The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 142: A Storm on the Horizon



The barren surface of Vigilarus stretched endlessly beneath a starlit void, its location at the galaxy's edge making the sky above appear split between the brilliant swath of the Milky Way and the absolute darkness of intergalactic space. Upon this desolate canvas, an impossibly vast design had been etched into the planet's surface - the Grand Circle, a masterwork of both psychic engineering and ritual craft.n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

Franklin Valorian stood at the circle's edge, admiring the interweaving patterns of crimson and gold energy that pulsed through the carved channels like arterial blood through divine veins. "You know," he mused aloud, "when I suggested we needed a ritual circle, I didn't expect you to go full 'cosmic art installation' on us, Magnus."

Magnus, seated cross-legged at the circle's center upon a crystalline dais, opened one eye to regard his brother. "Some of us prefer our workings to have a certain... aesthetic quality."

"As opposed to my 'draw it in the dirt with a stick' approach?" Franklin chuckled, carefully stepping over one of the glowing lines. "Though I gotta say, this makes my summoning circle for that pizza delivery daemon look a bit underwhelming."

"Your what?" Magnus's eyes snapped open.

"Nothing, nothing! Just a joke. Totally didn't figure out how to breach dimensional barriers for fast food." Franklin waved dismissively, then surveyed the ten thousand Thousand Sons arranged in perfect geometric patterns throughout the circle. "Nice formation. Very symmetrical. Though have you considered adding some jazz hands to the ritual gestures? Really spice things up?"

Magnus's eyes fixed upon his brother with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. "Brother, I sometimes wonder if you treat anything with appropriate gravity."

"Gravity?" Franklin chuckled, gesturing at the floating debris around them, caused by the building psychic energies. "Seems we're a bit short on that at the moment. But seriously," his tone dropped slightly, though the smile remained, "whatever you see when this kicks off, let me handle it. I've got experience with our unwanted party crashers."

Magnus's expression shifted, a shadow of recognition crossing his features. "Like that first time we met in the Warp? As I recall, you were rather busy dealing with servants of the collective subconscious constructs of all sentient life in the galaxy...these Chaos Gods in your knowledge"

Franklin's eyebrows shot up, his gaze darting to where the Emperor stood within His own circle of power, the air around Him shimmering with barely contained divinity. The Master of Mankind gave a slight nod, confirming Magnus's knowledge.

"Well well," Franklin raised his hand in an exaggerated thumbs up toward their father, "look who's finally learning to share information! Progress, people! This is progress!" He turned back to Magnus. "Though I gotta say, finding out about the Big Four usually involves more traumatic revelations and at least one attempted corruption. Dad's getting better at his communication skills!"

The Emperor's only response was a slight narrowing of His eyes, though the corner of His mouth might have twitched.

Magnus shifted on his dais, the psychic energy around him coalescing into visible patterns. "They will try to interfere the moment we begin. Father can hold them back directly, but their servants..."

"Will get a face full of liberty," Franklin finished, cracking his knuckles with thunderous reports. "Trust me, brother, my boys and I have been dealing with these clowns since day one. The Ruinous Powers aren't fans of my particular brand of problem-solving."

"Oh?" Magnus's eyes gleamed with scholarly interest, even as he began the preliminary phases of the ritual. "Speaking of shocking truths," Magnus interjected, "what exactly are you and your Legion hiding, brother? You seem surprisingly well-versed in dealing with these entities."

Franklin's perpetual grin took on a mysterious edge. "Trade secret, my scholarly sibling. Let's just say some of us got a sneak preview of the cosmic horror show and decided to prepare accordingly." He turned to his musicians. "Places everyone! And remember, if reality starts breaking down, just keep playing - it adds to the ambiance!"

Around them, the Thousand Sons began their chant, their voices weaving together into a harmony that made the air itself resonate. Magnus's power flowed through them all, beginning the process of retuning their very essence to match his own perfect frequency. Franklin took up his position, his Techno-Seers forming a secondary circle of their own. "Ready to make history, brother? Or prevent it, depending on your perspective on causality?" "Franklin," Magnus said, even as his form began to blur with psychic potential, "when this is over, we are going to have a very long discussion about your apparent ability to manipulate fundamental forces like they're toys."

"Looking forward to it!" Franklin called back cheerfully. "Just remember - if you see any suspicious birds offering power, send them my way. I've got this great spell that turns feathers into party streamers."

As Magnus began the ritual, the air seemed to shimmer with an ethereal heat. The psychic energy emanating from the Thousand Sons surged through the complex web of runes etched into the earth, their glow pulsing like liquid gold, ever-shifting. A colossal column of golden light erupted from the Emperor's position, stretching toward the heavens, only to be met by a violent clash of tumultuous, sickly hues-vivid purples, greens, blues, and reds that twisted together in defiance, heralding the arrival of the Ruinous Powers.

Whispers began to ripple through the ether, each one more insidious than the last-sweet promises of power, sinister threats, and maddening truths clawing their way toward the minds of those gathered. But just as they seemed poised to take root, the sharp, cold sound of a barrier snapping into place cut through the air. Vladimir Mendeley, Chief Librarian of the Liberty Eagles, activated the Techno-seers' Firewall. A cascade of burning binary code crackled across the sky, weaving a shimmering dome of protection around the ritual site, blocking out the whispers and the creeping tendrils of the Warp.

"Sir!" came a crackling voice over the vox, urgent. "Multiple hostile fleets detected in the void! Configuration matches future data-it's the Black Legion!"

Franklin's grin widened, impossibly, a sharp, mischievous gleam flashing in his eyes. "Oh? Is my alternate timeline nephew coming to visit? How thoughtful!" His voice boomed over the command deck, and he turned to his musicians. "Well, folks, you know what time it is-hit

it!"

And then, the faintest hum began to grow in the air, slowly at first, then expanding as the unmistakable melody of a haunting, elegiac tune filled the atmosphere. It was a sound that seemed to reach into the very fabric of the universe-a slow, sweeping arrangement, melancholic and grand, like the shifting of the heavens themselves. The strings and gentle winds played a delicate, almost mournful melody, while a soft, rumbling undertone built in the backgrou -a rising tide, a distant rumble of thunder. There was something impossibly heavy in the music, but also strangely regal, evoking the impossible majesty of a kingdom long lost, and the promise of destruction that lay ahead. The notes swirled in the air, an eerie harmony that echoed across the ritual's grounds, almost as though the cosmos itself was holding its breath.

Magnus paused in his exertion, eyes narrowing as he strained to maintain control over the ritual. "Brother," he called, his voice tense, "are you actually playing battle music right

now?"

"Of course!" Franklin's voice rang out, gleeful, even as the music swelled. "You can't have a proper boss fight without boss music! It's like having a library without books, or Leman without his wolves, or Father without His dramatic timing!"

The Emperor's golden light flickered briefly, almost as if amused-or perhaps it was a warning, impossible to tell with Him.

As the music surged, reaching an orchestral crescendo, Franklin drew his weapons, the sound of Anaris shifting through its myriad forms a perfect complement to the growing swell of music. He addressed his forces with a booming voice that cut through the rising melody, "Alright boys, looks like we've got company from the grimdark future! Standard containment protocols are in effect-no letting any spiky boys through, no accepting any suspicious gifts, and absolutely no dramatic monologues about betrayal! That's my job!"

The Liberty Eagles answered with a chorus of enthusiastic "Hoorah!" as the Techno-seers worked in synchrony to reinforce the Firewall, their fingers flying over their glyphs and interfaces, adding more layers of protection.

"Franklin," Magnus ground out, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice, "is the orchestral accompaniment really necessary?"

"Necessary? No. Awesome? Absolutely! Besides, you should hear what I had planned for Horus's temper tantrum at Molech-talk about a killer playlist!" Franklin's voice rang out with unshakable confidence as the music reached its peak, the notes now resonating with a cosmic weight, vibrating through the very bones of reality itself.

The first signs of the Black Legion's arrival broke the atmosphere, their ships emerging through the warp in vast, corrupted waves, casting dark shadows across the sky. Franklin grinned, humming along with the now-familiar battle theme as he positioned himself at the

head of his forces.

"Hey Magnus," he called over his shoulder, his voice lighthearted despite the gathering storm, "wanna hear something funny? In another timeline, that guy up there," he gestured toward the oncoming fleet, "actually manages to clone Horus. Multiple times!"

"What?"

"I know, right? Talk about daddy issues! Though I guess he got that from both sides of the family..." Franklin's grin widened. He turned back to his musicians. "More bass! You can't have a proper villain entrance without good bass!"

As the Black Legion's vessels loomed closer, Franklin's voice rang out, booming over the swelling music: "Ladies, gentlemen, and assorted transhuman warriors! Tonight's performance of How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Warp will feature guest appearances by our friends from the future, interpretive dance by yours truly, and what I suspect will be some very angry Chaos Space Marines who really should have checked their calendar before planning this invasion!"

In the twisted heart of the Vengeful Spirit, where reality bent and screamed under the weight

of ten thousand years of hatred, Abaddon the Despoiler sat upon his throne of skulls. The chamber, vast as a cathedral and just as devoted to worship, though of far darker gods, thrummed with the echoes of victory. The 13th Black Crusade had succeeded where twelve others had failed, and the Imperium bled from wounds that would never truly heal.

But even in this moment of triumph, the air grew thick with power not his own. Reality split along invisible seams as four great entities manifested within the chamber, their very presence causing the ship's hull to groan in protest. They came as avatars of the Dark Gods themselves, each one a nightmare given form and purpose.

Anggrath the Unbound materialized in a storm of brass and blood, his wings spreading wide enough to cast crimson shadows across half the chamber. The very deck plates beneath his hooves began to melt and reform into shapes of violence and rage.

Kairos Fateweaver emerged as though he had always been there and would always be there, both heads speaking prophecies that contradicted and complemented each other in maddening harmony. The air around him rippled with possibilities, each more terrible than

the last.

Ku'gath Plaguefather oozed into existence, his bloated form a testament to every pestilence that had ever existed or would exist. Where his fluids dripped, new and impossible diseases bloomed and died in the span of heartbeats.

N'Kari, one of Slaanesh's most beloved princes, appeared in a cascade of sensations too exquisite to be anything but agony, his form shifting between pleasure and pain with each

movement.

Abaddon rose from his throne, sizing up each Greater Daemon with eyes that had seen

empires fall and stars die. He was not afraid - fear had been burned from him in the crucible

of ten thousand years of war - but he was cautious. The Dark Gods rarely sent their greatest

servants without purpose.

"Warmaster," Anggrath's voice boomed like artillery fire, "your victory pleases the Blood God. The skulls you have claimed will make a fine addition to his throne."

"The Prince of Pleasure finds your artistry... exquisite," N'Kari purred, each word dripping

with poisoned honey. "Such elegant brutality deserves... recognition." "Your pestilence spreads beautifully," Ku'gath bubbled, his voice the sound of rotting worlds. "The Garden of Nurgle blooms with the diseases you have helped cultivate."

But it was Kairos who spoke the words that would reshape destiny. His past-head and future-

head spoke in terrible unity: "The Gods offer you power, Despoiler. Power that your gene- father could only dream of."

As the words echoed through the chamber, Abaddon felt change ripple through him. His

already massive frame began to grow, reality bending around him as he ascended to new heights of power. Muscle and sinew reformed, restructured into something more than Astartes, more than even the exalted champions of Chaos. He became what he had always meant to be a Primarch in all but name.

"This is but a taste," N'Kari whispered, circling the newly empowered Warmaster. "A sample of what awaits should you accept the task we bring."

Abaddon flexed his new form, feeling reality bend to his will in ways it never had before. Even

Drach'nyen, the Echo of the First Murder, pulsed with renewed vigor at his side. "Speak your piece," he commanded, his voice now carrying the weight of his ascension.

Kairos's heads began their maddening duet again: "The past bleeds into the future/The

future reaches into the past. A moment of weakness presents itself/A moment of strength must be destroyed."

"Speak plainly, Oracle," Abaddon growled, though his tactical mind was already parsing the

riddle's meaning.

"The Gods offer you a chance that even Be'lakor never achieved," Anggrath declared, his wings spreading wider. "True independence as the Champion of Chaos Undivided." This caught Abaddon's attention. Be'lakor's fate was well known - the first daemon prince,

punished for his presumption of independence. Yet here were the four greatest servants of the Dark Gods, offering what had been denied to all others.

"A fledgling Imperium awaits your blade," Ku'gath explained, his pestilent form swaying

with anticipation. "One that grows too strong, too quickly. One that must be... pruned."

Abaddon's eyes narrowed. "Fledgling? You speak of the past - the Great Crusade era." It wasn't a question.

"The time when your gene-father still walked among mortals," N'Kari confirmed, his form rippling with barely contained excitement. "When the False Emperor still wore flesh." For the first time, hesitation crossed Abaddon's face. He had surpassed his father in many

ways, had claimed victories where Horus had found only failure, but to face the Emperor in His prime...

"Fear?" N'Kari's voice was mock surprise. "From the mighty Despoiler?"

"The Corpse-Emperor will not be your concern," Ku'gath assured him, bubbling with dark

mirth. "The Gods themselves will hold the Anathema in check. Your task is simpler - a ritual to disrupt, a Primarch to destroy."

Abaddon gestured to the viewports, where his decimated fleet hung in the void. "My forces

are spent. Even with this new power-"

Anggrath's laughter cut him off, the sound like metals being torn apart. With a gesture, the void lit up with new life. Fleet after fleet of warships emerged from the Warp - vessels

from

every era of the Long War, crews that had died centuries ago now restored to unholy life, champions that had fallen in battles long forgotten now ready to serve once more. "The Gods have spoken," Anggrath declared. "All that was lost has been restored. Your armies are renewed, Warmaster, and reinforced beyond measure." Abaddon walked to the viewport, watching as the armada continued to materialize. It was a

force that could have split the Imperium in half even at the height of its power. Ships that

hadn't sailed together since the Siege of Terra now flew in formation once more, their hulls writhing with the touch of the Warp.

"If the Gods commit such force," he mused, gripping Drach'nyen's hilt, "then this fledgling Imperium must truly be a threat."

"It is... different," Ku'gath admitted, his pustulent form rippling. "Stronger than it should be.

But you have the full backing of the Four. The Gods reach across time itself to assemble this

force."

"The Imperium you will face has advantages it should not possess," Kairos's heads spoke in alternating prophecy. "Knowledge it should not have/Power it was never meant to wield. But you have become what your father failed to be/You will succeed where Horus could not." Abaddon turned from the viewport, his new form casting a shadow that seemed to drink in

what little light remained in the chamber. He was more than he had ever been more than Astartes, more than Warmaster, more than even his gene-father had been in those final days on Terra. The power thrumming through him made reality itself bow in his presence. "A ritual to disrupt," he repeated thoughtfully. "A Primarch to destroy." His laugh was the sound of worlds dying. "Let it be so. I will succeed where my father failed. I will crush this

fledgling Imperium before it can grow into the rotting corpse I have spent millennia trying to topple." The four Greater Daemons bowed in unison, their forms already beginning to fade. "The Gods watch with great interest, Warmaster," Kairos's heads spoke one final prophecy. "The past changes/The future trembles. Victory awaits/Destiny bleeds."

As his unholy guests departed, Abaddon turned back to the impossible fleet assembled before

him. Ten thousand years of warfare had taught him patience, taught him the value of careful planning over blind rage. But now, with power coursing through his veins and an armada of nightmares at his command, he felt the same fire that must have burned in Horus's heart

when he first turned against the False Emperor.

"Set course for the past," he commanded, his voice rolling through the ship like thunder. "Let us show this fledgling Imperium what ten millennia of hatred can accomplish." The Vengeful Spirit's engines roared to life, leading an armada of impossibility toward a

destiny that should never have been. In the void behind them as they travelled through a massive rip in the warp.