Franklin Valorian stood atop a hill fortified with imposing defenses, his Mechsuit humming softly with latent power. His cape billowed dramatically in the wind, the fabric snapping like a banner of defiance against the darkening sky. The weight of the Deathsword at his waist was a familiar, comforting presence as his gloved hand briefly touched its hilt, feeling the pulsating energy within.
Suddenly, a voice, ancient and brimming with pride, reverberated through his mind.
"You have quite the knack for attracting trouble, especially from the Ruinous Powers," said Khaine, the God of War.
A chuckle escaped Franklin's lips. "What can I say? I'm a popular guy." His tone was light, teasing, as though discussing trivial matters rather than the impending onslaught of daemonic forces.
"Indeed," Khaine mused. "First, it was Skarbrand on Cadia. Then Kairos Fateweaver in that Aeldari temple. And now, Nurgle. At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if a Greater Daemon of Nurgle shows up to the party."
Franklin's eyes glinted with amusement as he scanned the horizon. "Getting cold feet, are we, Khaine?" he teased.
A scoff rang through his mind, laced with indignant pride. "Cold feet? Preposterous! I am the God of War, not some trembling novice."
"Just checking," Franklin replied with a grin. "Wouldn't want my divine roommate getting stage fright."
There was a pause, and for a brief moment, the ancient god's voice softened, the edges of his typical arrogance blunted by something close to fondness. "I must admit, you're my favorite host, Franklin. Most of my shards are gathering dust in some Craftworld shrine, their bearers too fearful to wield my true power. But you? You take me right into the thick of battle. It's... refreshing."
Franklin's grin widened. "Aw, Khaine, I'm touched. We make a pretty good team, don't we?" His voice carried a lighthearted warmth, an odd contrast to the war-torn landscape around him.
"Indeed," Khaine agreed, before his tone shifted to something more deliberate. "Which reminds me… if you happen to come across any more of my shards, I would be most appreciative if you retrieved them."
Franklin raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Oh? And what's in it for me?"
A deep chuckle echoed in his mind. "Always the negotiator. I could bestow upon you certain… boons."
Franklin's eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. "Wait, you mean the power you've given me so far isn't the full package?"
Khaine's voice brimmed with amusement. "Merely a taste, my friend. The blessings I've granted you thus far are but a fraction of my true might. With more shards, you could potentially wield my abilities directly."
Franklin's gaze sharpened, his interest clearly piqued. "So, you're saying I could go full God-mode? Like in those ancient Terran video games?"
For a moment, there was silence before Khaine responded, his voice tinged with amusement. "In a manner of speaking, yes. Gather enough of my shards, and 'God-mode' wouldn't be far from the truth."
Franklin grinned, his heart racing with anticipation. "Now that's an offer I can't refuse. You've got yourself a deal, Khaine."
Their banter was interrupted as the Liberty Spires—towering constructs scattered across the battlefield—began to emit a low, resonating frequency. The air grew thick with energy, and before them, the fabric of reality itself began to tear. Massive portals to the Immaterium ripped open, their gaping maws nearly scraping the sky. The largest of the rifts stood directly in front of Franklin, dark and foreboding, a gateway to the endless corruption of Nurgle's realm.
With a practiced motion, Franklin drew the Deathsword from its sheath, the blade gleaming with an otherworldly light. He took a step forward, his presence commanding, the weight of his power palpable as his Mechsuit hummed with the ready anticipation of battle.
"Looks like our chat will have to wait, old friend," he said aloud, his voice carrying over the cacophony of the battlefield. "We've got some Nurgle nasties to deal with."
Khaine's voice echoed in his mind once more, this time filled with the thrill of combat. "Then let us show them the true meaning of war, my host."
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In the central control room of Castle Thorndike, Chief Librarian Vladimir Mendelev hunched over a bank of monitors, his sharp eyes scanning the endless stream of data flowing across the screens. The intricate details of the Liberty Spires scrolled by, a symphony of numbers and arcane symbols blinking in rapid succession. His brow furrowed in concentration as he adjusted a few settings, the flicker of warp energy monitored closely by the array of advanced technology at his fingertips. After a long moment, he grunted with satisfaction, leaning forward to reach for the vox-caster.
He spoke in his deep, thickly accented voice, laced with his typical Russian stoicism. "Primarch, this is Mendelev. I have update on Liberty Spires."
The reply crackled through the vox, Franklin Valorian's deep, familiar tone coming through clearly despite the interference. "Go ahead, Vladimir. What's the situation?"
Mendelev paused briefly before delivering the news, his tone measured and calm, as if discussing a routine task rather than a critical operation against the forces of Chaos. "Is good news and bad news, Primarch. Good news: Liberty Spires are functioning at optimal capacity. Bad news: we need one hour before Materium heals itself and Spires can isolate Nurgle plague and Warp."
There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by a low chuckle from Franklin. "An hour, you say? No problem, Vova. We'll give these plague-ridden bastards a warm Imperial welcome in the meantime."
Mendelev, rarely one for humor, allowed a small smile to tug at the corner of his lips. "Da, I thought you might say that. You always did enjoy challenge, Primarch."
"You know me too well, Vova" Franklin responded with a trace of amusement in his voice. "How are things looking from your end?"
Mendelev's fingers moved deftly across the console, bringing up more data. His expression remained impassive, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "All systems are green, Primarch. We have eyes on all four portal locations. Liberty Eagles and Knight forces are in position. We are ready for whatever Nurgle throws at us."
Franklin's voice carried a tone of approval, the weight of his leadership evident even through the vox. "Excellent work, as always. Keep me updated on any changes. And Vova?"
Mendelev leaned slightly forward, his hand hovering over a set of controls, his voice carrying the professional tone of a man used to commanding the unseen forces of the Warp. "Da, Primarch?"
There was a brief pause before Franklin spoke again, this time with a hint of amusement. "Try not to have too much fun without me up there."
A rare chuckle escaped Mendelev's lips, a sound so seldom heard from the stoic Chief Librarian that it startled a nearby officer. "I make no promises, Primarch," he replied, a glimmer of humor seeping into his otherwise stern voice. "But I think you will have more than enough 'fun' for both of us down there. Good hunting."
Franklin's laughter echoed through the vox. "And to you, Vova. Valorian out."
Mendelev set the vox-caster down and returned his focus to the screens, the fleeting moment of humor fading as the gravity of the situation reasserted itself. The symphony of data and readings continued to flow, but Mendelev's mind was already calculating, planning, preparing for the next move in the battle to come. The Liberty Spires would need time, but that was a luxury they had learned to create. His faith in Franklin Valorian was absolute.
----------------------------
The fabric of reality tore open with a sickening rip, and the foul minions of Nurgle poured forth from four massive portals. Their grotesque forms corrupted the very air and land of Austeria Extremis, transforming once-verdant fields into festering swamps. Trees withered in seconds, and the ground decayed beneath the rot of Chaos. The stench of death and decay filled the skies, but the defenders of the Imperium stood firm. Clad in their shining armor, weapons primed, they were ready to meet the horrors of the warp head-on, their resolve unshakable.
The first wave of Nurgle's forces was met with a hellish firestorm from above. Liberty Eagles gunships and bombers swooped low, releasing torrents of burning promethium that engulfed the corrupted landscape in flames. Daemons shrieked and writhed in the inferno as the fire consumed them, their bloated forms bursting in the intense heat. High above, Fire rained down from the skies, flames of pure annihilation that burned away chunks of the daemonic horde from existence, leaving nothing but scorched earth behind. The sky itself seemed to burn.
On the battlefield, the chaos was absolute. Across four distinct fronts, the Liberty Eagles fought with unwavering determination, holding the line against the endless tide of corruption spilling from the warp. The air was thick with the stench of rot, the ground beneath their feet churning with the twisted forms of Nurgle's foul minions. At the heart of it all, towering above his warriors like a god of war, stood Franklin Valorian, a beacon of defiance amidst the storm.
His voice, carried through the vox network, cut through the noise of battle like a blade. "Hold the line! For the Emperor and for Austeria Extremis!" The command was clear, steady, and resolute, and its effect on the troops was immediate. Every warrior around him felt their resolve harden, their hearts steeling against the onslaught. The Liberty Eagles Astartes, clad in their massive exo-armor, formed an impenetrable wall of defiance, their disintegration rifles humming as they unleashed volley after volley into the daemonic hordes.
Each shot tore through Nurgle's twisted servants, the energy disintegrating flesh and rot in flashes of pure destruction. The air crackled with the relentless hum of the rifles, punctuated by the grotesque sound of daemons being torn apart. Yet, even in the face of such carnage, the tide seemed unending.
At the center of the battlefield, Franklin Valorian was a walking fortress of destruction. His form bristled with weapons—both arms wielding dual rotary cannons, spewing a continuous hail of bullets into the advancing enemy. From his shoulders, pods of smart missiles rained down upon the battlefield, each explosion illuminating the sky with deadly fireworks, creating shockwaves that rippled across the enemy ranks. Wherever Franklin aimed, there was no resistance, only the grotesque splashes of rotten flesh and fetid blood as Nurgle's daemons were pulverized by thousands of rounds in mere seconds.
Behind him, the Primarch's Honor Guard his secret service, elite warriors tasked with preventing any flanking maneuvers, stood vigilant. Though the daemonic forces pressed from all sides, none dared to break the iron wall formed by Franklin's Honor Guard. They moved with methodical precision, obliterating down anything that dared to approach from the sides, ensuring that the center remained protected.
"Left flank and right flank," Franklin's voice boomed over the vox, his tone sharp as he surveyed the battlefield. "Retreat slowly—bait them into a kill zone. Crescent formation. Fall back into the trenches."
He had seen it coming—the left and right flanks would be overrun in minutes, leaving him vulnerable at the center. The daemonic horde surged forward in relentless waves, a seemingly unstoppable mass of disease and corruption. But Franklin, wasn't about to let them have the advantage. His mind worked swiftly, directing his forces with the precision of a master tactician.
As ordered, the Liberty Eagles on the left and right began to fall back, their retreat slow and deliberate. It was not an act of desperation, but a calculated maneuver. Step by step, they withdrew into the waiting trenches, their movements coordinated as they drew the enemy into the carefully prepared kill zones.
Minutes later, as the daemons mindlessly rushed forward, the trap was sprung. Franklin's forces were once again entrenched, their position fortified, their weapons ready. The daemonic hordes stumbled blindly into the trench traps, their rotting bodies pierced by hidden spikes and engulfed by sudden waves of flame. The sky lit up as the explosives planted within the trenches detonated, turning the battlefield into a fiery hellscape of burning daemons and twisted metal.
Nurgle's forces faltered, the sheer brutality of the trap halting their advance. The once unstoppable tide was now nothing more than a mass of stumbling, burning corpses, their numbers reduced by the cunning strategy and the overwhelming firepower of the Liberty Eagles.
On the eastern front, Steven Armstrong's voice boomed above the cacophony of battle. "Push them back, you maggots!" His forces moved with precision, executing flanking maneuvers that trapped the enemy in a deadly crossfire. Knight Walkers, their massive forms towering above the battlefield, moved with surprising grace as they tore into the larger beasts of Nurgle with heavy firepower. The ground trembled with each step of the mighty war machines, their thermal cannons vaporizing the daemons in their path. Armstrong himself led the charge, his power fists smashing through the grotesque forms of Nurgle's minions, sending their diseased flesh splattering across the battlefield. His aggressive tactics kept the daemonic tide on the defensive, forcing them back with sheer brute force.
To the west, Denzel Washington's calm, authoritative voice guided his warriors with surgical precision. "Precision and discipline, brothers!" Under his command, squads of Liberty Eagles executed flawless strikes, targeting key points in the daemonic forces and disrupting their cohesion. Denzel's twin hyper-phase swords flashed as he wove through the battlefield, each swing cleaving through daemons with effortless grace. His movements were a dance of death, every strike deliberate and deadly. Where his forces fought, the daemons faltered, their ranks shattered by the methodical onslaught of Astartes skill and discipline.
On the southern front, John Ezra's strategic brilliance shone. His orders came sharp and direct. "Layered defense, maintain your positions!" The Liberty Guardsmen, clad in their advanced exo-suits, formed disciplined firing lines, their disintegration rifles cutting down the daemons in waves. Behind them, the Peasantry Defense Forces, equipped with lasguns, added their fire to the barrage, every shot a defiance against the corruption of Nurgle. Ezra's layered defenses were unbreakable; whenever the daemons sought to breach the line, they were met with coordinated counterattacks, pushing them back time and time again. The Guardsmen fought with grim determination, their advanced technology giving them the edge against the corrupted forces of Chaos.
The Knight Walkers of Austeria Extremis strode across the battlefield like ancient gods of war, their massive frames laying waste to the enemy. Towering above the daemonic horde, their reaper chainswords cleaved through flesh and bone, while thermal cannons unleashed devastating waves of fire. "For the High-King and the Primarch!" came the war cry from their vox, their noble pilots executing perfectly timed maneuvers. In one particularly harrowing moment, a Great Unclean One burst from the main portal, its bloated, diseased form towering over the battlefield. Without hesitation, a lance of three Knight Walkers charged forward, their synchronized attack bringing the greater daemon low. Chainswords tore into its festering flesh, reducing it to a pile of rotting filth in a display of precision and raw firepower that would be remembered for generations.
While the Astartes and Knight Walkers drew much of the enemy's attention, it was the humble Liberty Guardsmen who held the line with unflinching courage. Clad in their exo-suits and armed with disintegration rifles, they faced the horrors of the warp without wavering. Sergeant Maria Chen's voice crackled over the squad vox, steady and commanding. "Steady, Guardsmen! The Emperor protects, and our aim seals the deal!" Her squad moved with the fluidity of well-trained soldiers, their rifles firing in unison. Each shot from their disintegration weapons vaporized another wave of Nurgle's forces, erasing the corruption with precision. When they were pushed back, they regrouped and struck again with renewed ferocity, using their superior technology to turn the tide of battle.
The battle raged on, fierce and unrelenting. The daemonic forces of Nurgle seemed endless, their foul corruption seeping into every corner of the battlefield. But the defenders of Austeria Extremis stood firm.
----------------------
The fabric of reality tore asunder, and through the festering wound stepped Scabeiathrax, the Wind of Nurgle. His massive, bloated form oozed with every conceivable pestilence, each of his labored breaths exhaling clouds of contagion. As one of Nurgle's most favored Greater Daemons, Scabeiathrax had been tasked with a mission of utmost importance: to corrupt this world and test the resolve of the Liberty Eagles' Primarch.
As the Lord of the Blighted Pit materialized fully into the material realm, he surveyed the battlefield with rheumy eyes. The scene before him was one of carnage, yet something was amiss. Where there should have been the sweet symphony of plague and decay, there was instead the acrid stench of disintegration and the roar of cleansing flame.
Scabeiathrax's gelatinous brow furrowed in confusion. "Why do they not wilt?" he gurgled, his voice a cacophony of wet, sickening sounds. "Where is Grandfather's blessing?"
The daemon's gaze swept across the battlefield, searching for signs of his patron's influence. There should have been soldiers choking on their own bodily fluids, plants withering into putrid mulch, and the very air thick with spores of a thousand poxes. Instead, he saw Imperial forces standing firm, their weapons blazing with unnatural light that seemed to erase his minions from existence.
Then, he saw them.
Dotted across the battlefield were figures that stood out even among the impressive Imperial forces. Humans, larger than most, wielding staffs that crackled with barely contained lightning. As Scabeiathrax watched, one of these figures raised their staff, and a wave of energy pulsed outward, causing a swarm of Nurglings to shrivel and die without spreading a single disease.
"Ah," Scabeiathrax wheezed, a sound like a dying man's last breath. "So that's their game."
The Greater Daemon's pestilent mind quickly grasped the situation. These strange psykers were somehow holding back the full force of Nurgle's blessings. Their powers were creating a barrier, preventing the natural spread of disease and decay that should have been running rampant across the battlefield.
A gurgling laugh bubbled up from Scabeiathrax's throat, spilling out along with a fresh wave of contagion. "A challenge, then. How... delightful."
With ponderous steps that left the ground beneath him a sucking morass of filth, Scabeiathrax began to move towards the nearest of these psykers. His intention was clear - to remove these obstacles and allow Nurgle's gifts to flow freely across the planet.
As he lumbered forward, Scabeiathrax unleashed his full might. Waves of supernatural disease rolled off his rotting form, each one tailored to test the defenses of these unusual psykers. He watched with interest as the first wave hit an invisible barrier around one of the staff-wielders, the diseases dissipating into harmless vapor.
"Impressive," Scabeiathrax mused, his voice like the squelching of maggots in rotten meat. "But let's see how long you can maintain that defense."
The Lord of the Blighted Pit raised one massive, putrescent arm, summoning a swarm of Plague Drones to his side. With a gesture, he sent them hurtling towards the psykers, their wings buzzing with the sound of a thousand flies.
As the battle raged around him, Scabeiathrax kept his focus on these unique defenders. He observed their techniques, noting how they seemed to work in concert, their powers interlinking to create a web of anti-plague energy across the battlefield.
"Clever, clever," he chuckled, the sound causing nearby lesser daemons to quiver in delight. "But not clever enough."
With each step, Scabeiathrax left a trail of utter corruption. The earth beneath his feet turned to bubbling ooze, and the air became thick with spores that would have laid low an entire hive city. Yet still, these psykers held firm, their staffs glowing ever brighter as they pushed back against the tide of filth.
The battlefield was a cacophony of war, the air thick with the acrid smell of disintegration fire and the putrid stench of Nurgle's minions. Amidst this chaos, a squad of Techno-seers stood firm, their Augur Staffs crackling with lightning and resonating with binary cant. These were the unsung heroes of the battle, their psychic might holding back the tide of pestilence that threatened to engulf Austeria Extremis.
As Scabeiathrax, the Wind of Nurgle, lumbered towards them, the Techno-seers braced themselves. Their drones sprang into action, projecting barriers of pure energy that shimmered in the polluted air. The Greater Daemon's first assault - a wave of supernatural disease - crashed against these defenses, dissipating into harmless vapor.
But Scabeiathrax was not deterred. With each ponderous step, he unleashed more of his foul powers. The Techno-seers' barriers held, but for how long? As their Augur Staffs began to spark and overheat, one of them reached for his vox to call for reinforcements.
Before he could utter a word, a massive figure descended from the sky, landing between the Techno-seers and Scabeiathrax with earth-shaking force. The Primarch, Franklin Valorian, had entered the fray.
Franklin turned to the Techno-seers, his perpetual smirk firmly in place. "Good work, boys," he said, his voice carrying easily over the din of battle. "But I'll take it from here. Fall back and regroup - there's plenty more fight to go around."
The Techno-seers saluted crisply, relief evident in their postures. As they began to withdraw, one of them called out, "Give him hell, Gene-Father!"
Franklin's grin widened as he turned to face Scabeiathrax. The Greater Daemon towered over him, a mountain of rotting flesh and supernatural disease. But Franklin stood tall, unimpressed and unafraid.
As he drew the Deathsword from his waist, Franklin addressed Khaine mentally. "Ready to put the hurt on this fat motherfucker?"
Khaine's response was immediate and enthusiastic. "EVISCERATE AND BATTLE! LEAVE NONE ALIVE!"
Franklin chuckled at the god's bloodthirst. "My thoughts exactly," he murmured.
Scabeiathrax regarded Franklin with rheumy eyes, his voice a gurgling wheeze that seemed to carry every disease known to man - and quite a few that weren't. "Ahh, the vaunted Primarch," he said. "I've been waiting for you."
"Well, here I am," Franklin replied, twirling the Deathsword with casual expertise. "Though I gotta say, you're even uglier up close. And the smell? Woof."
The Greater Daemon's laugh was like the sound of a thousand maggots writhing in rotten meat. "Such bravado," Scabeiathrax mused. "But even you must see the futility of resistance. Why fight the inevitable? Accept Grandfather Nurgle's blessings, Primarch. Embrace the cycle of decay and rebirth."
As Scabeiathrax spoke, tendrils of sickly green energy reached out towards Franklin, seeking to corrupt and infect. But they never reached him. Instead, they dissipated against an aura of intense heat that suddenly surrounded the Primarch.
Franklin's eyes began to glow with inner fire, his psychic powers manifesting as waves of scorching energy. The very air around him shimmered, as if in the heart of a furnace. "Sorry, big guy," he said, his voice echoing with power. "But I'm not much for blessings. Especially not the kind that come with a side of maggots."
Scabeiathrax recoiled, genuinely surprised by the intensity of Franklin's power. For a moment, doubt flickered across his pustulent features. But it was quickly replaced by rage. "If you will not accept the Grandfather's blessings, Primarch," he roared, "then die!"
The Greater Daemon brandished his weapon, the infamous Blade of Decay. Where it cut the air, reality itself seemed to rot and fester. "Your corpse will serve Nurgle just as well," Scabeiathrax declared.
Franklin's smirk never wavered. If anything, it grew more pronounced. "Big words from a walking compost heap," he retorted. "Let's see if you can back them up."
With that, both titans charged. Scabeiathrax's massive bulk belied his speed, the Blade of Decay whistling through the air in a deadly arc.
The Fight Between Primarch and Greater Demon had Begun.
The clash of metal on corrupted flesh echoed across the battlefield as Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles, found himself unexpectedly airborne. His majestic form, usually an imposing presence on any battlefield, sailed through the putrid air of the Nurgle-infested world. As he tumbled, his mind reeled not just from the physical impact, but from the sheer improbability of the situation.
Within the confines of his consciousness, a conversation sparked to life. The voice of Khaine, or rather the shard of the Eldar god residing within the Deathsword, rang out with a mix of disbelief and indignation.
"How in the name of Asuryan did you manage to get flung away like a ragdoll?" Khaine's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Aren't you actively using your psyker powers? The very forces of reality bend to your will, and yet here we are, performing an impromptu acrobatic routine."
Franklin, even as he righted himself mid-air, couldn't help but respond with his characteristic dry humor. "It's called physics, my dear shard. You know, that pesky little thing that governs the universe when warp fuckery isn't involved?"
He landed with a thud, immediately assessing the situation. Scabeiathrax, the Greater Demon of Nurgle, loomed before him. The creature was a mountain of rotting flesh and rusted metal, easily dwarfing even Franklin's impressive stature.
"Physics?" Khaine scoffed. "You're a being of transhuman perfection wielding a sword housing a shard of a god. Physics should be a minor inconvenience at best."
Franklin dusted himself off, his eyes never leaving the grotesque form of Scabeiathrax. "Well, our friend here is built like Gorlock. There's a slight weight disadvantage we're dealing with."
"Slight?" Khaine's voice dripped with sarcasm. "That's like saying the Warp is a 'bit chaotic'. The beast probably weighs as much as a small moon."
As they bantered, both Franklin and Khaine observed Scabeiathrax with keen interest. The greater demon was nursing its backhand, where a vicious burn mark marred its pestilent flesh. Despite the seemingly one-sided exchange that had sent Franklin flying, it was clear that the Primarch had left his mark.
Khaine's tone shifted from sarcastic to intrigued. "Well, well. It seems our little love tap left quite an impression. Care to explain how you're dealing permanent damage to a being of pure Chaos?"
Franklin allowed himself a small smirk. "That's the million-throne question, isn't it? I was hoping you might have some insight, being the expert on all things stabby and killy."
"Flattery will get you everywhere, Primarch," Khaine retorted. "But in this case, I'm as surprised as you are. Although..." The god-shard's voice trailed off thoughtfully.
"Although?" Franklin prompted, his eyes still fixed on Scabeiathrax, who seemed to be regrouping for another assault.
"Well, it's not entirely unprecedented," Khaine mused. "In my heyday, I could deal permanent death to just about anything. Daemons, gods, you name it. Nothing was truly immortal before my blade."
Franklin raised an eyebrow, an expression lost on the incorporeal god-shard. "Impressive resume. So, you're saying we could potentially give this overgrown plague bearer a permanent dirt nap?"
"In theory, yes," Khaine replied. "But there's a slight catch. I'm not exactly at my peak performance right now, am I? Being shattered into pieces and stuffed into a sword tends to put a damper on one's godly powers."
Franklin couldn't help but chuckle. "Now who's understating things? You sound just like me. I must be rubbing off on you."
"Isha forbid," Khaine groaned. "Next thing you know, I'll be cracking jokes in the face of certain death and flirting with Eldar Farseers."
As they bantered, Scabeiathrax seemed to have recovered from the initial shock of its wound. The greater demon lumbered forward, its massive form causing the ground to quake with each step.
Franklin readied himself, the Crone Sword humming with barely contained power. "Well, peak performance or not, we seem to be making an impression. Any advice for round two?"
Khaine's voice took on a more serious tone. "Hit it harder."
Franklin blinked. "That's it? That's your godly wisdom? 'Hit it harder'?"
"What were you expecting? A dissertation on the metaphysical nature of Chaos and its vulnerabilities?" Khaine shot back. "We're in the middle of a battle. Complexities can wait. For now, just hit the damn thing harder."
Franklin couldn't argue with that logic. As Scabeiathrax charged, the Primarch of Liberty braced himself, channeling every ounce of his transhuman strength and psychic might into the Crone Sword.
"Although we can't kill it permanently, any damage we inflict while it remains in the Materium will be permanent, making it easier to banish," Khaine, the Eldar God of War and Murder, declared, his voice echoing in Franklin's mind with grim satisfaction.
The battlefield, already a hellscape of decay and corruption, somehow managed to plumb new depths of revulsion as the confrontation between Franklin Valorian and Scabeiathrax, the Greater Daemon of Nurgle, reached a nauseating climax. The Primarch of the Liberty Eagles, a figure typically radiating confidence and good humor, found himself in a situation that tested even his legendary composure.
Once again, Franklin was hurled through the air by the sheer mass of his grotesque opponent, slamming into the decaying ground with a force that would have shattered lesser beings. His mind raced, tactical calculations blending with mounting frustration. His attacks had seared Scabeiathrax's pestilent flesh, leaving permanent marks that should have brought some satisfaction, knowing the damage dealt would remain. But any sense of triumph was immediately eclipsed by what followed.
With a grotesque heave, Scabeiathrax unleashed a torrent of vomit upon the Primarch. This was no ordinary expulsion, even by the foul standards of Nurgle's abominations. The corrosive bile hit with terrifying force, its acidic power rapidly eating away at Franklin's mechsuit, its layers buckling under the onslaught of hyper-accelerated decay. Even Franklin's formidable psychic shields, which had withstood the horrors of war across countless worlds, began to falter under this most base and repugnant of assaults.
Disgust flooded Franklin's senses. Not the simple revulsion of the physical act—though that was certainly overwhelming—but something deeper, more existential. In all his years of battle, all the nightmares he had faced, nothing had prepared him for the sheer indignity of this moment. The sight, the smell, the feel of the bile seeping through his armor left him shaken in a way no weapon ever had.
Anger followed swiftly. Franklin Valorian, the Liberator, one of the Emperor's finest creations, brought low by this revolting creature? His mind seethed with fury. But this wasn't the cold, calculated rage of a general whose plans had gone awry. Nor was it the primal heat of a warrior in the throes of battle. This was something more—a wrath that burned hotter and brighter than anything Franklin had ever felt, so intense it threatened to consume his every thought.
And then, to his utter disbelief, Scabeiathrax turned, presenting its flabby posterior in a clear threat of further defilement. The grotesque creature was about to take its revolting assault to a new level.
Something snapped inside Franklin. The smirk that had so often graced his face, the expression that radiated charm and confidence no matter the odds, twisted into a scowl of pure, unadulterated contempt. He had faced the worst horrors the galaxy could throw at him, stared into the abyss countless times—and this was the insult? This was what it came down to? Vomited upon, almost shat on, by a bloated monstrosity of rot?
In that instant, a wild, irrational thought surged in Franklin's mind: glass the entire damn planet.
The urge hit him with startling clarity. With his power, with the Liberty Eagles' overwhelming firepower at his command, he could do it. One order, one command, and the entire cursed world of Austeria Extremis could be reduced to molten slag. The idea was almost seductive in its simplicity—wipe the slate clean, burn the corruption away in a purifying firestorm. Let Scabeiathrax and his foul minions rot in the ashes of a world forever lost to Nurgle's filth.
The temptation to obliterate the source of his current misery gnawed at him, a twisted desire born from anger and frustration. Glass the planet, the thought repeated. No more filth, no more indignity, no more of this sickening, wretched world.
But as quickly as it came, Franklin reined the thought in, forcing his mind to clear. No, he reminded himself. I'm here to save this Knight world. Not destroy it.
He gritted his teeth, focusing on the mission at hand. The people of Austeria Extremis needed him. The Knights, the warriors, his own Liberty Eagles—they were counting on him to lead them to victory. He had come here to liberate, not annihilate. Glassing the planet in a fit of rage would be the opposite of everything he stood for.
In one furious motion, Franklin tore off the corroded remains of his helmet, the acidic bile having eaten away at its outer shell
The Deathsword, sensing its wielder's emotional state, responded in kind. The blade, already a fearsome weapon, began to glow with the intensity of a miniature sun. It was as if the sword was feeding off Franklin's rage, amplifying it and focusing it into a singular purpose: destruction.
As his men watched, Franklin Valorian's perpetual smirk transformed into a scowl of such intensity that it seemed to reshape the very fabric of reality around him. The Deathsword in his hand blazed with the fury of a newborn star, and waves of searing heat began to roll outward from his position.
"Everyone, fall back!" A Sergeant roared, his tactical acumen kicking in even as his mind reeled from the unprecedented sight before him. "All units, establish a perimeter at least 50 miles from the Primarch's position!"
The order was hardly necessary. Every warrior, from the most seasoned Astartes to the freshest Guardsman recruit, could feel the primal urge to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the epicenter of the coming storm.
As they began their strategic withdrawal, the effects of Franklin's fury became horrifyingly apparent. Nurgle's daemons, creatures that had seemed all but unkillable moments before, were reduced to ash the moment they came within range of the Primarch's aura.
With a roar that was equal parts battle cry and primal scream, Franklin unleashed a slash of such ferocity that it defied the laws of physics. The heat extended far beyond the arc of the blade itself, creating a wave of immolation that sent Scabeiathrax hurtling backward. The sheer force of the attack didn't stop there - it continued outward, incinerating every daemon unfortunate enough to be within a 40-mile radius.
As the wave of destruction expanded outward, Franklin stood at its epicenter, a figure wreathed in purifying flame. The fire wasn't just burning away the physical corruption - it seemed to be cleansing Franklin's very essence, as if trying to scour away the memory of the degradation he had just endured.
In the aftermath of his cataclysmic attack, Franklin surveyed his surroundings. A 200-meter radius around him was utterly clear, the ground scoured to glass and molten lava by the intensity of his fury. The Primarch's face, usually so expressive and full of life, was now a mask of grim determination. He was done with the antics of Nurgle's minions, done with their filth, their decay, their mockery of life.
Within the Deathsword, Khaine's presence stirred. The shard of the Eldar god of war could feel the seething anger radiating from its wielder. Where before there had been playful banter, now there was only a grim appreciation for the destruction wrought.
"Yes," Khaine's voice resonated in Franklin's mind, a mix of approval and excitement. "That's the way. Channel your anger, let it fuel you!"
Franklin, his mechsuit half-corroded and his patience utterly spent, made a decision. "I'm about to do something incredibly stupid," he announced, his voice a low growl, "or equally brilliant."
Khaine's response was immediate and enthusiastic. "Haha, yes!" the god-shard cried, reveling in the prospect of further violence.
Franklin Valorian, his patience exhausted and his anger incandescent, decided it was time to end this fight in the most spectacular way possible.
With a burst from the thrusters on his half-corroded mechsuit, Franklin launched himself directly at Scabeiathrax. The Greater Demon of Nurgle, still reeling from the Primarch's previous assault, barely had time to register the incoming threat before Franklin was upon him.
Franklin's attack was a blur of motion, each strike of the Deathsword leaving trails of searing light in its wake. The Primarch's face, usually adorned with his trademark smirk, was set in a grim scowl of concentration and fury. This was no longer a battle - it was an execution.
Scabeiathrax, despite its massive size and eons of experience, found itself on the back foot. The Greater Demon swung its enormous plague-ridden blade, aiming to once again send the Primarch flying. But Franklin was ready this time.
With a stance wide and solid, Franklin sidestepped the attack with preternatural grace. In one fluid motion, he parried the massive blade aside, the Deathsword screaming with delight as it made contact. The force of the parry left Scabeiathrax off-balance, an opening that Franklin exploited without hesitation.
Before the Greater Demon could recover, Franklin struck. The Deathsword, glowing with the intensity of a dying star, cleaved through Scabeiathrax's arm at the shoulder. The limb, still clutching its corrupted blade, fell to the ground with a thunderous impact.
Scabeiathrax stared at the stump of its arm in disbelief, its pestilent mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened. In all its long existence, it had never experienced pain quite like this. As the Greater Demon's gaze lowered to its severed limb, Franklin seized the moment.
With his free hand, the Primarch drew a disintegration pistol - a weapon that under normal circumstances would be considered overkill. But these were not normal circumstances, and Franklin was done taking chances.
The shot struck Scabeiathrax square in the face, the energy beam eating away at the demon's features. For a moment, it seemed as if even this might not be enough, as the corrupted flesh began to regenerate almost immediately. But then something unexpected happened - the wound left by the Deathsword refused to heal.
Khaine's words echoed in Franklin's mind: the sword could indeed deal permanent damage, at least while the demon remained in the Materium. A savage grin replaced Franklin's scowl for just a moment, a glimpse of the old Franklin shining through the battle rage.
Seizing the advantage, Franklin widened his stance once more. The Deathsword sang a song of destruction as the Primarch brought it down in one devastating arc. The blade, empowered by Franklin's fury and Khaine's divine essence, cleaved Scabeiathrax clean in two from head to groin.
As the two halves of the Greater Demon began to topple, Franklin leapt back, putting distance between himself and his fallen foe. But the Primarch wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot.
Reaching through his Dimensional Pocket, Franklin produced a weapon that would have made even the most zealous Mechanicum tech-priest raise an eyebrow - a Fatman Launcher. This wasn't just any ordinary weapon; it was a handheld nuclear warhead launcher, a remnant of Old Terra's most destructive age.
As Franklin hefted the launcher onto his shoulder, a part of his mind couldn't help but appreciate the irony. Here he was, the Liberator, about to unleash the ultimate expression of freedom as understood by ancient Terra - the ability to say "fuck you" to your enemies with a tactical nuke.
With a grim chuckle, Franklin muttered under his breath, "A Certain ancient Terran nation could tell you all about this, if they were still around."
The first warhead streaked toward the grotesque, fallen form of Scabeiathrax, trailing a plume of smoke in its wake. The battlefield, already a wasteland of decay, was momentarily illuminated by a flash brighter than a thousand suns. The nuke detonated with a deafening roar, sending a shockwave that rippled across the blighted landscape, vaporizing everything in its path. The air shook, and for a brief moment, all was silent, save for the faint hiss of dissipating energy.
Franklin Valorian was many things, but at this moment, rational was not one of them.
Without so much as pausing for breath, he loaded another nuke into the Fatman and fired again. And again. And yet again.
Each detonation was a declaration, a statement written in atomic fire. It was Franklin Valorian saying to the universe at large, and to the forces of Chaos in particular, that he had well and truly run out of patience.
It was only after the 11th nuke detonated that a small voice of reason managed to penetrate the fog of Franklin's rage.
"Father, stop! It's dead!"
The voice belonged to one of his Space Marines, a brave soul who had managed to approach close enough to be heard over the rolling thunder of explosions that had shaken the very foundations of the battlefield.
When the dust finally settled and the radiation cleared (thanks to some handy psychic manipulation from Franklin), what remained was a sight that would have made even the most hardened Imperial commander pause. Where Scabeiathrax had fallen, there was now a crater 300 miles wide, the earth scorched and glassed by the fury of atomic fire.
Franklin's gaze swept over the battlefield, the crackling heat and silence a stark contrast to the chaos that had raged only moments before. He exhaled deeply, feeling the last of the rage ebb from his mind. Slowly, he nodded, acknowledging the marine who had brought him back to his senses.
The Space Marine saluted, then turned and returned to his position without a word.
Franklin stood at the edge of the devastation, the Fatman Launcher still smoking on his shoulder. His mechsuit was in tatters, his armor scorched and pitted. But his eyes blazed with a fire that had nothing to do with the nuclear inferno he had just unleashed.
For a long moment, there was silence. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, Franklin's perpetual smirk began to return. He glanced down at the Deathsword, which was humming contentedly in his grip.
"Well," he said, his voice hoarse from the smoke and exertion, "I think we can safely say that Fat Fuck won't be troubling us again."
Khaine's laughter rang in Franklin's mind, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy at the destruction they had wrought together. "I must say, Primarch, when you decide to end a fight, you certainly don't do things by halves."
Franklin allowed himself a chuckle, feeling the battle rage begin to subside. "What can I say? When you absolutely, positively need to kill every last molecule of a Greater Demon in the area, accept no substitutes."
-----------------------
From a vantage point far removed from the chaos of battle, Eldrad Ulthran, the venerable Farseer of Craftworld Ulthwé, stood in silent observation. His ancient eyes, which had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, were fixed upon the figure of Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles. The scene unfolding before him was one of unparalleled destruction, a display of raw power that even the eldest of the Aeldari would find difficult to ignore.
Eldrad's mind, ever attuned to the ebb and flow of fate, struggled to reconcile what he was witnessing with the visions that had long guided his actions. The Franklin Valorian he saw now, a whirlwind of psychic might and martial prowess, stood in stark contrast to the figure that had appeared in his prophetic glimpses of possible futures.
In those visions, Eldrad had seen a different Franklin - a gunslinger, relying more on his marksmanship and tactical acumen than on psychic abilities. That version of the Primarch had been formidable, certainly, but not the force of nature that now laid waste to the forces of Nurgle with such ease.
As Franklin unleashed another devastating attack, Eldrad's gaze was drawn to the sword in the Primarch's hand. Even from this distance, the Farseer could sense its power, and more importantly, recognize its origin. The blade was unmistakably of Aeldari design, its elegant curves and ethereal glow a stark contrast to the brutish weaponry typically wielded by the Imperium's forces.
Eldrad's brow furrowed in concentration, his mind racing through millennia of lore and prophecy. He knew this weapon, or at least he should. Yet its purpose, its very reason for existence, eluded him. This gap in his knowledge was as unsettling as it was intriguing. For an Aeldari artifact of such power to find its way into the hands of a human, let alone a Primarch, spoke of events set in motion long ago, their purpose obscured even to one as prescient as himself.
The battle continued to unfold, and with each passing moment, the divergence from Eldrad's visions became more pronounced. In the futures he had foreseen, this moment should have marked the beginning of Franklin's downfall. The Primarch should have been overwhelmed by now, the tide of Nurgle's daemons proving too much even for his considerable skills.
Instead, Eldrad watched in barely concealed amazement as Franklin not only held his ground but pushed back against the forces of Chaos with unprecedented effectiveness. The obliteration of a Greater Daemon of Nurgle, a feat that would be the crowning achievement of most warriors' careers, seemed almost routine for this version of Franklin Valorian.
As the Primarch unleashed a barrage of nuclear warheads, turning a vast swath of corrupted land into a glass crater, Eldrad couldn't help but marvel at the sheer audacity of the act. It was a level of overkill that bordered on the absurd, yet it was undeniably effective. In that moment, Eldrad saw not just the tactical genius he had foreseen, but a being capable of reshaping the very fabric of reality through sheer force of will.
This discrepancy between vision and reality set Eldrad's mind racing. What had changed? What unforeseen variable had been introduced to so dramatically alter the course of events? The Farseer's thoughts turned to the myriad threads of fate he had so carefully woven and manipulated over the centuries. Had one of his own actions, or perhaps the actions of another, inadvertently set this new future in motion?
As he pondered these questions, Eldrad maintained his vigil, his forces hidden and ready to intervene should the tides of fate suddenly turn. The Aeldari way was one of subtlety and manipulation from the shadows, a stark contrast to the bombastic display of power they now witnessed. Yet Eldrad knew better than most the value of adaptability, of seizing unexpected opportunities when they arose.
The Franklin Valorian before him now represented both a challenge and an opportunity. This Primarch, with his Aeldari blade and his reality-warping powers, could be either a powerful ally or a dire threat to the Aeldari's long-term plans. The original future Eldrad had foreseen had been one of carefully calculated risks and measured responses. This new reality demanded a complete reevaluation of strategies that had been centuries in the making.
---------------------
The battlefield was a maelstrom of chaos and destruction. For 45 minutes, the Liberty Eagles had been pushing back against the tide of daemonic forces, closing three of the four portals that spewed forth Nurgle's minions. The last portal stood defiant, a festering wound in reality that continued to vomit corruption into the material realm.
Franklin Valorian, stood at the forefront of this final assault. His Deathsword, carved through daemon flesh with terrifying efficiency. Each swing of the blade sent arcs of purifying flame through the ranks of Nurgle's forces, incinerating the unclean and leaving nothing but ash in its wake.
As he fought, Franklin maintained a running dialogue with Khaine, the god-shard within his blade. It had become a habit of sorts, this banter in the heat of battle. But now, Franklin noticed something was amiss. Khaine, usually quick with a sardonic comment or bloodthirsty encouragement, had fallen uncharacteristically silent.
"Getting tired, old man?" Franklin quipped as he bisected a particularly bloated Plague Bearer. "Don't tell me you're losing your taste for battle already."
But Khaine remained quiet, his presence in Franklin's mind muted and distant. The Primarch felt a flicker of concern. In all their time together, he had never known the war god to be so subdued.
"Khaine?" Franklin pressed, his voice taking on a more serious tone even as he continued to lay waste to the daemonic horde. "What's going on? I need you with me here."
For a moment longer, there was silence. Then, finally, Khaine's voice echoed in Franklin's mind, but it was distracted, almost wistful. "I... I heard a voice, Franklin. A voice I haven't heard in millennia."
Franklin raised an eyebrow, narrowly dodging a stream of corrosive bile from a daemon. "A voice? Care to elaborate, or are we playing twenty questions while I'm trying not to get turned into nurgling chow?"
Khaine's presence seemed to refocus, a hint of his usual acerbic tone returning. "It was Isha, the Aeldari goddess of harvest, fertility, and healing. She... she was calling out to me."
Franklin paused for a fraction of a second, processing this information even as he parried a rusted blade aimed at his head. "Isha? I thought most of the Aeldari pantheon was, well, indisposed these days. No offense."
"None taken," Khaine replied dryly. "And you're not wrong. Isha's fate has been... uncertain. When I asked where she was, I felt her presence coming from the direction of Nurgle's Garden. But then she was gone, her voice fading away as quickly as it had come."
Franklin was silent for a moment, his mind working through this new information even as his body continued the deadly dance of combat. "Do you think... is there any way to help her? To rescue her?"
Khaine's laugh was bitter. "In my current state? Fragmented, a mere shard of my former self? No, Franklin. As much as I might wish otherwise, I am not strong enough to challenge Nurgle in his own realm. Not anymore."
The Primarch nodded, a grim understanding settling over him. "I'm sorry, Khaine. That can't be easy, knowing she's out there and not being able to do anything about it."
"Your sympathy is appreciated, but unnecessary," Khaine replied, some of his usual bravado returning. "Save it for the daemons you're about to send back to their pestilent master."
Franklin couldn't help but smirk at that, raising his sword for another assault. "Now that's more like the bloodthirsty god I know and tolerate. Speaking of voices, though, I don't suppose you're hearing any other divine whispers? Maybe some helpful tips on how to give these fools permanent deaths?"
Khaine's presence in Franklin's mind seemed to sharpen, focusing once more on the battle at hand. "Afraid not. Though given that most of my pantheon is either dead, eaten by Slaanesh, or otherwise occupied, I wouldn't hold out much hope for divine intervention."
"Fair enough," Franklin chuckled, cleaving through another wave of daemons. "Though I have to say, for someone who claims most of the Aeldari gods are gone, you seem to be keeping some interesting company. First you, now Isha making long-distance calls. Should I be expecting Cegorach to pop up and start telling jokes next?"
"Let's hope not," Khaine grumbled. "The last thing we need right now is that insufferable harlequin's idea of humor. Focus on the task at hand, Franklin. We may not be able to save Isha today, but we can at least send these daemons back to their foul master with our compliments."
Franklin nodded, his grip on the Deathsword tightening as he surveyed the battlefield. The last portal pulsed with malevolent energy, a constant reminder of the work yet to be done. "You're right, of course. One problem at a time. Let's close this portal and worry about rescuing goddesses later."
The air crackled with psychic energy as a fierce Warp Storm erupted, shaking the very foundations of the Liberty Spires. The skies above the battlefield twisted into impossible colors, reality itself buckling under the strain of the immaterial realm pushing against it. As if the situation wasn't dire enough, the storm had the unfortunate side effect of extending the duration of the Chaos portal, allowing a fresh wave of daemons from all four Chaos Gods to pour onto the planet's surface.
Franklin Stood as he incinerated Daemons. With a grimace that was equal parts frustration and anticipation, he muttered under his breath, "Shit. Always leave it to the Chaos Gods to make some random encounter happen. We're in the endgame now."
As if on cue, Franklin's vox crackled to life. The voice of Vladimir Mendelev, cut through the background noise of battle.
"My Lord," Vladimir's thick Russian accent was evident, his voice tense but controlled. "We have situation."
Franklin couldn't help but chuckle darkly. "You don't say, Vova. Let me guess, it has something to do with the sky trying to tear itself a new one and the sudden influx of multi-colored hostile wildlife?"
There was a brief pause before Vladimir responded, and Franklin could almost imagine his raised eyebrow on the other end.
"Your talent for understatement is unmatched, Lord Franklin. But da, this is precisely it. Our calculations show that Warp Storm has… how do you say… significantly extended duration of Chaos portal."
Franklin's mind raced, assessing the new variables in play. "How long are we looking at, Vova? Give me numbers."
Vladimir's tone grew more serious, a low grumble of frustration underlining his words. "Is difficult to say with certainty, my Lord. The Warp Storm is interfering with all our prognostications. However, best estimates suggest portal could remain open for… thirty minutes, maybe more. Liberty Spires are working their magic, after all—regardless of what Ruinous Powers want."
Franklin let out a slow breath, his eyes scanning the battlefield now filled with the frenzied masses of Chaos daemons. "Thirty minutes, huh? Alright, let's see if we can't speed things along. Keep me updated, Vladimir."
"Da, Primarch. I will monitor from here," Vladimir replied, his voice as steady as ever, despite the chaos unfolding across the planet. "But… let us hope the Spires hold, and we do not have to deal with any more 'random encounters.'"
Franklin smirked, even as he readied his weapons once more. "Wouldn't be a true fight without a few surprises, Vova. Stay sharp."
The vox link crackled into silence as Franklin ended his conversation with Vladimir. The Primarch barely had time to take a breath before a Beast of Nurgle, all tentacles and pustulent flesh, lunged at him from the chaotic melee. With a practiced motion, Franklin brought the Deathsword to bear, its Aeldari-crafted edge slicing through the daemon's corrupted form like a hot knife through butter. The beast's bifurcated halves fell to either side of the Primarch, instantly incinerating in the wake of the sword's psychic fire.
Even in the face of this unexpected Warp Storm and the fresh hordes of daemons it had brought, he felt confident in his ability to carve a path through the Daemon hordes. The Deathsword hummed contentedly in his grip, Khaine's bloodthirst momentarily sated.
It was in this fleeting moment of triumph that everything changed.
A blur of motion caught the corner of Franklin's eye, moving with a speed that defied mortal comprehension. Even with his transhuman reflexes and heightened senses, the Primarch barely had time to register the attack before it was upon him.
The assailant struck with precision, their weapon finding a minute gap in Franklin's armor that no ordinary foe could have exploited. Pain, sharp and unexpected, lanced through Franklin's side. It wasn't a mortal wound - few things could truly threaten a Primarch's life - but it was enough to stagger him, to shake his usual unflappable demeanor.
As Franklin whirled to face this new threat, his eyes widened in disbelief. Around him, he could hear the collective gasp of the nearby Liberty Eagles, their shock palpable even amidst the chaos of battle.
The identity of the assailant was so utterly impossible, so wildly out of place on this daemon-infested battlefield, that for a moment Franklin's mind struggled to comprehend it. His senses, finely honed by decades of warfare and hardened against the horrors of the galaxy, rejected what stood before him.
He hadn't expected this. He couldn't have expected this.
"No fucking way," the words escaped Franklin's lips before he could stop them, his usual eloquence deserting him in the face of this impossible scenario.
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