The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 150: Going out with a Bang! Literally



The impact crater stretched before Franklin Valorian, a molten scar on Vigilarus that burned with the fury of a god's will made manifest. Steam hissed from molten rock, veiling the battlefield in a hellish shroud, while flames flickered around the Liberator like spectral sentinels. His avian skull-helm gleamed in the unholy glow, an unyielding silhouette against the chaos of his creation.

Yet, from within the crater's molten depths, movement stirred.

A fissure tore through the meteorite's surface, splitting it with a thunderous crack that reverberated across the desolation. From the depths of fire and stone emerged three figures- broken, enraged, and reforged.

Mortarion rose first, his bloated form an affront to reason, the very air around him wilting under the weight of necrotic fumes. His tattered cloak of pestilence whipped in the caustic winds, leaving streaks of decay carved into the ground.

Angron followed, a towering maelstrom of rage and sinew, his warped frame thrumming with the frenetic energy of the Butcher's Nails. His war cries echoed like thunderclaps, shaking the earth as warp-fire coursed through veins that no longer seemed bound by mortality.

Last came Fulgrim, coiling from the depths like a serpent reborn. His serpentine body slithered with impossible grace, even as the burns and cuts marring his perfect visage betrayed his fury. A cruel smile split his lips as his gaze swept over the devastation.

Fulgrim's voice cut through the toxic air, honeyed with disdain. "Is that it, brother?" he sneered, his words thick with derision. "A single meteorite? This is the best you can muster against the chosen of the Gods?"

Franklin tilted his head, the skull-helm casting a sinister shadow over the molten ridge. He let the silence linger, savoring the anticipation like a predator toying with its prey. Then came the chuckle-low, deliberate, and laced with menace.

"Fulgrim," Franklin murmured, his voice steady. "Tell me... what are you going to do about the second one?"

Fulgrim's mocking smile faltered. "The second-"

"SHUT UP, FOOL!" Mortarion bellowed, his voice tinged with urgency and rage as he yanked Fulgrim aside. "DO YOU WANT HIM TO GET ANY MORE IDEAS?"

Franklin stood unmoving, his arms folded as he watched his fallen brothers scramble through the molten terrain, the ground beneath them shifting and sliding like quicksand. Despite their daemonic power, their retreat was ungraceful, almost pitiful against the scale of the weapon descending upon them.

"You know," Franklin called out, his voice carrying effortlessly over the cacophony, "there's an old saying about humanity's greatest strength." His skull-helm gleamed, the flickering firelight casting him as both judge and executioner. "We've always been really good at throwing rocks."

The daemonic primarchs' roars of fury and panic were drowned out as the second meteorite filled the sky, its descent transforming the heavens into a wall of fire. The air itself screamed as the behemoth tore through it, its sheer mass promising to rewrite the landscape upon impact.

"And if it's worth hitting once," Franklin continued, a smirk audible in his voice, "it's worth hitting twice."

The final approach silenced all else. The battlefield seemed to hold its breath as the weapon neared the kill zone, its radiant mass reflecting the unstoppable resolve of humanity. Franklin remained where he stood, a lone sentinel witnessing the vengeance of a species unbowed by gods or daemons.

As the sky shattered and the earth convulsed, Franklin's voice carried one last, quiet observation to his scrambling brothers:

"Bigger rocks... always work better."

In the heartbeat before the second meteor's impact, as the world seemed to hold its breath, Franklin made a choice that would transcend tactical brilliance. He was not driven by strategy or necessity, but by something purer-a yearning for mercy amidst the chaos. With a burst of celestial flame, his divine wings carved searing trails through the ash-choked air, carrying him toward a brother lost to rage and despair.

Angron stood alone in the heart of the devastation, his massive form silhouetted against the boiling sky. Unlike Fulgrim and Mortarion, who scrambled to escape the second meteor's wrath, the Red Angel did not flee. The Butcher's Nails, those cruel implants that had shattered his soul, screamed their endless song of bloodlust, driving him forward even as doom approached from the heavens.

Franklin knew if Angron dies from this Meteor he will return to the Warp, forever enslaved to the Blood God.

Franklin's talons, wrought from divine metal, struck with unerring precision. He seized Angron, his momentum carrying them both across the ruined landscape, away from the kill zone. They crashed through molten rock and twisted wreckage, the impact shattering stone and sending tremors through the ground.

Angron recovered first, rising on instinct and fury, his daemonic arm wielding a howling chain-axe that demanded blood. The Butcher's Nails drove him forward, their eternal cry blotting out reason. The weapon met Anaris in a clash of flame and fury, the divine blade sparking against the unnatural metal of the axe.

Franklin parried, his movements precise, deliberate. Each blow was met and countered with the care of a brother trying not to kill but to save. "I know you, brother," Franklin said, his voice steady despite the chaos. "I know what they did to you. I know what you've endured." Angron's only answer was a roar, raw and guttural, a sound of ancient pain and fury. He swung again, and Franklin sidestepped, Anaris flashing in a clean arc that severed Angron's leg at the knee. The Red Angel collapsed, his body crumpling under its own weight, forced to kneel as he once had in the bloody pits of Nuceria.

"In another time, I couldn't save you," Franklin said, his voice soft, his blade lowered. "None of us could"

Angron lunged, his head a weapon now, driven by the Nails' relentless demand for violence. Franklin caught his brother's skull in an iron grip, his fingers finding the cruel archaeotech embedded in flesh and bone. With a cry of defiance, Franklin pulled.

The Butcher's Nails came free with a sound that was more than mechanical-a keening wail, as if the universe itself mourned what they had done. For the first time in centuries, Angron's mind was his own. The endless scream fell silent, leaving only the echoes of his ragged breathing and the distant roar of approaching destruction.

For the first time in millennia, silence fell over Angron's mind. He gasped, his body shuddering as if the weight of eternity had finally lifted. His blazing, bloodshot eyes met Franklin's. Clarity returned, fragile but undeniable, and in that moment, Angron was no longer a daemon, no longer a monster. He was a brother-a broken man, a victim, asking for

an end.

"Please..." Angron whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling, his eyes filled with a painful uncertainty. "End this... end me."

Angron did not know if Franklin could truly end his suffering. He did not know if any warrior, even one as mighty as his brother, could grant him the release he so desperately sought. But, for the first time in ages, Angron asked for it. His voice quivered with that raw, ancient pain- the tortured hope that perhaps, in this moment of clarity, his suffering could cease. Franklin nodded, the gesture containing all the solemnity of an executioner who understood the weight of mercy. Anaris rose, its divine flame burning brighter as if recognizing the importance of this moment. The blade that had tasted the flesh of gods and demons would now serve as an instrument of liberation.

The strike was perfect - a single, clean cut that separated head from shoulders. There was no resistance, a last-minute surge of power but Anaris sliced cleanly regardless.

Angron's massive form collapsed, but unlike previous deaths, there was no sense of impermanence. The power of the God of War and Murder ensured true death, final rest for a warrior who had known only war. As his brother's essence departed not to the Warp but to true oblivion, Franklin spoke words that were both eulogy and promise:

"Rest now, brother. The Nails are silent. The battles are done. You die free."

The body of the Red Angel began to dissolve, not into warp energy returning to its dark gods, but into motes of light that drifted skyward like embers from a dying fire. Each spark seemed to carry with it a fragment of the rage and pain that had defined Angron's existence, until nothing remained but a sense of peace that felt alien in this place of violence.

This moment, this death, had been about more than tactical advantage or strategic victory. It had been about brotherhood, about mercy, about ending a cycle of pain that had persisted since the dark days of Unity. The Red Angel, the gladiator-king of Nuceria, the unwilling servant of the Blood God, had finally found his freedom in oblivion.

"One liberated," he murmured, his voice carrying the burden of uncountable struggles, "an infinity left to free." His thoughts briefly drifted to a kinder moment, his timeline, this timeline where he had salvaged Angron's soul from the agony of the Butcher's Nails and the unrelenting path of slaughter.

But such reflections had no place here. The storm of war raged on, announcing itself with four luminous streaks tearing across the heavens. Wielding weapons imbued with the dark blessings of their infernal patrons, the daemon Primarchs surged toward Franklin with

murderous intent.

Franklin moved, his form an embodiment of tactical perfection. A sidestep turned Fulgrim's deadly strike into a misguided lunge. Anaris answered in turn, its blade arcing with feral

precision carving another scar on Fulgrim's scarred visage.

Fulgrim's bellow of pain was a chorus of rage and agony, amplified by the maddened whispers of Slaanesh. His serpentine body coiled and slashed with vicious intent, each strike powered by the unrelenting currents of the Warp. Their battle was a clash of light and darkness, each movement fast enough to reduce the air between them to incandescent plasma. Even the legendary Custodians, whose reactions were sharper than any mortal's, could barely glimpse the combat as afterimages of raw power and violence.

The Chaos Gods, ever-watchful, poured their essence into their champions. Fulgrim's strikes took on an unnatural fluidity, his four blades moving with a rhythm that defied logic. Mortarion advanced next, his corroded armor exuding pestilence that warped reality itself. The duo no longer fought as individuals but as a singular, malevolent force. Every feint, every strike, was orchestrated with ruthless synergy.

Franklin's voice cut through the cacophony, edged with amusement. "So, you're finally learning teamwork?" His metallic wings shimmered as he parried a barrage of strikes with supernatural precision. Anaris danced between Fulgrim's blades, while Franklin's wings

deflected Mortarion's rusted scythe.

Seizing an opening, Franklin lunged. Anaris sang as it sought Fulgrim's throat, blazing with the fury of Khaine. For a heartbeat, Fulgrim's mask of arrogance cracked, replaced by raw fear. But Mortarion intervened, his ancient scythe hooking Franklin's armor with a predatory grace, dragging him closer to the virulent embrace of decay.

Franklin twisted, leveraging the moment. Anaris clashed against the scythe, locking them in a brutal stalemate. Mortarion's strength, enhanced by Nurgle's gifts, pressed down with crushing inevitability. Yet Franklin's free hand moved with unerring purpose, drawing his

sidearm, The Last Word.

The Revolver barked once-a simple, uncompromising sound amid the chaos. Its blessed round, found its mark. Mortarion's head exploded in a grotesque spray of corrupted ichor, fractured ceramite, and fragmented bone.

The Death Lord recoiled, his remaining eye blazing with shock. Pain was meaningless to him, but the audacity of the attack cut deeper than the wound itself. His withered fingers clawed at the remnants of his jaw as warp-tainted flesh began knitting itself back together. Franklin's helm tilted, and though his face was obscured, the smirk in his tone was unmistakable. "Surprised? Sometimes all you need is a good sidearm."

The absurdity of it hung in the air: demigods battling with powers capable of annihilating entire star systems, yet Franklin had landed a decisive blow with a sidearm-a weapon of

humanity's ingenuity and pragmatism.

Fulgrim capitalized on the momentary lull, his four blades weaving intricate patterns of death. Mortarion's regeneration accelerated, driven by Nurgle's foul energies. Franklin, undeterred, stepped back into the fray.

The ground beneath Franklin's feet bore testament to the ferocity of their clash, cratered and

scarred by weapons that could end worlds. His divine form, though battered, remained unbowed as Fulgrim's mocking laughter echoed across the ruined landscape. "This is all you are, Franklin Valorian!" The Daemon Primarch's voice dripped with corrupt

confidence, his serpentine form coiling through reality itself. "Your legendary will may shield you from corruption, but what of your mortal vessel? We will destroy it, offer your soul to the Dark Gods, and then we shall see where your incorruptibility leads!"

Fulgrim's perfect features twisted in triumph. "So what if you can pull asteroids from the sky?

We survived, and then what?"

Franklin's laughter started low, a rumbling that seemed to emanate from the planet's core itself, before building into a manic cackling that caused even the daemon primarchs to pause. "Alright, Fulgrim," he said, his skull-helm tilting with predatory intent. "I grow tired of trying to kill you with mere skill and swordsmanship. I didn't want to look try-hard and sweaty but, seeing as how resilient you Chaos bitches are..." His voice dropped to a dangerous

whisper. "Let me show you the chasm between us."

With deliberate ceremony, Franklin planted Anaris into the ground before him. The sword's divine flame pulsed in anticipation as he raised his hands toward the heavens. Reality

shuddered, and then... broke.

Mortarion, ever the tactician, spat a curse at Fulgrim. "Silence, fool! He was formidable enough before you goaded him into this display!" The Death Lord's words were punctuated by the need to dodge or cleave through the artillery of earth being hurled their way. Franklin's power reached skyward, grasping something from the void above. "Fulgrim, you mentioned something about surviving meteors?" His skull-helm seemed to glow with inner mirth. "How about five?"

The heavens split asunder as five burning harbingers of destruction punched through the atmosphere. Though smaller than their predecessors, they screamed toward the surface with terrible purpose, their velocity unchanged. With casual poise, Franklin wove Aeldari runes into the air - ancient symbols of power that would maintain this bombardment automatically. "I think I'll call it Starscourge," he mused. "Because it sounds cool." The Sky began to rain meteorites.

Gripping Anaris once more, Franklin channeled his psychic might through the earth itself. Pillars of magma erupted around the daemon primarchs, turning their battlefield into an apocalyptic hellscape. The rain of asteroids continued their relentless assault as Franklin took to the air, his voice building with terrible purpose as he began to chant: "Hear me now, wretched foes of humanity and champions of false divinity!" Anaris responded to his words, its crystalline blade blazing with psychic energy until it

glowed white-hot, reality itself bending around its edge.

"I am Franklin Valorian, the Hand of Khaine, the Liberator, the Lord of the 11th!"

The air grew thick with power, each word carrying the weight of divine authority.

"By the flames of liberty, I unbind the seals of Anaris-the blade of gods, the har ger of annihilation!"

The sword's glow intensified, burning away shadows and truth alike.

"Behold my Patron, Khaela Mensha Khaine, the Bloody-Handed One, the Manifestation of Murder, War, and Destruction, Sunderer of the C'tan!" Reality trembled as ancient names of power were invoked.

"By his wrath and my will, I cast thee into eternal oblivion!" The very fabric of space-time began to warp around Anaris's blade.

"Know this truth, and despair: There will be no salvation. There will be no mercy. Against the

fires of humanity's unshackled might, your twisted faith and stolen power shall be as ash." Power beyond mortal comprehension gathered around Franklin's form, his divine aspect blazing with the fury of a dying sun.

"In Khaine's name die and be silent! Enal'ii'Nerash!"

(From the Heavens to the Void)

The universe held its breath for one eternal moment. Then Franklin released everything - all

his power, all his divine might, channeled through Anaris in a single, world-ending strike. His warp-god form faded, the energy required for such an attack depleting even his tremendous

reserves.

A beam of pure annihilation - not light, not fire, but something more fundamental - erupted

from Anaris's point. It struck the surface of Vigilarus with the force of a thousand suns, boring through reality itself. The beam punched through the planet's core and emerged from the other side, a spear of judgment that pieced the world itself.

Magnus the Red is locked in combat with a twisted reflection of his own potential. The air

crackled with psychic energy, reality fracturing around the two masters of the immaterium as they waged war on levels both physical and metaphysical.

Then came the chanting.

Magnus's singular eye widened as Franklin's words reached across the battlefield, each

syllable carrying undertones of power that made the very fabric of space-time shudder in anticipation. Even as he parried a strike from his daemonic counterpart, his vast intellect processed the implications of what was about to unfold.

The sword in Franklin's grasp blazed with an intensity that threatened to burn holes in reality itself, white-hot energy condensing around its edge in defiance of natural law. In that moment, Magnus's prodigious knowledge of the arcane triggered warnings in his mind that

screamed of imminent catastrophe.

With characteristic swiftness of thought and action, Magnus executed a complex series of psychic bindings. His corrupted self recognized the danger too late, desperately attempting to break free of the mortal realm before Franklin's attack could manifest. But Magnus had anticipated this, his bindings redirecting his daemon-self's every attempt at escape back into the planet's material framework.

"Simple," Magnus observed with scholarly satisfaction, "but quite unbreakable." Before his corrupted reflection could mount another escape attempt, Magnus had already

initiated his teleportation, reality bending around him as he translated himself to the Valley where the Emperor had established his command presence.

The scene that greeted him was surprisingly sparse. Where armies had clashed mere moments before, now only Constantine Valdor remained, his auramite armor reflecting the distant fires of battle like captured starlight.

"Where is everyone?" Magnus inquired, his tone carrying the casual curiosity of one god-

being addressing another.

Valdor's response was characteristically precise: "Back to the ship. The battle is over."

"The Liberty Eagles? The Thousand Sons?"

"Back to the ship."

Magnus's brow furrowed slightly, his vast intellect processing the timing of events. "When

did the battle end?"

"Just A Minute ago," Valdor replied with the exactitude expected of the Emperor's First

Companion. "The Emperor voxed the retreat, having anticipated Lord Franklin's..." he paused, searching for the appropriate term, "...antics."

A knowing smile crossed Magnus's features. "I see. We should observe from orbit then."

The teleportation to the Sweet Liberty's observation deck was instantaneous, reality bending

once more to accommodate the translation of beings whose very existence strained the boundaries of physical law. From the grand viewports of Franklin's flagship, Magnus watched as his brother's attack manifested. A pillar of light and flame, more akin to the death of stars than any mortal weapon, bored through the planet Vigilarus. The display was simultaneously magnificent and excessive, a perfect encapsulation of Franklin's approach to warfare.

Magnus allowed himself a moment of scholarly critique as he observed the phenomenon. "I

could achieve the same level of planetary devastation much more efficiently," he mused, his tone carrying the weight of academic discussion rather than criticism. "A simple folding of space-time around the planet's core would accomplish the task with far less..." he gestured at the continuing lightshow, "...spectacle."

Yet there was appreciation in his voice as he watched the beam continue its work. Franklin's method might lack the elegant efficiency of Magnus's own approach to planet-killing, but it

certainly made a statement. In its own way, it was perfectly in character for his brother - overwhelming force combined with theatrical presentation.

"Though I must admit," Magnus added, his eye reflecting the continuing devastation below, "there is something to be said for his approach. Sometimes the message is as important as the

method."

The beam continued its work, boring through Vigilarus with implacable purpose, while in orbit, one of the most powerful psykers in existence watched with the detached interest of a scholar observing an interesting but somewhat unorthodox experiment. Such was the nature of relationship amongst the strongest Primarchs, where planet-killing attacks could be discussed with the same casualness others might reserve for discussing the

weather, and brothers could critique each other's methods of mass destruction as if reviewing academic papers. Franklin was teleported in by Sweet Liberty now he find himself taking a knee on the Teleportarium.

The vast viewscreens of the 10,000-kilometer vessel displayed the aftermath of his handiwork - a planet with a perfect hole burned through its core, still glowing with divine

fire. Vigilarus would never be the same, its very existence now a testament to what happened when the Eleventh Primarch truly unleashed his might. But in Franklin's mind, a presence made itself known - ancient, terrible, and currently somewhat exasperated. Khaine's consciousness pressed against his thoughts, the War God's essence manifesting as a burning corona of judgment and barely contained amusement. "I find it interesting," the god's voice resonated through Franklin's consciousness, each word

carrying echoes of ancient battles and sundered worlds, "that you would use a chunk of my divinity to blast two Daemon Primarchs to oblivion along with the planet." The mental projection of the god crossed its arms, somehow managing to convey divine

disapproval while maintaining an air of grudging appreciation. "This was unnecessary," Khaine continued, "but it is also so quintessentially you."

Franklin's chuckle echoed across the room, drawing curious glances from the mortal crew who could not hear the divine conversation taking place. "It's about sending a message, remember?" His voice carried both exhaustion and satisfaction, like a performer who had just

completed their masterpiece.

Khaine's response carried the weight of millennia of divine experience. "Sending a message,

along with rendering your Warp God form unusable for this month." The ancient deity's mental projection shook its head, flames dancing around its form. "Sometimes I wonder why my chosen champion has such an... explosive interpretation of warfare."

"Oh come on," Franklin protested, finally managing to rise to his feet. His armor, still bearing the scars of battle, creaked with the movement. "You have to admit it was impressive. Did you see Fulgrim's face when I started pulling asteroids out of orbit? Classic!"

"I am the God of War and Murder," Khaine reminded him, though there was an undercurrent of amusement in the divine voice. "My chosen champion should perhaps consider subtlety occasionally. There are other ways to win battles besides punching holes through planets." "Says the god who literally shattered a C'tan," Franklin countered, making his way to the command throne proper. "Besides, subtlety is overrated. When you're fighting Daemon Primarchs hopped up on Chaos steroids, sometimes you need to remind them that they are not the only ones with a God.

"By destroying perfectly good planets?"

"By showing them that we can hit harder than they can ever imagine." Franklin's voice took

on a more serious tone. "They think they're so special with their patron gods and their warp

powers."

"Oh?" Khaine's mental presence radiated curiosity. "And what would you say humanity's greatest

weapon is besides throwing rocks? and hitting things harder?"

"Escalation." Franklin grinned beneath his helm. "We're the species that looked at a rock and thought 'this would work better if I threw it.' Then we invented the sling, the catapult, the cannon, and finally figured out how to drop rocks from orbit. We don't just adapt - we take whatever works and make it work better, just to impose more casualties on the otherside" The War God was silent for a moment, considering. "And this justified using my power to create a

planet-piercing beam of annihilation?" "Would you have preferred I used interpretive dance to defeat them?"

A sound like clashing armies filled Franklin's mind - Khaine's version of a laugh. "You are

impossible, Primarch. Though I suppose there is a certain... elegance to your methods. Crude, overwhelming, but effective."

"High praise from the God of Murder himself," Franklin quipped, finally settling into the

command throne. "Though I notice you're not actually saying I was wrong." "You pierced a planet to kill two enemies," Khaine observed dryly. "Two Daemon Primarchs," Franklin corrected. "And technically, I pierced the planet after

pulling multiple asteroids from orbit and creating an automatic asteroid-throwing system

that I named 'Starscourge' because it sounded cool." "Ah yes, how could I forget the asteroid rain? Truly, the pinnacle of martial sophistication."

"Says the god who literally has 'Bloody-Handed' as part of his title." The mental projection of Khaine seemed to sigh, though the flames around its form danced

with something approaching pride. "You are fortunate, Franklin not many could kill you in this

galaxy. Though perhaps next time..."

"If you're about to suggest a more subtle approach, may I remind you of that time you fought

Slaanesh?"

"Point taken," the god conceded. "Though you will be spending the next month without access to

your Warp God form. I trust you can manage to avoid any more planet-destroying exhibitions during

that time?"

Franklin's helmet tilted thoughtfully. "Well, that depends. Does dropping a moon on something count as planet-destroying?"

The sensation of divine exasperation flooded Franklin's mind. "Sometimes I wonder if I chose

my champion wisely."

"Too late to change your mind now," Franklin said cheerfully. "Besides, admit it – you enjoy

the spectacle as much as I do."

"I am an ancient god of war and destruction," Khaine replied with all the dignity he could muster.

"I do not 'enjoy spectacle.""

"Says the god who literally manifests as a giant statue of burning metal before battle."

There was a pause, and then something like resigned amusement colored Khaine's mental voice. "Rest, champion. You have earned it, even if your methods give me pause. But remember - a

few months without your divine form. Try not to start any wars that require piercing planets during

that

time."

"No promises," Franklin replied, settling back in his throne. "But I'll try to keep the collateraln/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

damage to a minimum. Maybe just a continent or two?"

The War God's presence began to fade, but not before Franklin caught a final thought: "Why couldn't I have chosen a champion who appreciated the subtle art of regular battlefield murder?" Franklin's laughter echoed through the bridge of the Sweet Liberty, leaving his mortal crew to wonder what cosmic joke their Primarch found so amusing. Above them, the screens continued to display Vigilarus who was slowly becoming debris, its new hole still glowing with divine fire - a testament to what happened when subtlety was discarded in favor of pure, overwhelming force.