The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 144: The Escalation



The battlefield trembled with anticipation as Franklin Valorian stalked toward Abaddon with the measured pace of a predator toying with its prey. Anaris, held at that precise 45-degree angle, seemed to drink in the ambient light, its surface rippling with barely contained divine energy. The blade wasn't just a weapon-it was a statement of intent, a physical

manifestation of inevitable victory.

Abaddon's stance betrayed his desperation, though he tried to mask it with bravado. Franklin's chuckle cut through the tension like a knife through silk, carrying with it the weight of ten thousand victories. "Whatever you are planning, my nephew, you better pick another approach." The words weren't just advice-they were prophecy.

But pride and rage had always been Abaddon's weaknesses, inherited perhaps from his gene- father Horus. He ignored the warning, launching into an attack that might have split a lesser warrior in two. Franklin's sidestep was so casual it appeared choreographed, as though he'd rehearsed this exact moment countless times. His movement had the fluid grace of water flowing around a stone, effortless and inevitable.

The grab that followed was brutally swift. Franklin's gauntleted hand engulfed Abaddon's face with the decisive grip of someone picking up an errant child. The knee strike that followed wasn't just powerful-it was precise, calculated to crack the ancient Terminator plate at its weakest point. The impact sent shockwaves through the armor's systems, and the sound of cracking ceramite echoed across the battlefield like the death knell of Abaddon's pride.

The ground cratered beneath Abaddon as Franklin slammed him down, the impact sending tremors through the earth that would have registered on seismographs continents away. Yet there was still that playful edge to Franklin's movements, the casual dominance of a master instructing a particularly slow student. He gave Abaddon space to rise, a courtesy that spoke volumes about his confidence. As the Warmaster struggled to his feet, his armor groaning in protest, Franklin's voice carried that same playful tone.

"I see that temper hasn't changed at all, nephew," he mused, "or did you not meet Denzel in your timeline?" The question hung in the air like a poisoned dart, each word calculated to burrow deeper into Abaddon's psyche. "Either way, I can teach you some."

Abaddon's roar was primal, the kind of sound that had heralded the fall of worlds: "I WILL NOT BE TREATED LIKE THIS!" The declaration echoed across the battlefield, a rejection of the fundamental truth unfolding before him.

Franklin's head tilt was almost artistic in its condescension. "Oh, I'm sure you're mad. But I can tell you're not thinking." His voice remained calm, playful-the voice of a master instructing a particularly slow apprentice. "Here's a suggestion: Try feinting."

The psychological warfare was masterful. Each word was precisely chosen to push Abaddon further off balance, to make him doubt not just his current actions but every victory that had led him to this moment. The Warmaster's rage was palpable, a physical force that would have made lesser beings cower. But to Franklin, it was simply another tool in his educational arsenal. Abaddon took the bait, throwing a false strike to the left. The move would have fooled most opponents-it was a masterful feint, backed by millennia of combat experience. But Franklin's response made it clear that "most opponents" was a category that had never included him.

"There. I gave you what you wanted, nephew," Franklin's mockery cut deep, his casual evasion making the elaborate feint look clumsy. "You've got to commit more than that. Look at me. I'm a warrior, not a jester."

The next exchange was brutal in its one-sidedness. Abaddon's swing, powerful enough to shear through battle tanks, met nothing but air. Franklin's counter was elegant in its simplicity—just the tip of Anaris grazing Abaddon's shoulder. Sparks flew where the blade made contact, but the real damage was to the Warmaster's pride. It was the kind of strike meant to educate rather than eliminate, and that made it all the more devastating.

"Try using your head next time," Franklin continued his lesson, each word a carefully placed barb. "You're making this too easy, nephew. The Warp doesn't win battles-strategy does." The dismissal in his voice was absolute. "You're no Warmaster. You're just the next fool I'm going to teach a lesson to."

Then came the coup de grâce of psychological warfare: "Come on, use those blessings. What was it again? The Strength of Khorne? The Knowledge of Tzeentch? The Resilience of Nurgle and Slaanesh's Perfection?" Each blessing was named with increasing mockery. "Haha, come on, Nephew. Daddy Horus brought more fight than you."

The reference to Horus was calculated perfectly. It struck at the very core of Abaddon's being, at his eternal struggle to step out of his gene-father's shadow. Franklin knew exactly what he was doing this wasn't just combat, it was surgery of the soul.

Even as he dismantled Abaddon's fighting spirit, Franklin's tactical mind was working. He recognized the artificial nature of Abaddon's power-a Primeborn. The observation wasn't just academic; it was another piece in the greater puzzle. The Chaos Gods wouldn't send just this to stop Magnus's ritual. There had to be more.

When Abaddon kissed the ground again, his fury finally boiled over. "FIGHT ME COWARD! ALL THIS RUNNING!" The demand echoed across the battlefield, a child's tantrum dressed in the voice of a demigod.

Franklin's response was simple: that same infuriating smirk, followed by acceptance of the challenge. When Drach'nyen finally met Anaris in earnest combat, the clash was cataclysmic. Lightning sparked from their points of contact, reality itself struggling to contain the forces at play. But something was wrong-Abaddon could feel it in his grip.

The daemon sword, which had drawn the Emperor's blood in another timeline, was cracking. Chips of its blade scattered like dark stars, the damage healing but not fast enough. The Echo of the First Murder, that ancient and terrible entity bound within the blade, communicated its terror to its wielder: it could not stand against Kaela Mensha Khaine.

Franklin's explanation was almost academic, a teacher explaining a particularly interesting phenomenon to a student. "Fascinating, isn't it? You carry the blade that was the echo of the first Human Murder. Mine carries the Literal God who manifested as Murder the embodiment of eons of warfare—an entity that shattered the Nightbringer itself, the so-called God of Reality and the living manifestation of Death." The comparison wasn't just boasting-it was a fundamental lesson in the hierarchy of power. "Did you really think this would end any other way, my nephew?"

As if to emphasize this point, divine flames erupted around Franklin's form. They weren't the corrupt fires of the Warp, but something older, purer, and infinitely more terrible. The face of Kaela Mensha Khaine himself materialized in those flames, the Eldar God of War and Murder finding voice through his chosen champion. His laughter was the sound of battlefields drenched in blood, of worlds burning in righteous fire, of victory achieved at any cost.

The manifestation of Khaine seemed to fill the entire battlefield, his burning gaze fixed upon Abaddon and his failing weapon. The God's cackle held the weight of eons, of countless battles won and enemies destroyed. It was the laughter of an entity who had shattered the most powerful Star God, the victor of an ancient war, now confronted with what it saw as little more than a pale imitation of true power.

In that moment, the true horror of Abaddon's situation became clear. He wasn't just fighting Franklin Valorian, the 11th Primarch. He wasn't even just fighting the Hand of Khaine. He was facing the combined might of a Primarch who had never known defeat and a god who had helped shape the very concept of warfare. The battle wasn't just hopeless-it was a cosmic lesson in humility, delivered at the edge of a blade that had helped forge the universe itself. The health bar that still stretched across the horizon wasn't just a measure of Franklin's vitality—it was a reminder that some battles are decided before the first blow is struck, the health bar has yet to recieve a single speck of damage.

Abaddon could hear it-the sound that would haunt him for eternity. Piano music, haunting and tragic.

Magnus the Red stood on his big fancy floating platform, his one remaining eyeball glaring down at the absolute catastrophe in front of him. His missing left eye itched like crazy- phantom pain and all that nonsense-because apparently, even sacrificing an eyeball for the greater good doesn't come with a painkiller. Before him stretched the genetic blueprint of his Thousand Sons, looking less like a masterpiece and more like an abstract finger painting done by a three-year-old daemon high on warp dust.

"What a mess," he muttered, his voice carrying the weight of both frustration and determination. The genetic frequencies of his Thousand Sons fluctuated wildly, each one a unique puzzle requiring precise calibration. From his elevated position, he could see the intricate web of destiny that bound them all together, the handiwork of the God of Fate and Convoluted Schemes clearly visible to his enlightened sight.

"Why does everything have to be so needlessly complicated? Oh, that's right-it's because I'm stuck dealing with the god of overcomplicated nonsense and his jazz hands of destiny." As he worked, his attention briefly drifted to the display of martial prowess occurring nearby. Magnus waved his hand, trying to untangle a particularly stubborn knot in the tapestry. The threads wobbled and twisted like they were actively mocking him. Meanwhile, off in the distance, his very special brother Franklin Valorian was busy curb-stomping Abaddon the Despoiler like it was just another Tuesday. Magnus was amused-Franklin had been rather insistent about handling all opponents personally. "Leave all the opponents to me," he said. "I'll handle it," he said. I swear, one day that man's confidence is going to collapse under the weight of its

own smugness."

But, of course, Franklin's over-the-top antics worked every time, because why wouldn't they? Warp forbid anyone else try to have that level of plot armor.

Magnus turned his attention back to the genetic matrix. His singular eyeball narrowed as he

finally began stabilizing his sons' gene-seed. The first thousand were looking... not terrible.

That was progress, right?

"One thousand sons down, nine thousand to go," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Why is the name of my legion something that constantly reminds me of how much work I still have left?" His mind wandered to the recent revelations from his Father. The Emperor had shown him his possible futures, and they had chilled him to his core. The vision of what he might have become a being of pure warp energy, his physical form destroyed, his soul shattered, his

legion decimated, and his soul bound to powers he once thought he could control-had been particularly haunting. But that future was now unraveling, thanks in no small part to his irritatingly prescient brother.

The thought of Franklin brought a complex mixture of emotions. Magnus reflected on how his view of his brother had evolved. Initially, he had dismissed Franklin as merely an exemplary politician-skilled, certainly, but not someone who would fundamentally alter the course of history. How wrong he had been. The revelation about Archmagos Koriel Zeth and the Akashic Reader had been particularly enlightening.

Magnus smirked to himself. "Franklin's whole 'beat sense into them' method is probably Plan A for most situations, but no. For me, he used Plan B: send a tech nerd with a shiny Akashic Reader and make me figure out how wrong I was."

The irony wasn't lost on Magnus. He'd spent his whole life priding himself on being the

smartest guy in the room, only to get schooled by his smug, punch-happy brother. He'd hate it if it weren't so... well, effective.

As he stabilized another genetic sequence, Magnus felt a flicker of gratitude. Franklin, in all

his overconfident glory, had given him the tools to make the right choices instead of forcing his hand. It was subtle, clever, and so not what Magnus had expected.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

The Emperor had shared with Magnus just how extensive Franklin's influence had been throughout the Great Crusade. It was humbling to realize how many threads his brother had been quietly weaving while the rest of them focused on their immediate concerns. The Akashic Reader itself was a prime example-a device that enhanced the Emperor's already formidable precognitive abilities and allowed the Emperor to dive into the Empyrean and extract knowledge, allowing Him to show Magnus with unprecedented clarity the futures that

awaited him.

As Magnus continued his delicate work of matching his sons' gene-seeds with his own, he

couldn't help but appreciate the irony. He, who had once prided himself on his mastery of knowledge and foresight, had been outmaneuvered by a brother who presented himself as a straightforward warrior. Franklin's strategic acumen operated on levels Magnus was only

now beginning to appreciate.

The whispers came then-seductive, powerful, promising. They showed him visions of power that would eclipse both Franklin and the Emperor himself. For a moment, Magnus allowed himself to examine these offerings, to truly understand what was being dangled before him.

In another timeline, perhaps, he might have been tempted. But now, with the knowledge of what such choices would lead to, he felt only contempt.

"Oh, look, another feathered idiot trying to sell me snake oil. Newsflash: I've read this script before,

and it sucked the first time."

With a flick of his hand, Magnus psychically grabbed the daemon and squeezed, making it

squawk indignantly. Without breaking a sweat, he hurled the unfortunate warp chicken in Franklin's direction.

"HEY FRANKLIN, THINK FAST!" Magnus shouted, smirking as the daemon flailed its way toward his overly dramatic brother. Franklin would probably catch it with one hand, make a quip, and turn it into a victory lap. Typical Franklin.

As Magnus went back to his work, his thoughts drifted-not that he'd admit it-to how much

Franklin had actually helped him. Not by being obnoxious and flashy (though Franklin was really good at that), but by being... annoyingly smart.

As he returned to his work, Magnus felt a deep sense of gratitude beneath his scholarly exterior. His brother's roundabout method of saving him-providing information rather than force, enabling choice rather than demanding compliance-showed a depth of understanding that Magnus had initially failed to credit him with. Franklin had recognized that true change had to come from understanding, not compulsion.

The phantom pain of his sacrificed eye throbbed again, but Magnus welcomed it. It was a reminder of choices made with full knowledge of their consequences, of futures diverted through wisdom rather than pride. As he continued the painstaking work of saving his sons, Magnus the Red, Primarch of the Thousand Sons, realized that sometimes the greatest victory

lay not in accumulating power, but in choosing the right path when presented with all the

facts.

And if occasionally that path was illuminated by an abnormally prescient brother with a penchant for excessive planning and direct action, well... perhaps that was just another of fate's convoluted schemes.

The grim battlefield's oppressive silence was broken by the echoing bellow of Magnus the Red: "FRANKLIN, THINK FAST!"

Accompanying the shout was an airborne Lord of Change-Tzeentch's majestic Greater Daemon-soaring through the air in a manner that could only be described as "extremely

disgruntled projectile bird."

Franklin, mid-monologue and thoroughly enjoying his verbal dissection of Abaddon's life choices, turned his head with the unhurried grace of a man hearing someone call his name at a

barbecue. The scene that greeted him was nothing short of spectacular: a swirling mass of kaleidoscopic feathers hurtling toward him, wings flapping in futile protest against the indignity of ballistic travel.

With the nonchalance of someone who had clearly dealt with airborne daemons on a semi- regular basis, Franklin made a quick adjustment. Anaris, glowing with divine flame, was driven straight through Abaddon's abdomen, pinning the Warmaster of Chaos to the ground

like the galaxy's angriest butterfly.

"AAAAAAARGHH!" Abaddon howled, his guttural cry filling the air as the divine weapon seared through ceramite and heretical flesh alike. Predictably, Abaddon made his next big mistake. He grabbed the blade, attempting to free

himself. The Intense heat of Anaris promptly began melting through his gauntlets like a hot lascutter through particularly heretical butter. The battlefield's aroma now included the distinct scent of scorched chaos-metal, a unique addition to its bouquet of blood, ozone, and

bad decisions.

Satisfied that his impromptu butterfly display would hold, Franklin shifted his attention to the incoming Lord of Change. His smirk broadened, radiating a level of glee that could make even the most battle-hardened warriors question their life choices.

The Lord of Change, still experiencing the novel sensation of being airborne, had just enough

time to squawk indignantly before Franklin raised a hand and declared with unrestrained

enthusiasm:

"Random Bullshit, GO!"

What followed was a textbook example of what the Mechanicum of Mars might call "creative

problem-solving" and everyone else would call "absolute nonsense."

The psychic blast struck the daemon mid-flight, and its majestic, shimmering plumage- each feather a symbol of Tzeentch's infinite schemes-began transforming into party streamers. The transformation was instant and complete, leaving the once-proud harbinger of cosmic manipulation trailing a kaleidoscope of garish, fluttering ribbons.

The daemon's reaction was nothing short of priceless. Its beaked visage twisted through a

montage of emotions: confusion (this can't be happening), outrage (how dare this happen), and existential despair (oh no, it is happening).

As the daemon spiraled downward, now resembling a chaos-themed parade float gone horribly wrong, Franklin reached in his dimensional pocket. With theatrical precision, he produced a Vortex Grenade, holding it aloft like an entertainer revealing their pièce de

résistance.

"Think fast, Chucklenuts!"

The grenade soared with perfect accuracy, colliding with the streamer-clad daemon in a

display so absurdly dramatic it deserved an Aquila Award. The Lord of Change barely had time to screech out before the grenade detonated, creating a swirling vortex of reality-shredding energy.

Franklin turned back to Abaddon, who had witnessed the entire sequence of events with the

hollow-eyed stare of a man realizing he'd just been signed up for the galaxy's worst comedy

roast.

"Now then," Franklin said brightly, as though he hadn't just turned a Warp monstrosity into a party favor, "where were we? Ah, yes. Battlefield etiquette."

With a practiced twist of Anaris, Franklin elicited a fresh howl of pain from the pinned Warmaster. He leaned in slightly, his tone dropping to one of conspiratorial amusement. "Pay close attention, nephew. This next part is crucial-it's about how not to embarrass yourself in front of a Primarch."

The relative calm of Franklin's methodical dismantling of Abaddon was interrupted by Denzel's urgent transmission through the vox. His First Captain's voice carried the weight of immediate concern, though it maintained the professional composure characteristic of the Liberty Eagles' command structure.

"Primarch, the Liberty Guard lines are facing unprecedented pressure. Chaos forces are

pushing beyond sustainable containment parameters."

Franklin checked the chronometer display in his helm, reviewing the battle analytics with the practiced ease of a commander who had orchestrated countless such engagements. The Liberty Guard had held their position longer than most mortal armies could have dreamed of

achieving against such opposition. Their performance, while meeting its tactical conclusion, had fulfilled its strategic purpose perfectly.

"Well done, soldiers of Liberty," Franklin transmitted across the command network, his voice

carrying that particular blend of pride and authority that had become his hallmark. "You've exceeded expectations, as always."

Anaris, I enough

between pained gasps to attempt

Abaddon, still pinned beneat one final psychological assault. "You waste their lives," he snarled, blood-flecked spittle accompanying his words. "Each Liberty Guard that falls feeds the Gods. Their souls enrich the powers of Chaos. What kind of father sacrifices his children so carelessly?" Franklin's chuckle carried none of its earlier playfulness. This laugh was older, darker,

carrying echoes of ancient wisdom and terrible purpose. "Oh, nephew," he said, his voice dropping to a register that seemed to resonate with the very bones of reality. "You still don't understand what you're dealing with, do you?" The Primarch's armor shifted, momentarily revealing glimpses of divine flames beneath its surface. "Khaine claims their souls before your masters can touch them. My fallen return to the Hand that guided them in life." His voice carried absolute certainty. "From my highest

Astartes to my humblest auxiliary, they believe in me as their protector. And in death, as in life, I ensure they serve a greater purpose than your gods could ever offer." The theological implications of this revelation struck Abaddon silent. The idea that a Primarch had found a way to deny Chaos even the souls of his fallen was staggering. Franklin's next words twisted the knife further: "Better to empower a god who stands with humanity than to be lost to the tides of the warp, wouldn't you agree?" Switching back to the command channel, Franklin issued his next series of orders with practiced efficiency. "Liberty Guard, execute fallback pattern Delta-Seven. Withdraw to the second line and prepare for primary engagement protocols." Each word carried the weight of thousands of hours of drills and preparation. This wasn't a retreat -it was the prelude to the

real battle.

Captain Henry Cavill's report from the Sweet Liberty's bridge arrived with precise timing. The massive vessel's augury arrays painted a picture of escalating crisis that would have broken lesser commanders. "My lord, multiple warp breaches detected. Significant Traitor Legion forces incoming: Death Guard, Black Legion, Emperor's Children, World Eaters... The Thousand Sons are attempting to manifest as well, though the valley's quantum shielding and containment protocols are forcing them into our prepared killzones." Franklin processed this information with the same casual ease he showed in combat. The Chaos Gods were committing significant forces to prevent Magnus from saving his sons in this timeline. Their desperation was showing-they were throwing everything they had at

this

moment.

"Your assessment, Captain?" Franklin prompted, though he had already calculated the most likely development.

"Given the imminent termination of the Despoiler, my lord," Henry replied with clinical precision, "probability matrices suggest Daemon Primarch manifestation is virtually certain.

They cannot afford to lose this engagement."

"Agreed." Franklin's reply was accompanied by a slight twist of Anaris, drawing another

pained grunt from Abaddon. He switched to the Legion-wide frequency, his voice reaching

every Liberty Eagle in the theater of war.

"Attention Eagles: Initiate Anti-Astartes warfare protocols. This is our first engagement with Traitor Legion forces in this timeline, but the enemy remains the same. Remember your training." A pause, followed by what might have been a smirk in his voice. "And do remember to double-tap the Death Guard. They have an annoying habit of getting back up otherwise."

The gravity of the situation would have crushed most commanders. The combined might of multiple Traitor Legions, the possible manifestation of Daemon Primarchs, and the fate of the Thousand Sons hanging in the balance-it was the kind of moment that decided the fate

of galaxies. Yet Franklin Valorian, the Ever-Victorious Warsaint, treated it with the same

confident assurance he brought to every battle. The Liberty Eagles began moving into their prepared positions, each formation executing maneuvers that had been practiced to perfection. The second line wasn't just another defensive position—it was a carefully crafted killing ground, designed specifically for engaging Traitor Astartes. Every angle had been calculated, every field of fire predetermined, every fallback position reinforced with the experience gained from countless battles. In the distance, the warp portals continued to disgorge more forces of Chaos. The sky above

the valley was a riot of unnatural colors as reality strained under the pressure of so many tears in its fabric. The Death Guard brought their clouds of pestilence, the Emperor's Children their cacophonous battle-hymns, the World Eaters their blood-curdling war cries, and the Black

Legion their aura of vengeful purpose.

Yet even as this apocalyptic force gathered, Franklin's position remained unshaken. He had planned for this, had prepared his forces for exactly this moment. The valley wasn't just a battlefield-it was a trap, carefully crafted over months of preparation. Each Traitor Legion would find itself fighting not just against the Liberty Eagles, but against the very terrain

itself.

"One last thing, nephew," Franklin said to the still-pinned Abaddon, his voice carrying a note of almost paternal disappointment. "You really should have wondered why I let you get this

close to Magnus. Every step you took brought more of your forces exactly where I wanted

them."

The implications of this statement would have been clear to any strategic mind: the entire battle, from the initial engagement with the Liberty Guard to this moment, had been orchestrated. Franklin hadn't just prepared for this battle-he had shaped it, guided it, ensured that when the Traitor Legions finally committed their forces, they would do so in exactly the way he had planned.

Reality shuddered as Franklin gazed one final time at his fallen nephew. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, pregnant with the promise of violence yet to come. Abaddon, through blood-clouded vision, watched his mighty Justaerin guard fall like wheat before a scythe, their terminator plate offering no more protection than parchment against the twin blades that danced through their ranks. At the arena's edge, two figures stood sentinel - one wielding those lethal blades that had carved through the elite guard, the other a mountain of ceramite and crackling power fists, his bulk matching Abaddon's own. But it was not these warriors that drew Franklin's attention. Something vast approached through the fabric of reality itself, moving with such velocity that conventional detection was meaningless. Franklin felt it in his bones, in the divine essence that flowed through his veins

a Daemon Primarch, breaking through the veil between worlds.

"Well nephew," Franklin declared, his voice carrying the weight of finality, "the end of the

line."

Abaddon struggled to his feet, his once-mighty form now broken and bloodied. Drach'nyen, the blade that had drawn the Emperor's blood, flickered like a dying star in his grasp. The daemon weapon's essence fractured under the relentless pressure of Khaine's presence, its

ancient malevolence crumbling before truly divine power.

Franklin moved with transhuman speed, Anaris sweeping toward Abaddon's neck in an arc meant to end the long saga of the Despoiler. But where flesh should have met blade, there was only empty air. Four simultaneous attacks converged on Franklin from different angles, each moving with serpentine grace. The Primarch's response was instantaneous, Anaris weaving a web of defensive strikes that turned aside each blow before landing a decisive counter - a

horizontal slash that carved through his attacker's armor. There, coiled protectively around the fallen Abaddon, was a being of nightmare and beauty. Fulgrim, the Daemon Primarch of the Emperor's Children, had manifested in all his terrible glory. His serpentine form writhed with impossible grace, his perfect features somehow maintaining their allure despite the corruption that had claimed him. The air split with a psychic shriek as reality struggled to contain his presence.

"Touch my dear Abaddon," Fulgrim's voice dripped with equal parts threat and seduction, "and I will ensure your soul becomes a plaything for eternity." But there was no time to appreciate the irony of the moment. Franklin's transhuman senses detected another imminent arrival - this one burning with rage so intense it left contrails of hatred in the warp itself. The sky erupted as Angron, the Red Angel, plummeted from above like a meteor of pure fury. Steam vented from his skull-mounted butcher's nails as he

descended, every fiber of his massive frame promising violence.

Franklin's response was poetry in motion. A sidestep that seemed casual yet placed him precisely where he needed to be, Anaris flashing out to separate Angron's left arm from his body in a spray of corrupted ichor. The kick that followed sent the berserker Primarch flying, even as Franklin's raised palm launched a psychic assault that caught Fulgrim mid-strike,

sending the serpentine daemon prince hurtling backward. A dark chuckle escaped Franklin's lips as he appreciated the cosmic irony. These two brothers

- whom he had saved from their fates in this timeline - were the first to assault him from another. The weight of fighting two Daemon Primarchs simultaneously pressed upon him like a physical force. These were no mere Greater Daemons to be casually dismissed. These were

demigods corrupted to the service of chaos, each one a match for entire armies.

The pressure of fighting two Daemon Primarchs simultaneously was not something to be taken lightly, even for one such as he. The air around Franklin began to shimmer with divine

energy as he acknowledged the necessity of unleashing his full potential.

The transformation that followed was nothing short of mythological. Franklin's form shifted, reality bending around him as he assumed his Warp God aspect. The avian skull that replaced

his helm burned with flames that put the fires of the Warp to shame. Wings of steel unfurled —not mere decorative appendages, but weapons of divine intent, each feather sharp enough

to split atoms and strong enough to shield against the weapons of gods. Abaddon, still kneeling in the dirt of his defeat, watched with dawning comprehension as the title above Franklin' health bar shifted, No longer was he merely The Ever-Victorious Warsaint. Now, emblazoned across the very fabric of existence, burned his true title: Grand

Daddy of Freedom!!!

The battlefield fell silent for a heartbeat, a split-second where time itself seemed to stop. The

sound of screeching eagles rang out, mingling with the distant booms of explosions and the crackle of gunfire.

The air crackled with competing divinities-Khaine's ancient might flowing through Franklin, clashing against the corrupt power of the Chaos Gods that sustained the Daemon Primarchs. Light and shadow danced across the landscape as though reality itself couldn't

decide which aspect of divinity should hold sway. Fulgrim's perfect features twisted in a snarl that somehow remained beautiful, while Angron's rage found new depths in the face of this transformation. They had come expecting to face a Primarch, albeit an exceptional one. Instead, they found themselves confronting

something that their corrupted essences recognized as an equal in divine might, if opposite in

aspect.

Franklin's voice, when it came, seemed to emanate not just from his physical form but from reality itself: "Brothers," he said, the word carrying finality, "I have seen the end of this

story. It is not your victory."

Anaris blazed in his grip, the sword's form shifting between states of matter as Khaine's power flowed through it unrestrained. The steel wings spread wide, their edges catching light that didn't exist in the material realm. The avian skull that had replaced his helm tilted slightly, regarding his opponents with the same casual confidence he had shown since the beginning-only now backed by openly divine power.

The air itself began to sing as three divine entities prepared to clash, reality straining under the weight of their combined presence. Fulgrim's serpentine form coiled tighter, every scale a promise of poisoned death, while Angron's remaining arm gripped his chainaxe with enough force to warp its adamantium handle. This was no longer merely a battle between transhuman warriors. This was myth in the making, a clash of divine wills that would echo through the corridors of time itself. The very ground beneath them began to crack and float upward, defying gravity as the laws of physics

bowed before the weight of what was about to unfold.

And through it all, Franklin maintained that same infuriating smirk, visible even through his

divine aspect. The stage was set. Three Demi-gods each representing a different aspect-corruption, rage,

and liberation-stood ready to engage in a battle of destruction that would rewrite the very

meaning of combat. And somewhere, in the distance, Magnus continued his work, protected

by the very confrontation that seemed to threaten him. Franklin rolled his divine shoulders, steel feathers singing their readiness for combat.

The

The time for words had passed. Now would come the clash of legends, the meeting of powers

that would shake the foundations of reality itself.

Let the dance begin.