempting to claim the souls of the fallen Aeldari.

I think not, usurper, Khaine's thoughts rang out like hammer blows on the anvil of creation. Hen/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

redoubled his efforts, his sword - a blade forged from the concept of violence itself - carving arcs of destruction through the air.

As he parried a strike from Khorne's Avatar, its axe screaming for blood, Khaine reflected on

the irony of his position. He, the God of War and Murder, now stood as a bulwark against the

annihilation of Aeldari souls. In eons past, he had cared little for their fate. The memory of his rampage, sparked by a prophecy from a fellow god, flashed through his mind. Eldanesh's death at his hands, the isolation imposed by Asuryan, the curse of the Bloody Hands - all consequences of his past indifference.

How times have changed, he mused, deflecting a psychic assault from Slaanesh's Avatar that threatened to shatter his very being with promises of ecstasy and torment.

In that moment of reflection, a plan crystallized in Khaine's mind. It was audacious, perhaps

even heretical by the standards of the old pantheon. But desperate times called for desperate

measures.

Franklin, he communicated through their psychic link, his thoughts a tempest of divine inspiration. I have a proposition that may turn the tide of this battle and secure the future of the

Aeldari race.

He sensed Franklin's curiosity and apprehension mingling through their connection. I'm all ears, big guy. What's the plan?

I will bind the souls of the Aeldari to me - dead and alive, Khaine explained, his mental voice resonating with the weight of cosmic significance. Those who dedicate their souls to me will serve in my name, eternally fighting at my beck and call. The dead shall return to life to fight once more, and the living, upon their death, will join my eternal host, I require more energy for this to happen. As he shared his plan, Khaine launched a devastating counterattack against both Avatars. His sword, a manifestation of pure violence, cleaved through the air, leaving trails of fire that seared even the immaterial forms of his opponents. The Khornate Avatar roared in fury and pain, while Slaanesh's champion hissed in a perverse mixture of agony and pleasure. Franklin's surprise rippled through their connection. That's... intense. Are you sure about this? It's

a pretty big change from your old M.O.

Khaine's response was tinged with grim determination. The alternative is to watch as Slaanesh claims these souls, empowering herself and subjecting the Aeldari to an eternity of torment. At least in my realm, they will know purpose. They will fight, yes, but it is a fate better suited to their nature than

endless suffering in the Dark Prince's clutches.

The god of war pressed his attack, his form growing more radiant with each passing moment

as he drew upon the faith and desperation of the Aeldari around him. The craftworld itself

seemed to pulse in rhythm with his movements, as if recognizing him as its last hope for salvation.

I care not for the judgment of the Aeldari or my fellow gods, Khaine continued, his thoughts a

their own

tempest of resolve and ancient regret. I offer them a path, a choice. The Children of Isha will decide fate. As he spoke, Khaine felt a shift in the cosmic balance. The souls of the dead, trapped in the infinity circuit, stirred with new purpose. Those Aspect Warriors who had dedicated their lives

to his worship fought with renewed vigor, their every action a prayer to their god of war. Slaanesh's Avatar sensed the change and redoubled its efforts, its attacks becoming increasingly desperate. "They are mine!" it shrieked, its voice a cacophony of desire and rage. "The Aeldari belong to me!"

Khaine's response was not in words, but in deed. He summoned the strength of every soul

that had ever pledged itself to him, every drop of blood spilled in his name. His form grew,

towering over even the massive Avatars of Chaos. When he spoke, his voice shook the foundations of reality:

"No longer. The Aeldari choose their own path, and I offer them one of eternal battle and

purpose. Come, children of Isha! Rise once more and fight in my name!"

At his call, the impossible happened. Spirits emerged from the infinity circuit, taking form as ghostly warriors. Fallen Aspect Warriors rose from where they had fallen, their eyes burning with divine fire. Even some of the living Aeldari, in moments of supreme devotion, pledged

their souls to Khaine, their forms shimmering with newfound power.

The Avatars of Slaanesh and Khorne were beset by a hyper-boosted Khaine, whose minions-

an ever-growing host of Aeldari warriors empowered by divine purpose-crashed into the Daemon hordes, causing the tide of battle to begin to turn.

Through it all, Khaine felt a change within himself. The act of offering salvation, of providing

a choice to a race he had once viewed with indifference, awakened something new in his divine essence. He was still the God of War and Murder, but now he was also becoming something more - a protector, a giver of purpose, of harsh hope in a galaxy of encroaching

darkness. As he fought on, Khaine sent one last thought to Franklin: The die is cast. Win or lose, the fate of the Aeldari changes today. Are you ready to bear witness to the birth of a new era, Primarch? Franklin's response came tinged with awe and determination: Ready and willing, partner. Let's

make history.

With that, Khaine roared his defiance against the forces of Chaos, his army of devoted souls surging forward. The battle for Altansar had become more than a fight for survival - it was now the crucible in which the future of an entire race would be forged.