The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 67: Goddamn Bird!



The temple, once a silent testament to forgotten glory, now resonated with the clash of titanic forces. Franklin Valorian, the Liberator, stood toe-to-toe with Shalaxi Hellbane, the Dark Prince's most formidable Greater Daemon. The air crackled with psychic energy as the two beings engaged in combat.

Franklin's eyes narrowed as he assessed his opponent. Shalaxi was undoubtedly powerful, its movements a blur of inhuman speed and grace. Yet, as the Primarch parried another lightning-fast thrust from the daemon's spear, he noticed something crucial.

"Fast, yes. Strong, certainly," Franklin mused aloud, his perpetual smirk never wavering. "But technique? That's where you're lacking, my colorful friend."

Khaine's voice resonated in Franklin's mind, a mixture of amusement and disdain. "In the days when I walked the Materium, Chaos cowered in the darkest corners of the Warp. These... pretenders weren't even a footnote in our history."

As if to punctuate Khaine's words, Franklin executed a series of moves that left Shalaxi momentarily off-balance. The Primarch's sword work had evolved beyond mere skill; it was an art form, honed through countless battles, Khaine's tutelage and his recent training with the image of Eldanesh.

"You know," Franklin quipped as he sidestepped another of Shalaxi's attacks, "I'm not sure how old you are. The Warp's funny that way, isn't it? Past, present, future all mixed up like a cosmic cocktail." He chuckled, deflecting a blow that would have eviscerated a lesser being. "But I can tell you this - you're no Eldanesh."

Shalaxi hissed, its voice a discordant melody of pleasure and pain. "We are eternal, Son of the Anathema. Our power transcends your mortal comprehension."

Franklin's response was a whirlwind of attacks, his form almost impossible to track as he moved with blinding speed. It was as though multiple warriors fought in unison, each strike precise and deadly, overwhelming his opponent from every angle. Unlike mere feints or illusions, every blow landed with lethal intent, each an evidence to his unmatched skill and power.

The temple floor suddenly turned to jelly beneath Shalaxi's feet, a casual display of Franklin's reality-warping powers, a trick he picked up from his strongest foe to date. As the daemon struggled to regain its footing, Franklin wove in a series of precise shots from his archeotech pistol, each round screaming with destructive potential.

"Fireball!" Franklin called out almost playfully, a massive sphere of psychic flame materializing between him and Shalaxi. The Greater Daemon braced for the impact, only to find that the fireball was a feint - a screen for Franklin's true attack.

The Primarch burst through the flames, the Death Sword singing through the air. Shalaxi, caught off guard by the maneuver, barely managed to deflect the blow, but not before the blade carved a deep furrow across its chest.

As they continued their deadly waltz, Franklin began to exert his will upon reality itself. With each passing moment, he imposed his indomitable psyche upon Shalaxi, attempting to slow the daemon's movements. It wasn't enough to stop the Greater Daemon entirely, but even a microsecond's delay could mean the difference between victory and defeat.

"You feel that, don't you?" Franklin taunted, pressing his advantage. "That little hesitation in your steps? That's me, saying hello to your synapses."

Shalaxi snarled, its features contorting in a mixture of rage and ecstasy. "Your parlor tricks won't save you, Liberator. I am the favored of Slaanesh, I have felled the Blood God's Finest, Skarbrand! I am the undefeated champion of the Dark Prince!"

Franklin's laughter echoed through the temple. "Undefeated? Well, there's a first time for everything, isn't there?"

With that, Franklin unleashed a flurry of attacks that defied mortal comprehension. He seemed to be everywhere at once, the Death Sword striking from impossible angles. Shalaxi, found itself on the defensive, struggling to keep up with the Primarch's onslaught.

"You beat Skarbrand," Franklin remarked, his tone casual despite the relentless assault he delivered. "Impressive, I'll give you that. But here's the thing-I'm not Skarbrand. I'm something far more."

As if to demonstrate his point, Franklin executed a move that shouldn't have been possible. He feinted left, then right, then seemingly split into multiple versions of himself, each striking at Shalaxi from a different angle. The Greater Daemon, confused and overwhelmed, couldn't defend against them all.

The Death Sword found its mark, biting deep into Shalaxi's flesh. The daemon howled, a sound that was equal parts agony and rapture.

"That's the difference between us," Franklin said, his voice calm despite the furious pace of the battle. "You fight for the thrill, for the sensations. I fight with purpose, with technique honed through countless battles and the wisdom of ages."

Khaine's voice chimed in, a note respect and pride in his tone. "Perhaps you're not entirely hopeless, Primarch. Now, finish this pretender and claim our prize!"

As Shalaxi staggered back, its form wavering between material existence and the stuff of the Warp, Franklin raised the Death Sword for the final blow. The blade glowed with the combined will of the Primarch and the shard of Khaine within it.

"It's been fun, Shalaxi Hellbane," Franklin said, his smirk widening into a genuine smile. "But I'm afraid this dance is over. Give my regards to your master - and tell them they'll have to do better next time."

With that, Franklin brought the Death Sword down in a devastating arc.

The air crackled with dissipating energy as the last echoes of the Greater Daemon's banishment faded into nothingness.

Franklin began directing the automatons in their clean-up protocols, his captains gathered around him, each exuding their unique presence. Steven Armstrong, the burly 2nd Captain, was the first to break the silence.

"Father," he called out, gesturing towards a pile of glittering objects on the ground, "what's the deal with these diamonds? Spoils of war?"

Franklin's lips quirked into a half-smile, his eyes twinkling with that characteristic mix of mischief and gravity that his sons had come to both love and fear. He ran a hand through his brown hair, a gesture that usually preceded a revelation of cosmic proportions.

"Steven, My Swole Son," Franklin began, his tone light despite the weight of his words, "these aren't just any shiny trinkets. These little beauties are our ticket to saving the Aeldari from an eternity of daemon-flavored torment.

Denzel, stepped forward. "Spirit stones," he said softly, nodding as the pieces fell into place.

"A safeguard against the Warp's hunger."

Franklin clapped Denzel on the shoulder, nearly staggering the First Captain with his Primarch strength. "Bingo! Our pointy-eared drama queens now have a get-out-of-hell-free card, courtesy of yours truly and a rather chatty god of war"

John Ezra remained silent, his eyes darting between the diamonds and the surrounding

battlefield. His mind was calculating the strategic implications of this discovery and the

potential security risks it posed.

Vladimir stood slightly apart from the group, his presence imposing and silent like a looming thundercloud. He raised his ever-present flask to his lips, taking a long, deliberate swig of whatever potent brew he favored.

"I can feel the potential in them," he began, his deep, gravelly voice tinged with the thick accent of Old Earth's long-forgotten lands, each word measured like the man himself. His eyes narrowed as if scrutinizing some invisible force only he could sense. "It is... how you say... able to isolate the soul from Warp's stormy sea. Strange, yet fascinating."

As the team began to harvest the Spirit stones, distant explosions suddenly rocked the ground beneath their feet. Franklin's head snapped up, his playful demeanor instantly replaced by the razor-sharp focus of a supreme commander.

"Looks like our daemon friends didn't get the memo about their extended vacation," he growled, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Pack it up, boys. We're leaving."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a cataclysmic warp storm began to form. The sky tore open, revealing the swirling madness of the immaterium. The Liberty Spires, those bastions of stability in the tumultuous sea of the Warp, began to crack and shatter under the

onslaught.

"Well, shit," Steven eloquently summarized, already moving to secure their haul of spirit

stones.

"By My Father's gleaming abs," Franklin cursed, his eyes widening at the sight. "This is no ordinary temper tantrum. Move it, double-time!"

They scrambled towards the waiting Stormbirds, the very fabric of reality warping around them. Franklin's keen eyes caught sight of a squad of Astartes, seemingly cornered by a

towering Lord of Change.

"Denzel, Steven, cover fire! We're not leaving our boys behind!" Franklin bellowed, raising

his weapon.

As they opened fire, the erratic nature of the Warp-saturated environment became apparent. Shots went wide, trajectories bending impossibly. Only Franklin's shots, guided by his innate abilities, found their mark, staggering the daemonic entity.

The Lord of Change, reeling from Franklin's assault, unleashed a spell that seemed to slow time itself. Franklin was immune to it but his sons and their Ships weren't forcing him to

fight.

"Throne-damnit," Franklin growled. "I hate these fuckin' birds."

"Hey, Chicken Little," Franklin taunted as he engaged the Lord of Change. "Didn't your momma ever tell you it's rude to crash a party uninvited?"

A quick slash here, a deft parry there, and the daemon's head rolled, separated from its body. But even as it fell, its laughter echoed across the battlefield, chilling in its implications. "Son of Anathema," it cackled, its voice reverberating even as its form dissipated. "We knew

you would save your sons. Haha!"

In that moment, Franklin's blood ran cold. The "Astartes" he had sought to rescue shimmered and changed, revealing themselves as Heralds of Tzeentch.

"Fucking Titsnitch and his manipulations," Franklin thought, the realization hitting him like

a Baneblade to the face.

Before he could react further, Franklin felt the fabric of reality tear around him. The Warpn/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

itself seemed to reach out, grasping at him with tendrils of raw chaos. As he was pulled inexorably towards the growing rift, Franklin's sons watched in horror from their transports. "Well, shit," Franklin managed to say, his usual bravado tinged with genuine concern. "This is gonna be one hell of a trip."

Even in this dire moment, Franklin's indomitable spirit shone through. He shouted to his sons, his voice filled with a mixture of command and his irrepressible humor.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do, boys! And keep your hands off my Amasec stash!"

As the Warp began to envelop him, Franklin's defiance never wavered. He grabbed a couple of

lesser daemons that were trying to latch onto him, his face a mask of annoyance rather than

fear.

"Get your fucking hands off me!" he roared, launching the daemons away from him with his superhuman strength, and cleaving some with his Deathsword.

Denzel, his face a mask of determination, tried to maneuver his Storm Bird closer, but the

Warp energies were too intense. "FRANK!" he shouted, his usually calm voice cracking with

emotion.

Steven, his massive fists clenched in frustration, bellowed orders to the gunners, trying in vain to disperse the Warp energies with concentrated fire. "Keep blastin'! We can't lose

Father!"

John was already on the vox, coordinating with the fleet in orbit, his measured voice belying the urgency of the situation. "This is Ezra. Primarch extraction required. I repeat, Primarch

extraction required."

Vladimir, his psychic senses overwhelmed by the raging Warp energies, staggered under the onslaught. His brow furrowed deeply as his Techno-seers scrambled, their machinery whirring in vain attempts to open a portal. Every effort was met with failure as the Warp roared back with a fury unlike anything they'd faced before.

Through gritted teeth, Vladimir gasped, "The Warp... is like nothing I have ever felt!" He

clenched his fist, forcing himself to stay upright leaning on his Augur Staff, his words laced

with grim determination. "It's alive... and it wants him! Like hungry beast... and we are just

prey."

As Franklin disappeared into the swirling maelstrom of the Warp, his last words echoed across the vox net, a mixture of defiance and his characteristic humor:

"Tell Dad I might be late for dinner! And someone feed my fish!"

With that, the rift closed, leaving behind a stunned silence broken only by the distant sounds

of battle and the crumbling Crone World.

"I... I can still sense him," he muttered, eyes narrowing, as if peering into some far-off place.

"He's alive in there. Fighting. Always fighting, like good Russian bear-stubborn, never give

up."

He took another swig from his ever-present canister, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before adding, "Bah, the Warp thinks it can break him? Is like trying to break Siberian winter-unyielding." He gave a gruff chuckle before straightening up, his expression hard as

iron.

John Ezra, breaking his usual silence, spoke up. "We need to inform the Emperor immediately. This... this changes everything."

The loss of their Primarch hung heavy in the air, but so did his final orders and his indomitable spirit. As they left the Crone World behind, each son of Franklin Valorian silently vowed to do whatever it took to bring their father home - and to leave his Amasec stash untouched until his return.