The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 117: Into the Breach



838.30M

The relativistic flash of Battlefleet Liberty's arrival cast prismatic patterns across the void. The massive fleet materialized with surgical precision, their Inertialess drives bringing them to a perfect stop near the Cadian Gate. Necron Tech reverse-engineere an improved by the Independence Sector, made the traditional Navigator-guided Warp travel look positively primitive in comparison.

Franklin Valorian stood at the grand viewport of the Sweet Liberty, his imposing figure silhouetted against the backdrop of stars. Before him lay Cadia, a world whose defenses would make most fortress worlds look like poorly defended outposts. Batteries of defense platforms orbited in precise formations, while flotillas of warships patrolled predetermined vectors with mechanical precision, the entire sector was without a doubt fortified beyond recognition.

"You know," Franklin mused, his reflection grinning in the crystalline viewport, "naming this planet Cadia... bit on the nose, wouldn't it?" He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "Talk about historical foreshadowing."

Behind him, his Primeborn Captains stood in a loose semicircle, each one a legend in their own right. The absence of Samuel L. Jaxsen was notable - the CIA Director was elsewhere, hunting the shadowy Cabal with his characteristic intensity.

"Speaking of historical," Franklin continued, pulling out the data-slate from the future, "can you believe that in another timeline, Abaddon - yes, Horus's First Captain - becomes some sort of 'Warmaster of Chaos'?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "If that clown tried anything like that now, Russ would be so far up his ass he'd be coughing up wolf fur for millennia."

Second Captain Armstrong, his massive frame nearly filling his portion of the viewport, snorted derisively. "A mere Astartes? Causing that much trouble? With all due respect to the XVI Legion, that's some grade-A bullshit right there."

"Language, Steven," Vladimir scolded, his voice deep and gravelly. "But, eh, I must agree. The idea that Imperium would fall so low, troubled by one Astartes-no matter how strong- bah, is insult to our intellect, da?"

"Though I do wonder..." He turned to face his captains fully. "How did this future Abaddon manage to evade both Sanguinius and Roboute? The data indicates Sanguinius becomes Regent, and while I haven't had the pleasure of meeting our angelic brother yet, everything suggests he's not one for subtle approaches. More the 'divine intervention from above' type, if you catch my meaning."

"And we all know Roboute," Denzel added with a knowing smile. "Man probably had seventeen contingency plans just for breakfast."

Henry Cavill, the 3rd Captain who had witnessed this dark future firsthand, cleared his throat. "If I may, father? The answer lies in what you earlier termed the 'Horus Apostasy.' In that timeline, whenever Abaddon appeared, he was never alone. The Traitor Primarchs would invariably manifest to occupy both Sanguinius and Roboute, preventing them from delivering the killing blow."

Franklin stroked his chin thoughtfully. "That... actually makes perfect sense. Classic divide and conquer strategy. Keep the biggest threats occupied while you work toward your objectives." He shook his head. "Still, the very idea that the High Lords would prove so incompetent..."

"With respect, my lord," Vladimir cut in, "this is exactly why we stand here now. To ensure such future never comes to pass, da?"

"Speaking of which," Denzel interjected, "Director Jaxsen's latest report indicates the Cabal is getting nervous. They're starting to realize their carefully laid plans are falling apart."

"Good," Franklin grinned. "Let them squirm. While they're chasing their own tails trying to figure out how their prophecies went sideways, we'll be busy ensuring humanity's survival doesn't come at the cost of its soul."

Armstrong cracked his knuckles. "And if they try anything funny?"

"Then they'll learn why the Independence Sector's motto is 'Fuck around and find out,'" Franklin replied cheerfully. "But first things first-we've got a date with destiny in the Eye of Terror, and I've got a feeling the Four are going to be very interested in what we're after."

Vladimir's psychic hood sparked. "The Warp is... unusually agitated. They know we're coming."

"Of course they do," Franklin's grin widened. "We're about to steal Khaine's biggest shard right from under their noses. I'd be disappointed if they didn't make a big deal out of it." He turned to his captains. "Gentlemen, I hope you're ready for what might be the most ambitious heist in human history."

"A heist?" Denzel raised an eyebrow.

"Well, we're breaking into hell to steal a god's weapon while four other gods try to stop us," Franklin shrugged. "What would you call it?"

"Tuesday?" Armstrong suggested.

The command deck filled with laughter-the kind of laughter that comes easily to those who know they're about to do something either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, and have made peace with either outcome.

As the laughter died down, Franklin's expression became more focused. "Henry, given your... unique perspective, any specific advice for what we're about to face?"

The time-travelled captain considered for a moment. "Just one thing, Father: whatever you do, don't let Nurgle offer you any drinks. Trust me on this one."

"Noted," Franklin nodded solemnly. "Alright, let's get this show on the road. Vladimir, start the briefing. I want everyone to know exactly what we're walking into."

As his captains gathered around the tactical display, Franklin cast one last look at Cadia below. Somewhere out there, beyond the Gate that bore this world's name, lay a fragment of a god of war, waiting to be claimed. And between them and it stood the four greatest powers of

Chaos.

Franklin smiled. He liked those odds.

The void above the Crone World shimmered with otherworldly energies as Battlefleet Liberty maintained its position. Behind them, the activated Cadian Pylons projected a stabilizing influence, their ancient technology pushing back against the Eye of Terror's madness. The coordinates of Eldanesh's tomb pulsed on tactical displays, the target in the realm of chaos. "Standard deployment procedure, ladies and gentlemen," Franklin announced from the command deck, his voice carrying through the vox-network. "Though I see we have some uninvited guests at our primary landing zone."

The tactical hololiths showed a scene of impossible warfare. The Warshard of Khaine, a towering avatar of divine fury, stood amid swirling legions of daemons. Bloodletters clashed against its burning form, while Lord of Change hurled sorcerous bolts from above. Plagued monstrosities shambled forward as Slaaneshi fiends danced through the carnage. "Well," Armstrong cracked his neck, "at least they're keeping each other busy."

Franklin nodded, his eyes scanning the battlefield. "Adjust landing zones. Move us three miles south of that mess. Let's not crash their party just yet." He turned to the assembled command staff. "Begin Liberty Spire deployment."

The Sweet Liberty's launch bays opened like mechanical flowers. Dozens of massive cylinders -each a Liberty Spire-dropped through the atmosphere. Their impact was spectacular, each landing sending shockwaves across the corrupted landscape. As they activated, reality seemed to crystallize around them, the very air becoming more substantial as their psychic- dampening field took hold.

"Gellar Fields at maximum output," Denzel reported, monitoring the fleet's status. "No signs of warp incursion on any vessel."

Within minutes, the first wave of dropships descended. Transporters escorted the specially

modified landing craft carrying the Techno-Seers. Vladimir stood at their head, his psychic

hood crackling with protective energies.

"Beginning Firewall ritual deployment," Vladimir's voice came through the vox. "Anchoring points, da, established. We begin synchronized casting now."

Hundreds of Techno-Seers moved with machine precision, staffs striking earth like clockwork. The air hummed as their combined psychic might summoned a shimmering dome

of protection over the landing zone. Combat drones buzzed, circling like hungry vultures while Liberty Guards, rifles ready, held their positions.

"Firewall solid," Vladimir's voice cracked through the comms. "Monolith, ready for

deployment, comrades."

Franklin grinned, watching as the massive Monoliths-mobile fortresses of the Liberty Eagles-began their descent. "Gentlemen," he broadcast across all channels, "welcome back

to hell. I believe this isn't our first rodeo."

Armstrong's laughter boomed through the vox. "Hell? This is practically a vacation spot compared to that space hulk we cleared last month!"

"Let's maintain focus," Denzel interjected, though there was a smile in his voice. "The Warshard isn't going to extract itself."

Henry Cavill monitored his tactical display, his expression thoughtful. "The daemon armies are fully committed to attacking the Warshard. We might be able to use their distraction to

our advantage."

"Agreed," Franklin nodded. "Vladimir, how's our Firewall holding?"

"Rock solid, my lord. The Liberty Spires are amplifying our psychic defenses beyond expected parameters. We could probably withstand a direct assault from a Greater Daemon." "Let's try not to test that theory," Franklin replied. He stepped onto a teleporter pad, Anaris humming at his side. "Denzel, Armstrong, you're with me. Henry, coordinate with Vladimir and maintain our extraction corridor. If we lose our way back, I don't fancy spending a few millennia as this place's latest tourist attraction."

As the Primarch and his captains prepared to teleport to the surface, Franklin took one last look at the tactical display. The battle between the Warshard and the daemon legions had

intensified, reality itself buckling under their conflict.

"You know," he mused, "most people would call this suicide."

"Most people," Denzel replied, checking his twin blades, "aren't Liberty Eagles."

"Most people," Armstrong added, power fists crackling, "don't have the luxury of punching daemons in the face."

Franklin laughed. "Fair points. Well then, shall we go say hello to our new neighbors?" They stepped through he Eternity Gate, and in a flash of golden light, they vanished from the

Sweet Liberty's deck. Their war was about to begin, and somewhere in the distance, a fragment of a god of war awaited its liberation.

In the command throne, Henry Cavill watched them materialize on the surface through multiple vid-feeds. "Just another day at the office," he muttered, before turning his attention to coordinating their escape route. After all, getting in was only half the battle-getting out would be the real challenge.

The volcanic entity of the Warshard loomed before them, its form a grotesque fusion of

molten flesh and iron. Franklin studied it intently, noting how the creature's face remained forever locked in an expression of unbridled rage, its fiery eyes burning with an intensity that spoke of eons of hatred. Shadowy horns crowned its brow like a perverse diadem, framing the ancient rune of the Bloody-Handed God wreathed in noxious smoke.

Its armor, fashioned from polished bone, bore countless runes etched into its surface-the Thousand Names of Hate, each one a testament to violence incarnate. In its gore-soaked fist, it clutched Eldanesh's still-beating heart, while its other hand gripped Anaris, the Widowmaker. The sword's bloodstained edge seemed to whisper promises of doom, embodying the darkest aspects of Khaine's fury.

Franklin noticed an exact replica of Anaris gleaming in the Warshard's grip

"So," Franklin called out, his voice carrying an almost casual tone that made several of his sons suppress grins, "quick question for you, O' Bloody-Handed One - which Anaris is the real deal here? Because I've got to say, the whole 'two legendary swords' thing is giving me some identity crisis vibes."

The response came not in words but in a sensation, a burning amusement that flickered through Franklin's consciousness like a flame catching paper. Consider which bearer stands as a conscious deity, Khaine's thoughts resonated with dry humor, and which rages as nothing more than a mindless fragment of what was. The answer seems... rather obvious, wouldn't you say?

A laugh escaped Franklin's lips, echoing incongruously in the oppressive atmosphere. "Fair

point. Hard to argue with that logic."

Once I reclaim that portion of myself, Khaine's presence stirred with anticipation, our power to grant true death will be absolute. Your strength will grow beyond measure.

"Well then," Franklin rolled his shoulders, a familiar grin spreading across his face, "let's not keep ourselves waiting." He turned to his gathered captains, each nod exchanged carrying the weight of countless battles fought together. No words were needed - they understood their

roles perfectly.

As Franklin's form shifted, reality seemed to bend around him. Gone was the Primarch of the Liberty Eagles, replaced by an entity of burning divine power, steel wings spreading wide

enough to cast shadows over his warriors. Without another word, he launched himself toward the Warshard, leaving his sons to secure his back. Captain Armstrong whistled low, the sound carrying even through his helm's vox. "Now that's something you don't see every day. The old man turning into some kind of flaming, bloody-handed god?"

Vladimir Mendelev, the Chief Librarian, stood beside him, psychic energy crackling around

his Augur Staff. "More precisely, a Warp entity, a living weapon," he corrected, his accent thick with emphasis. "As Primarch says - gods are weapons, da?"

"Still," Armstrong continued, watching as their gene-father soared toward the Warshard, "got to admit it's impressive. Like something out of those ancient Terran myths." "The comparison is apt," Vladimir nodded, his augmented visor tracking the intense energy

readings. "But remember, Captain - myths often end in tragedy. We must ensure this one

ends in victory."

Their philosophical discussion was cut short by Henry Cavill's warning, his voice carrying the weight of future knowledge. "Incoming daemon hordes! Multiple vectors!"

The Legion's response was immediate and coordinated. Armstrong's 2nd Company, clad in their distinctive close-combat exo-armor, moved to intercept the Khornate daemons. "These bloodthirsty freaks think they're tough against ranged fire? Well, let's show them how we

krump up close!"

Vladimir's Technoseers took position, their augur staffs humming with power as they prepared to counter Tzeentch's sorcerous legions. John's Secret Service agents deployed in perfect formation, their weapons ready to decimate Nurgle's pestilent hordes. Denzel Washington led his veteran 1st Company against the approaching Slaaneshi forces, his twin

Dark Age blades gleaming with deadly promise.

Above them all, Franklin crashed into the Warshard like a meteor of divine wrath. His voice boomed across the battlefield, carrying both command and inspiration: "Remember my sons! Freedom is our birthright! Let none deny it!"

The response was immediate and thunderous. Across the battlefield, Millions of throats

roared in unison: "LIBERTY OR DEATH!" The war cry mingled with an equally passionate "FREEDOM OR NOTHING!" as the Liberty Eagles took up their positions.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

The world shifted like ink bleeding through parchment. Denzel Washington, First Captain of

the Liberty Eagles, found himself standing on polished wooden boards, the familiar weight of his power armor replaced by the elegant simplicity of samurai regalia. Cherry blossoms drifted through the air, their pale pink petals dancing against a sky that seemed both eternal

and impossible.

Wrong. This is wrong. His warrior's instincts screamed, yet everything felt real - the weight of

the katana at his hip, the whisper of silk, the spring breeze carrying the sweet scent of flowers.

Warriors lined the courtyard in perfect formation, their armor bearing crests he almost recognized but couldn't quite place.

His gaze swept the scene methodically, years of training cutting through the supernatural splendor. To his front, a warrior stood waiting, armor adorned with symbols that made

Denzel's eyes hurt if he looked too long. Behind this opponent sat a figure obscured by guards and ceremonial screens, radiating an presence that felt like a wound in reality.

But it was what lay behind him that truly caught his attention. There, elevated on a wooden

platform, sat a familiar figure that both was and wasn't his Primarch. Franklin Valorian, reduced to human size yet somehow no less magnificent, wore the ornate armor of a shogun. Their eyes met briefly, and Denzel saw recognition there - this was no mere illusion of his gene-father.

An honor duel, Denzel realized, his hand instinctively finding the hilt of his blade. But for whose honor? The cherry blossoms fell more heavily now, and in their descent, Denzel saw patterns - campaigns fought, victories won, brothers lost. Each petal carried a memory, and he understood with growing certainty that this was more than mere illusion. This was a trial. His opponent moved with liquid grace, drawing their blade in a motion that left afterimages in the air. The sword sang a note that Denzel felt in his bones, a sound that spoke of endings and beginnings. As he drew his own weapon in response, the world seemed to hold its breath.