The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 149: Humanity's Greatest Ability



The sky above Vigilarus began to clear, the unnatural crimson hue giving way to something approaching normalcy. Yet in this theater of war, nothing was truly normal. High above the scarred landscape, Franklin Valorian engaged in an aerial ballet of violence with three of his corrupted brothers.

Fulgrim struck first, his serpentine form allowing him impossible angles of attack. Four daemon-forged blades whistled through the air, each seeking to claim a piece of Franklin's flesh. But the Primarch of Liberty had long since transcended mere physical combat. His steel wings, extensions of his divine form, moved with impossible precision, each feather-blade catching one of Fulgrim's swords in a shower of sparks.

"Four arms and you still can't land a hit?" Franklin taunted, his avian skull-helm burning bright. "Maybe you should have asked for better coordination instead of extra limbs!"

While his wings handled Fulgrim's assault, Franklin focused his attention on Mortarion. His eyes narrowed behind his avian skull-helm as memories - not his own, but from a future that would never be flashed through his mind. In that timeline, Nurgle's corruption had been the key to his death at Horus's hands. The Death Lord found himself facing not just Franklin's usual combat prowess, but the full, unleashed skill of the Primarch of Liberty.

"Let's see how Rot fares against Flames of freedom," Franklin quipped, Anaris blazing in his grip as he engaged Mortarion.

Mortarion Swung forward with Silence, his massive scythe crackling with pestilent energy. Franklin met the attack with the Halberd-Anaris, the Anaris's divine energy burning away the corruption that tried to creep along its length. But instead of disengaging, Franklin did something unexpected - he locked his Halberd with Mortarion's scythe and held fast.

The Death Lord, true to his stubborn nature, refused to release his grip. It was exactly what Franklin had planned.

From below, Angron's bellow of rage announced his charge. The Red Angel had launched himself skyward, chain-axe whirling, ready to tear into his brother's exposed back. But Franklin had fought in three dimensions for centuries in the warp and reality, and ground combat was a completely different beast from aerial warfare.

Still holding Mortarion's scythe in a blade-lock - which the Death Lord refused to release - Franklin used the momentum to his advantage. In the air, Franklin was in his element, and he demonstrated why he was considered the master of aerial combat.

The Death Lord, still refusing to release his precious scythe, found himself being swung directly into Angron's path.

"Here's a lesson in aerial combat," Franklin called out as he completed the maneuver. "Always mind your positioning!"

The impact between the two Daemon Primarchs was catastrophic. Mortarion's pestilent armor met Angron's brass-clad form with a sound like a thunderclap. Both corrupted brothers plummeted toward the ground, a tangle of limbs, weapons, and curses in various daemonic languages.

But Franklin wasn't done. Even as he used Mortarion as an impromptu shield, his wings had never stopped their dance with Fulgrim's blades. Each parry had been precisely calculated, each movement exact. The Phoenician's perfect features contorted in rage as he realized what had happened - dozens of burning cuts decorated his form where Franklin's steel feathers had slipped past his guard.

"You see, Fulgrim," Franklin called out, disengaging his wings from the blade-lock with a flourish that opened several new cuts on the Daemon Primarch's serpentine body, "the problem with having four arms is that you start relying on quantity over quality. But up here?" He gestured to the open sky around them. "Quality wins every time."

Fulgrim's response was a screech of rage that contained both pleasure and pain, his Slaaneshi nature unable to fully separate the two sensations. The burning cuts from Franklin's wings refused to heal properly, each one marked by the same divine fire that wreathed Franklin's form.

Angron, ever the berserker, recovered first. His remaining arm, enhanced by Khorne's blessings, lashed out with devastating force. The blow connected, sending Franklin hurtling through the air. Mortarion, seeing an opportunity, moved to intercept his brother's trajectory.

But Franklin had been playing this game far too long to fall for such obvious tactics. Banking hard left, he reached into a pouch and withdrew what appeared to be a simple bottle. With casual accuracy, he tossed it toward Mortarion.

The Death Lord, expecting a more conventional weapon, cleaved the bottle in two with his scythe. It proved to be a grave mistake. The contents splashed across his corrupted form, and for the first time in millennia, Mortarion felt real pain.

"AAAGHHH!" The scream that erupted from Mortarion's vox-grille was equal parts pain and surprise.

"What is this?!" he demanded, his corrupted form smoking where the liquid had touched him. Franklin's laughter rang out across the battlefield. "I honestly didn't think that would work! H202, brother. Hydrogen peroxide - because frankly, you could use a good cleaning." Before Mortarion could recover, another bottle was sailing through the air. This time, the Death Lord caught it and crushed it in his gauntlet - another mistake. The liquid within seared his corrupted flesh, and though he fought to contain it, the pain was evident in his posture.

"That one's chlorine," Franklin announced cheerfully. "I figured if we're having a family reunion, we might as well include some basic chemistry lessons."

Mortarion charged forward, his usual calculating nature overcome by pain and rage. The sight of the mighty Death Lord, bearer of Nurgle's greatest blessings, being undone by common cleaning agents seemed to amuse Franklin to no end.

"Who knew?" Franklin called out as he dodged Mortarion's enraged assault. "Apparently Nurgle's blessings don't include protection against basic sanitation. Might want to bring that up with your boss next time!"

Magnus the Red found himself in what could only be described as the universe's most dangerous mirror match. His daemon counterpart, corrupted by ten millennia of Tzeentch's influence, was proving to be every bit as formidable as he had boasted. The air between them crackled with competing psychic energies as reality itself bent and warped around their duel. "Who knew," Magnus muttered to himself as he bent space to avoid another of his counterpart's attacks, "that I could be such an insufferable opponent?" He twisted through impossible geometries, only to find himself facing a hidden spell his daemon self had carefully concealed in the fabric of reality.

"What's wrong?" Daemon Magnus taunted, his voice carrying the echoes of countless whispers. "Where's that bravado now? You stand before one who has been blessed by the Changer of Ways himself, who has mastered the currents of the warp for ten thousand years!" Arms gestured, weaving new spells into reality.

Magnus deflected another barrage of warp-lightning, his single eye narrowing in frustration. "Says the version of me who's been drinking Chaos-flavored Kool-Aid," he shot back, though he had to admit – if only to himself - that this fight was not going as well as he'd hoped. As he ducked under another spell that would have turned his bones to glass, Magnus found himself seriously considering something he'd promised himself he'd never do. His brother Franklin's favorite spell - if one could even dignify it with that term - was both brutally effective and utterly beneath the dignity of a scholar of his caliber.

"I cannot believe I'm about to do this," Magnus muttered to himself, dodging yet another reality-warping attack. His daemon self was pressing the advantage, clearly believing victory

was within his grasp.

"Your resistance is futile," Daemon Magnus proclaimed, gathering warp energy for what looked to be a devastating attack. "Accept the inevitable. Embrace the change that awaits

you!"

Magnus sighed deeply, his scholarly pride warring with his tactical necessity. He could almost hear Franklin's laughter in his head. His brother had always told him that sometimes the best solution was the most direct one, dignity be damned.

"Well," Magnus thought to himself, "at least Franklin will never let me live this down."

Then, aloud, "Say hello to my brother's favorite spell!"

Making a grabbing motion toward his corrupted self, Magnus called upon the warp in a way he never thought he would. His voice rang out across the battlefield: "TESTICULAR

TORSION!"

The effect was instantaneous and devastating. Daemon Magnus's multiple arms froze mid-

spell, his single eye widening in shock and pain. A blood-curdling scream erupted from his throat, a sound that contained both the agony of the present and the wounded dignity of a being who never expected to be attacked in such an undignified manner.

"What nonsense is this-AAAAHHHHGGG!!!" The daemon primarch's voice rose several octaves as the spell took full effect.

Magnus watched his counterpart's reaction with a mixture of satisfaction and embarrassment. He could practically hear Franklin's cackling from the other battle. This was exactly the kind of tactic his brother would employ - effective, unexpected, and completely

devoid of dignity.

"Well," Magnus mused aloud, watching his daemon self writhing in most un-sorcerous agony, "I suppose there are some advantages to thinking outside the traditional spheres of sorcerous combat. Though I shall have to burn the relevant pages from my grimoire later." The spell, while undignified, had achieved what countless complex workings had failed to do - it had completely disrupted his opponent's concentration and defenses. Though Magnus knew he would never hear the end of this from Franklin, he had to admit that sometimes the simplest solutions were indeed the most effective.

Still, as he prepared to press his advantage against his incapacitated counterpart, Magnus made a mental note to never, ever admit to Franklin that he had been right about the tactical applications of this particular spell. His brother's smugness would be absolutely unbearable. In the distance, he could swear he heard Franklin's voice carry across the battlefield: "That's my boy! I knew you had it in you!"

Magnus sighed again, his dignity thoroughly compromised but his tactical position significantly improved. "The things we do for victory," he muttered, preparing his next spell. "Though perhaps we can keep this particular tactical innovation out of the official historical

records..."

In two separate but equally deadly battles, both Magnus and Franklin felt the shift in reality as the Chaos Gods began to assert their influence more directly. The very fabric of space seemed to shudder as divine power leaked through the Emperor's containment. Magnus watched with growing concern as his daemon counterpart recovered from the undignified assault. The corrupted version of himself straightened, his form crackling with new power. The spell that had kept him doubled over in agony began to unravel under the

surge of chaotic energy.

"That ain't good," Magnus muttered, feeling the change in the warp currents around them. Where before the warp had been relatively controlled, now it roiled with unstable energies as Tzeentch's power began seeping through the Emperor's barriers.

His daemon self rose to full height, eye blazing with renewed malevolence and fresh power. The air around him twisted with impossible geometries, reality bending in ways that shouldn't be possible in real space. Magnus prepared himself, knowing that their duel was about to become significantly more challenging. Meanwhile, Franklin found himself adapting to the sudden escalation in his own three-way battle. Fulgrim's already impressive speed took on a new dimension as Slaanesh's power flowed more freely. The Daemon Primarch's blades became nearly invisible streaks of motion. One strike came dangerously close to penetrating Franklin's defense. Only centuries of muscle memory and combat instinct allowed him to deflect the blade at the last possible moment. The near-miss was telling - the rules of engagement were changing. "Getting a little boost from your sugar mommy, brother?" Franklin taunted, even as he kicked Fulgrim away with precise force. The daemon primarch's serpentine form twisted impossibly as he recovered, already preparing for another assault.

Banking right, Franklin barely avoided Angron's berserk charge. The Red Angel's movements

had become even more ferocious, if that were possible. Khorne's power made his already formidable strength truly terrifying.

Franklin found himself locked in combat with Mortarion once again, Anaris in its halberd

form caught in the Death Lord's grip. Despite the pain Franklin knew his opponent was feeling from gripping the molten hot handle of Anaris, Mortarion maintained his hold, Nurgle's fresh power allowing him to push through the agony.

With characteristic adaptability, Franklin produced another bottle of chlorine, hurling it directly into Mortarion's face. The Death Lord's arm twitched involuntarily at the chemical assault, creating the opening Franklin needed. In a fluid motion, he transformed Anaris back into a sword, the metamorphosis slicing through Mortarion's gauntlet and the corrupted

flesh beneath.

Using the momentum of Mortarion's reflexive recoil, Franklin once again employed his

favorite tactic – using one brother as a weapon against another. The Death Lord crashed into the charging Angron, though both recovered more quickly than before. "Well," Franklin observed, his divine flames burning brighter in response to the increasing chaotic energy, "looks like dear old dad is having trouble keeping your gods on a leash." He could feel the change in the very air around them - the Chaos Gods were managing to slip more of their power past the Emperor's containment.

The sky above Vigilarus darkened once more, though differently than before. Where

previously it had been touched by Magnus's ritual, now it roiled with the competing influences of five vastly powerful entities testing the bounds of their imprisonment. Franklin knew what this meant - the battle was escalating and nearing it's end. The Emperor

could only hold back so much of the Chaos Gods' power while they focused it so intensely on

this single point in space and time. Their dedication to eliminating him had created a crack in reality's defenses.

"Coming at me with everything you've got?" Franklin called out to his corrupted brothers as

they regrouped for another assault. "I'm flattered! Though you might want to consider anger management classes. This much attention can't be healthy for any of us."

The divine flames surrounding his avian skull-helm blazed brighter, and his steel wings spread wide, their edges gleaming with defiant light. As his opponents prepared their next assault, empowered by their dark patrons' direct intervention, Franklin's laughter echoed across the battlefield.

"Let's see what you can do with your training wheels off," he challenged, Anaris blazing in his

grip. "Though I should warn you - I've got some experience dealing with gods who don't know their place."

Franklin's gaze flicked upward for the briefest of moments, as if calculating something his brothers couldn't yet fathom.

The battle had intensified with each passing moment as the Chaos Gods channeled more

power through their champions. Franklin Valorian found himself engaged in an increasingly complex three-way duel of death with his corrupted brothers, his divine wings flashing like steel lightning as they caught and parried weapons from multiple angles.

The combat drifted from the larger battlefield, pulling them to a desolate mountain range where jagged peaks scraped against the storm-wracked sky. Franklin landed atop the highest summit with a deliberate, almost casual grace, the embers of his divine aura glowing faintly

in the gloom. His corrupted brothers followed, landing in a semicircle, their dark forms emanating malice as the Chaos Gods channeled raw power into their champions. Fulgrim was the first to speak, his serpentine coils tightening as he sneered, the mockery in his voice dripping with venom. "Have you finally realized your folly, brother? Seeking refuge on a mountaintop? Perhaps you're ready to kneel and accept the gifts of the true gods."

Franklin tilted his avian skull-helm slightly, flames flickering in its hollow eyes. His voice was light, almost conversational, though the sharp edge of derision was unmistakable. "Kneel?" He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Fulgrim, of all people, I'd expect you to bring that up. I mean, you would know a thing or two about kneeling, wouldn't you?"

The jab hung in the air like a blade, and even the storm around them seemed to pause. Fulgrim's perfect features contorted into a mask of rage, his pride stung by the double-edged mockery. Before he could hiss a retort, Franklin's smirk was audible in his next words. "Relax, brother. I just thought you deserved a moment to catch your breath." His voice grew

colder, a flicker of deadly intent in his tone. "After all, it's going to get much worse for you." "You're bluffing," Mortarion's voice rasped through his corroded vox-grille. "We know who you are, Franklin Valorian, the 11th Primarch, the Liberator. The Gods have shown us your

measure. This is you at full power, Warp God that you are." Franklin's chuckle carried an edge of knowing anticipation. "Oh, did they? Did they tell you everything about my capabilities? My mastery of the arcane? My arsenal?"

"Yes," Mortarion stated with absolute certainty.

Franklin let out a low chuckle, his stance shifting ever so slightly, the flames around him

intensifying. "The Gods told you everything, huh? My strengths, my powers, my weapons?" He nodded, as if considering their words. "And yet, they left out one thing. Funny how they always miss the most important details."

Angron snarled, his brass armor creaking as he shifted his grip on his chain-axe. "Enough of your riddles! Fight or die, coward!"

Franklin ignored him, addressing all three. "Tell me, brothers, what's humanity's greatest

strength? What's the one thing that's allowed them to endure in a galaxy full of nightmares?"

"Is this the rambling of a dying man?" Fulgrim sneered, his twisted features marred with cuts, wrinkled in contempt.

"Come on, humor me," Franklin insisted, his tone light but his stance shifting subtly.

Fulgrim rolled his eyes, his voice thick with mockery. "Perfection, obviously. We embody

that."

Mortarion's ruined visage twisted into a grimace. "No. Endurance. The capacity to suffer and persist." Franklin laughed outright this time, shaking his head. "Wrong on both counts. It's neither perfection nor endurance. It's something much simpler... something primal." He spread his wings wide, the storm around him suddenly quieting, as if the very air waited for his answer.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

"It's the ability to throw a rock."

seemed to

Before they could react, Franklin raised his hand and pointed skyward. His brothers instinctively followed his gesture, their eyes narrowing as the heavens themselves tremble. A single point of light pierced through the crimson clouds, growing brighter with each passing second. At first, it seemed distant, a star perhaps, or some celestial phenomenon. Then it began to grow... and grow. Mortarion's voice betrayed unease. "What trickery is this?" Fulgrim snarled, his pride turning to suspicion. "You think a falling star will stop us?"

Franklin's grin widened beneath his helm. "Falling star? No, no. This... is an asteroid I pulled from Orbit"

The realization struck Mortarion first, his tactical mind racing. "You're mad! You're in the impact zone!" Franklin's wings flared with a brilliance that lit up the mountainside. "Am I? Or am I just a little faster than you think?"

Before they could react, Franklin's blade, Anaris, blazed with divine fire. A single, calculated strike unleashed a wave of energy that engulfed his brothers in searing hot flame, halting their movements for the crucial seconds he needed. As the fire burned away their corrupted armor and flesh, Franklin launched himself skyward, effortlessly clearing the blast radius. The mountain vanished in a blinding inferno, replaced by a glowing crater that stretched for

miles. The shockwave tore through the heavens, scattering the crimson clouds like ash in a gale.

From the start of their duel, Franklin had subtly guided the battlefield to this desolate range, the perfect place to unleash a little planetary annihilation.

The battle was far from over - daemon primarchs were notoriously difficult to destroy - but

Franklin had made his point. Sometimes the oldest solutions were still the best ones, even in an age of gods and demons.