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44.44% The Primarch of Liberty / Chapter 75: The Ritual

Chapter 75: The Ritual

The ritual chamber thrummed with potential energy, wraithbone walls pulsing with a soft, ethereal light. At its center, Franklin Valorian stood, his massive frame dwarfing even the tall Aeldari around him. The Deathsword - stood planted before him, its crystalline blade seeming to drink in the chamber's light.

"There's something I don't understand, Autarch Ilrathan," Franklin's voice carried the weight of thoughtful consideration. His brown eyes studied the intricate patterns beneath his feet, geometric perfection laid out in psycho-reactive materials. "Your people mastered the fundamental forces of reality millennia before humanity learned to harness the atom. How is it that simple gravitational forces have kept Altansar trapped for so long?"

Autarch Ilrathan stood to Franklin's right, his armor bearing the weathered patina of countless battles within the Eye. His helmet was removed, revealing features etched with the strain of maintaining hope against impossible odds. "We asked ourselves the same question countless times, Lord Valorian. Every attempt to break free only seemed to strengthen the pull. Our most powerful engines, artifacts of unimaginable power from before the Fall - nothing could overcome it."

"And you never wondered why?" Franklin's question carried no mockery, only genuine curiosity.

"We-" Ilrathan began, but a deeper voice cut through the chamber.

"We knew." Maugan Ra stepped forward from the shadows, he turned toward Franklin. "We knew because every attempt to escape brought visions. Whispers. The gravity well is merely the physical manifestation of metaphysical chains. The Powers that Be have marked Altansar, claimed it as their prize. They will not relinquish it easily."

Franklin nodded slowly, a grim smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Now that makes more sense. I was wondering why a race advanced enough to create pocket dimensions would be stymied by mere gravitational forces. The Ruinous Powers have bound your home with chains of fate and corruption."

"Just so," Maugan Ra confirmed. "Which is why this ritual must succeed. The combined faith of our people, channeled through you the Hand of Khaine... it may be enough to break chains even gods have forged."

Franklin's hand came to rest on the Deathsword's hilt. The blade hummed in response, sending ripples of crimson energy through the ritual circles. "Khaine's power, amplified by your people's belief, flowing through a human conduit. The Chaos Gods won't see it coming - they never expect different species to work together. Their own nature blinds them to the possibility."

Ilrathan's eyes narrowed. "You seem almost... amused, Lord Valorian. We stand on the precipice of either salvation or complete destruction."

Franklin's laugh echoed through the chamber, startling several Aspect Warriors at its edges. "Oh, I absolutely am amused. Think about it - we're about to punch the Chaos Gods in the metaphysical nose using the power of friendship and cooperation. If that's not funny, I don't know what is."

"Finally acknowledging the necessity of divine intervention?" Khaine's voice resonated in Franklin's mind, carrying both ancient power and barely concealed anticipation.

Franklin's mental response carried his trademark grin. "Hey, even I know when it's time to tag in the heavyweight champion. Ready to step back into the divine boxing ring, old timer?"

"Old timer?" Khaine's tone carried equal parts indignation and amusement. "I was shattering reality with my fists when your species was still arguing about which caves had the best wall paintings."

Around them, the ritual circle began to pulse with energy. The combined faith and psychic might of Craftworld Altansar started flowing towards them like rivers of light. Franklin felt the power building, but kept his casual demeanor.

"Well, consider this your comeback tour then. Though I've got to warn you - your old sparring partners have gotten pretty full of themselves while you've been away."

Khaine's presence shifted within the sword, and Franklin could feel the god's anticipation building. "They always were an arrogant lot. Though I notice you're treating this rather lightly, considering what we're about to attempt."

"Would you prefer I start monologuing about destiny and sacrifice?" Franklin chuckled internally. "Besides, you're about to throw hands with the Chaos Gods Themselves. That's basically Thursday for you, right?"

The power flow intensified. Through their shared connection, Franklin could feel Khaine's awareness expanding, touching the infinity circuit where countless Aeldari souls added their prayers to the growing surge of faith.

"The dead rise to aid us," Khaine observed solemnly. "They remember the old ways, the true strength of faith and battle united."

"Speaking of unity," Franklin's mental tone grew slightly more serious, "we're going to have to work together on this one. I know you're not used to having a mortal co-pilot, but think of me as your hype man. I'll direct the power flow, you focus on the divine smackdown."

"Your irreverence masks wisdom, Primarch," Khaine replied, a hint of warmth creeping into the god's voice. "Though I question your choice of terminology. 'Divine smackdown' hardly captures the gravitas of what we attempt."

"Would you prefer 'celestial throwdown'? 'Metaphysical beatdown'? I've got more if you need them."

The god's response carried what might have been a sigh, but Franklin sensed the underlying amusement. "Focus, Primarch. The power builds, and our opponents approach. Are you prepared to channel divinity itself?"

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Captain Henry Cavill stood at the edge of the ritual chamber, his heightened senses absorbing the intensity of the moment. The air thrummed with raw psychic energy, tingling across his skin beneath the armor. At the center of the swirling maelstrom, his gene-father, Franklin Valorian, stood unflinching, his Deathsword planted in the ground like a bulwark against the impossible forces at play.

This isn't in the records, Henry thought, his mind racing. I'm witnessing the birth of the Hand of Khaine.

The weight of realization hit him hard. In his era, the 41st Millennium, Franklin Valorian was revered by many names: The Liberator, the Great Eagle,President and to the Aeldari, the Hand of Khaine. But that title had always been shrouded in mystery—now, standing in this ritual chamber, Henry was seeing the moment that would define his father's legend.

As the ritual's power surged toward its climax, Henry tore his gaze from the scene. Awe could wait. Right now, his focus was on what came next. They had to be ready for the inevitable counterattack. Moving swiftly through the wraithbone halls of the craftworld, he could feel the ancient architecture vibrate, almost alive, caught between anticipation and dread.

Reaching the frontlines, Henry saw the Aspect Warriors standing in formation, their gleaming armor reflecting the ethereal light of the chamber. Each warrior embodied the distinct power of Khaine's myriad aspects. Without hesitation, Henry joined their ranks, towering even over the tall Aeldari with his Primaris physique.

"Khaine's might guide us in this battle," Henry said in flawless Aeldari, his voice calm but commanding, the tones perfect down to the finest detail.

The Aspect Warriors turned, surprise flickering behind their expressionless helms. A human speaking their ancient tongue with such precision was rare. But their reaction quickly shifted to one of respect, even curiosity.

"And may he strike true through you, child of the Hand," an Exarch responded, their tone carrying a mix of reverence and intrigue.

Henry allowed himself a small, confident smile. In his time, these interactions were normal. The Independence Sector and the Aeldari had forged a close alliance, born of mutual respect and shared purpose. Speaking their language was just part of it—understanding them, truly knowing their ways, had always been a priority for Henry.

"You speak our tongue well," a Howling Banshee observed, tilting her helm toward him. "Few mon-keigh bother to learn more than commands even during your days of the Federation."

Henry nodded, slipping into the measured cadence of their philosophical discussions. "In my experience, understanding is the foundation of strength. And respect is what keeps strength true."

The warriors nodded, their stances shifting ever so slightly. He wasn't just a human ally anymore. He was something more—a warrior who knew and honored their ways.

As they prepared their defenses, Henry's thoughts drifted to the future he'd come from. The alliance between the Independence Sector and the Aeldari was a linchpin of that future, a fragile yet powerful bond that had changed the fate of the galaxy. And it all started here, with his father's attempt to free a craftworld from the Eye of Terror itself.

A Striking Scorpion leaned toward Henry, his voice low, carrying the weight of suspicion mixed with respect. "You've fought many battles, but your eyes... they see something more in that chamber, don't they?"

Henry met the warrior's gaze through his helmet's lenses. "Every moment can be a miracle if you're wise enough to recognize it," he said, quoting one of their ancient proverbs. "And yes—what's happening in there will change everything."

The Scorpion studied him for a moment before nodding, acknowledging the truth in his words. "You speak like a prophet, child of the Hand. Do you see what our seers see?"

Henry hesitated for the briefest moment. The truth would be too much—too dangerous for the timeline. He chose his words with care. "Let's just say I've got a strong sense that today matters. The kind of sense you'd bet your life on."

Before the Scorpion could respond, the craftworld's structure began to hum with rising intensity. The veil between reality and the Warp was thinning, and Chaos was already clawing its way through the Webway Gate.

"They come," a Dire Avenger announced, her shuriken catapult already raised. "The warp screams."

Henry's hand instinctively went to his Disintegration Rifle, the weight of it a familiar comfort. Among the elegant weapons of the Aeldari, his gun looked quite Human. But the Aspect Warriors knew enough to see his stance—the balance, the readiness, the confidence of a warrior who had faced death countless times.

"Whatever comes through," Henry said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade, "we hold the line. Not just for Altansar, but for the future of our people."

The Aspect Warriors straightened. The Phrase wasn't just the call of a leader—it was a statement of fact. A man who knew the stakes, who fought not just with skill but with unbreakable will.

The air grew heavy with the stench of the warp as the first daemons tore through the veil. Their howls filled the chamber, a symphony of horror. But Henry didn't falter. He raised his weapon, every fiber of his being focused, honed for the fight to come.

Father, he thought as the daemons charged. Your actions here will shape the future. And I'll be damned if I let anything stand in the way.

----------------------

A cataclysmic explosion of psychic might erupted, centered upon Franklin Valorian. The very fabric of reality seemed to buckle returned to his Warp God Form, he stood as a manifestation of war itself: an avian skull wreathed in flames, metallic wings trailing fire, and bloody talons that promised devastation.

"Let's fucking go," Franklin's voice boomed, a mixture of excitement and divine wrath.

At his words, a pillar of flame erupted behind him, coalescing into the unmistakable form of Khaine, the Aeldari god of war and murder. The deity stepped forward, each movement causing ripples of reality to spread across the battlefield. The very presence of a fully manifested Aeldari god began to unravel Chaos's hold on the craftworld.

But the Ruinous Powers would not yield without a fight.

From the tear in reality emerged a being of otherworldly beauty and horror – an Avatar of Slaanesh, possessing the form of a Keeper of Secrets. Its voice was a symphony of pleasure and pain as it addressed Khaine:

"You have returned, oh broken one. Prepare to be consumed, to join your kin!"

Khaine's response was swift and terrible. His sword, a blade of crystallized violence, flashed forward, carving a furrow across the Avatar's face. Divine ichor mixed with warp-stuff as the two godly beings clashed, their battle shaking the very foundations of the craftworld.

Around the ritual circle, Maugan Ra and Autarch Ilrathan stood vigil, accompanied by the most elite Aspect Warriors. They formed a living bulwark around Franklin, whose avian form remained rooted in place, channeling the immense energies required to maintain Khaine's manifestation.

"Hold the line!" Maugan Ra's voice cut through the din of battle. "The Hand of Khaine must not be disturbed!"

The battlefield sprawled across nearly a quarter of the craftworld, a hellscape of warring gods and their minions. Daemons of all four Chaos Gods materialized, though Khornate and Slaaneshi entities dominated the field.

Bloodletters charged in endless waves, their brass blades clashing against the singing swords of Howling Banshees. Keepers of Secrets danced through the carnage, their every movement a lethal seduction countered by the precise shots of Dark Reapers.

Amidst this chaos, Captain Henry Cavill followed a contingent of Aspect Warriors, his Rifle roaring in concert with shuriken catapults. "For the future!" he cried, his voice carrying the weight of foreknowledge, inspiring those around him to fight with redoubled vigor.

In the sky above, Screamers of Tzeentch dueled with Swooping Hawks, streaks of psychic fire crisscrossing with lasers in a deadly aerial combat. Fire Dragons unleashed their fusion guns, turning entire swathes of daemonic flesh into superheated vapor.

At the heart of the battle, Khaine and the Avatar of Slaanesh continued their godly duel. Each blow exchanged carried the weight of galaxies, their conflict a microcosm of the eternal war between Order and Chaos. Khaine's every strike was precise, calculated, the perfection of martial skill. The Avatar countered with impossible speed, its form shifting and writhing to avoid fatal blows.

"You are diminished, Khaine," the Avatar taunted, its voice a mixture of a thousand whispered desires. "A shadow of your former glory!"

Khaine's response was a roar that shook the heavens, his form blazing brighter. "I am reborn, abomination! Forged anew in the faith of my children and the will of humanity's champion!"

Their clash sent shockwaves across the battlefield, toppling wraithbone spires and sending daemons and Aeldari alike flying. Yet through it all, Franklin remained unmoved.

Near the ritual circle, a group of Nurglite Plaguebearers lumbered forward, their festering forms a stark contrast to the clean lines of the craftworld. Autarch Ilrathan led the defense, his star glaive carving through rotted flesh with fluid grace.

"For Altansar! For Khaine!" the Autarch cried, rallying Dire Avengers to his side. Their shuriken storms cut down the daemons in droves, yet still they came.

Observing Slaanesh's Avatar locked in combat with Khaine, Franklin couldn't help but exclaim, "Oh shit!" His voice, now a mixture of mortal concern and divine resonance, carried across the psychic link he shared with the Aeldari god.

Khaine's mental reply was tinged with both amusement and focus. It is merely an Avatar. The true Slaanesh cannot manifest fully in the Materium. I can take her.

In a fight, right? Franklin added, his irreverent humor persisting even in his ascended state.

The mental equivalent of a divine facepalm rippled through their connection. Yes, Franklin. In a fight to the death.

As the gods clashed, their battle reshaped the very fabric of reality around them. Khaine's sword strikes left trails of fire that burned daemons to ash, while the Avatar of Slaanesh's attacks distorted space itself, turning portions of the craftworld into nightmarish landscapes of pleasure and pain.

On the outskirts of the ritual site, Khornate daemons occasionally broke through the defensive lines, materializing in bursts of blood and rage. But the Aspect Warriors guarding the area proved their worth time and again. Howling Banshees danced through the daemonic ranks, their blades singing a song of death. Striking Scorpions emerged from shadows that shouldn't exist, their chainswords tearing through warp-flesh. Fire Dragons unleashed streams of superheated plasma, reducing greater daemons to cinders.

Franklin channeled unimaginable energies through his transformed body. Rivers of faith and psychic might flowed into him from every corner of the craftworld, from both the living and the dead within the infinity circuit. He directed this power with the skill worthy of the Champion of Khaine, amplifying Khaine's strength while simultaneously weakening the bonds of the Eye of Terror.

The craftworld shuddered, caught between the pull of the Eye and the liberation offered by this divine intervention. In this crucible of cosmic forces, the destiny of Altansar – and the future Henry Cavill fought to protect – hung in the balance.

As another wave of daemons crashed against the Aeldari defenses, as Khaine landed a mighty blow against the Avatar of Slaanesh, as Franklin's power reached new heights, one thing became clear to all who witnessed this epic confrontation: this was more than a battle. It was the forging of a new legend, one that would echo through the millennia and change the face of the galaxy forever.


Chapter 76: Deep Shit

From the heart of the ritual circle, Franklin Valorian witnessed hell unleashed. His form, a divine construct of avian majesty and metallic fury, stood immobile yet far from powerless. Through eyes that saw beyond mortal limitations, he watched as four titanic tears rent the fabric of reality.

Well, shit, Franklin thought, his mental voice a mixture of grim humor and tactical assessment. Looks like we've got the whole family coming to dinner.

Greater Daemons manifested, each a nightmarish avatar of their respective Chaos God. Khorne's bloodthirsters champion materialized in a geyser of boiling gore. Tzeentch's lords of change shimmered into existence, Nurgle's plaguebearers lumbered forth, reality rotting around it. And there, already locked in combat with Khaine, Slaanesh's empowered Keepers of Secrets danced a seductive waltz of blades and temptation.

But it was the sudden shift in the godly battle that truly caught Franklin's attention. Khorne himself had entered the fray, his avatar a mountain of brass and fury. The Blood God's axe swung for Khaine's head, even as Slaanesh's avatar hissed in displeasure at the interruption.

Khaine's voice boomed across the battlefield, a sound of clashing steel and burning cities: "It's a rematch then!"

Talk about déjà vu, Franklin mused, recognizing the parallel to Khaine's original shattering. But this time, you've got backup, old friend.

Unable to move from the ritual circle, Franklin became a stationary engine of destruction. His mech-suit began to spew death and ordinance, Wherever he pointed his array of weapons, daemons ceased to exist in sprays of ethereal ichor and fading screams.

"It's like the galaxy's most twisted shooting gallery," Franklin muttered, his words lost in the cacophony of battle. Yet for all his firepower, he knew his impact was limited. The explosive ordinance, while devastating, could only reach so far. And with literal hell spewing forth daemons from every conceivable angle, it felt like trying to empty an ocean with a teaspoon.

Franklin's gaze swept the battlefield, assessing the situation with the cold clarity of a Primarch's tactical genius. The Aeldari lines were slowly receding, pushed back by the relentless tide of daemonic hordes flushing in from both corrupted Webway portals and tears in reality itself.

A flash of color caught his eye – a Harlequin troupe dancing through the chaos, their movements a deadly ballet that left daemons bisected in their wake. At least Cegorach's got some skin in the game, Franklin thought, allowing himself a moment of grim satisfaction.

His son, Henry, caught his attention next. The captain moved with inhuman grace, his movements perfectly synchronized with the Aspect Warriors around him. Pride swelled in Franklin's chest, tempered by the knowledge of the future Henry fought to protect.

We're in deep shit, Franklin concluded, his mind racing through probabilities and outcomes. The arrival of the Greater Daemons had tipped the scales dangerously. Even with Khaine unleashed, even with the combined might of Craftworld Altansar, victory seemed to be slipping through their fingers like sand.

As if in response to his thoughts, reality tore once more. This new wound in the universe disgorged a fresh wave of daemons, but these bore a sigil that sent a chill even through Franklin's divine form: the eight-pointed star of Chaos Undivided.

Oh, come on! he thought, a mixture of exasperation and grim determination coloring his mental voice. As if four flavors of Chaos weren't enough, now we get the variety pack?

A particularly massive daemon took flight, its grey form dominated by two massive horns and flesh wings that seemed to drink in the light around them.

As the monstrosity barreled towards him like a warp-touched freight train, Franklin's mind kicked into overdrive. Time to show this overgrown bat why they call me the Liberator, he thought, a fierce grin splitting his avian skull visage.

Every weapon in Franklin's considerable arsenal locked onto the incoming threat. Gravity-defying rounds, plasma bursts, and exotic munitions beyond mortal comprehension poured forth. The daemon, clearly underestimating the firepower at Franklin's disposal, took the full brunt of the assault.

"That's right, ugly," Franklin growled, his voice a mixture of mortal determination and divine power. "No matter where you fly, no matter how you twist, I've got your number."

The daemon roared in pain and fury as Franklin's ordnance found its mark again and again. Chunks of daemonic flesh were vaporized, only to reform moments later. But Franklin pressed the attack.

Yet even as he focused on this immediate threat, Franklin's mind raced through the larger strategic picture. The ritual circle beneath him pulsed with power, channeling the faith and psychic might of an entire craftworld. He could feel Khaine drawing on this energy, using it to match the combined onslaught of Khorne and Slaanesh's avatars.

We're holding, Franklin assessed, but for how long? This isn't just a battle; it's a war of attrition against the very forces of Chaos itself.

In the distance, he saw Maugan Ra locked in combat with Nurgle's Greater Daemon. The Autarch Ilrathan stood alone against a tide of lesser daemons, his leadership keeping a pocket of resistance alive amidst the madness.

Franklin's son, Henry, had led his group of Aspect Warriors to reinforce a faltering section of the defensive line. The future knowledge Henry carried seemed to guide his every move, positioning him exactly where he needed to be to preserve the timeline he sought to protect.

As another wave of daemons crashed against the Aeldari defenses, as Khaine traded earth-shattering blows with the avatars of Khorne and Slaanesh, as the very fabric of the craftworld groaned under the strain of divine combat, Franklin made a decision.

Franklin, maintained his focus on empowering Khaine while managing the relentless assault of daemonic forces. His attention was particularly drawn to a persistent daemon that refused to fall despite the overwhelming firepower directed at it.

This one's got to have a name, Franklin mused, his thoughts tinged with grim amusement. Probably something pretentious like 'Skull-Render the Undying' or 'Bob from Accounting'. Either way, I'm starting to take this personally."

As Franklin juggled the threads of concentration, a chill ran through his enhanced form—the realization hit him: this was a daemon of Chaos Undivided. Memories of his own Chaos-touched doppelganger, vanquished years ago, flickered through his mind. These entities were on a different level, forged from the combined power of all four Chaos Gods. They were the heavyweight champions of the Warp, and this one proved its pedigree with every regenerated limb and reformed organ.

As the daemon angled into a steep dive, clearly intent on a kamikaze run, Franklin's arsenal responded with mechanical precision. His massive rotary cannons and Smart Missile Pods, which had been laying waste to swathes of lesser daemons across the battlefield, swiveled as one to track the incoming threat. The air itself seemed to scream as a hail of warp-touched munitions and explosions converged on the diving terror.

The impact was spectacular, even by the standards of this reality-bending conflict. The daemon's form erupted in a cataclysm of ethereal fire and shredded warp-stuff. For a moment, Franklin hoped that perhaps this would be the end of it.

But hope, as ever in the grim darkness of the far future, proved fleeting.

From the dissipating explosion emerged a figure that defied mortal comprehension. Its torso was a ruined mess, right arm entirely missing, a portion of it's face missing, and its entire form riddled with holes that would have felled a titan. Yet still it came, driven by a malevolence that transcended physical form.

As the daemon closed the final distance, Franklin made a split-second decision. He couldn't leave the ritual circle – the connection to Khaine was too crucial to risk. With a thought, he commanded his mech-suit to disassemble, transforming into a network of automated turrets to support the broader battlefield. The Primarch knew that with this monstrosity in his face, his ability to provide wide-range fire support would be severely limited.

The mech-suit peeled away, leaving Franklin in his core armor, wings of steel mantled behind him like an avenging angel. The Deathsword thrummed in his grip, eager for the taste of daemonic essence. As the last pieces of the suit reconfigured into defensive positions, Franklin found himself face to face with one of the most infamous entities in the Warp's long and terrible history.

"Well then," Franklin said, his voice carrying both challenge and amusement, "shall we dispense with the pleasantries? You've come an awfully long way just to say hello."

The daemon drew itself up to its full, imposing height. When it spoke, its voice was like gravel being crushed beneath the weight of millennia. "I am Be'lakor, the Dark Master, First of the Daemon Princes. And you, Liberator, have proven to be a most... interesting adversary."

Franklin's eyebrows would have risen if he had any in his current form. "Be'lakor? Well, aren't I the lucky one. To what do I owe the pleasure of a personal visit from Chaos Undivided's favorite son?"

Be'lakor's laughter echoed like the shattering of realities. "Franklin Valorian, your flippancy amuses me, godling. The Liberator. The so-called Hand of Khaine. I must commend your... resilience. It's been an age since any being posed such a challenge, even in mere approach."

"I aim to please," Franklin replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Though I have to say, your persistence is admirable. Most entities take the hint after the first few thousand high-yield explosives to the face."

As they conversed, Franklin was acutely aware of the battle raging around them. The Aeldari lines were slowly but surely being pushed back, the relentless tide of daemons taking its toll. His automated turrets were making a difference, but he knew it wouldn't be enough in the long run.

"Now with the pleasantries out of the way, I don't suppose you'd consider turning around and heading back to whatever hell you crawled out of?"

Be'lakor's laughter was the sound of galaxies dying. "Oh, but I'm exactly where I need to be, Primarch. This little ritual of yours... it's drawn the attention of powers beyond your comprehension. Did you truly believe you could change fated things without consequences? The Crone Sword and now you dare to change Altansar's fate?"

"Consequences?" Franklin retorted, injecting a bravado into his voice that he didn't entirely feel. "I eat consequences for breakfast. It's part of my balanced diet of impossible odds and averted catastrophes."

The daemon's form shimmered, wounds knitting closed even as they spoke. "Your wit won't save you, Valorian. Nor will it save this pathetic craftworld or your Aeldari allies. The Eye of Terror hungers, and Altansar will sate its appetite."

Franklin's mind raced, calculating odds and potential strategies. He couldn't leave the ritual circle, but neither could he allow Be'lakor free rein to wreak havoc. The Deathsword pulsed in his grip, Khaine's power flowing through it and into him.

"You know, Be'lakor, for a being of pure chaos, you're awfully fixated on this plan of yours," Franklin said, stalling for time as he reached out with his psychic senses, trying to gauge the broader flow of the battle. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that variety is the spice of life? Or unlife, in your case."

Be'lakor's eyes narrowed, clearly aware of Franklin's attempt at distraction. "Your prattle changes nothing, Primarch. The forces of Chaos are infinite. For every daemon you slay, a thousand more stand ready to take its place. How long can your precious Aeldari hold out? How long before Khaine himself is overwhelmed?"

As if in response to the daemon's words, a great cry went up from the Aeldari lines. Franklin saw a section of their defense collapse, daemons pouring through the gap like a tide of nightmares made flesh.

This is bad, Franklin thought, his jocular facade slipping for a moment. We're losing ground, and fast. If we don't turn this around soon...

But even as the situation seemed bleakest, Franklin felt something stir within him. The power flowing through him from the ritual, the desperate bravery of the Aeldari – it all coalesced into a moment of crystal clarity.

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Khaine, the Aeldari God of War and Murder, found himself locked in combat with not one, but two Avatars of Chaos. To his left, the Avatar of Slaanesh, a being of impossible beauty and horrific excess. To his right, the Avatar of Khorne, a mountain of muscle and rage incarnate. The conflict raged across multiple planes of existence simultaneously, each blow reshaping reality itself.

As Khaine parried a strike from Slaanesh's razor-sharp claws, he felt a disturbance in the warp. The Dead were stirring, drawn to the colossal psychic energies being unleashed. But it wasn't just the majesty of battle attracting them. No, Khaine realized with a surge of fury, Slaanesh was attempting to claim the souls of the fallen Aeldari.

I think not, usurper, Khaine's thoughts rang out like hammer blows on the anvil of creation. He redoubled his efforts, his sword - a blade forged from the concept of violence itself - carving arcs of destruction through the air.

As he parried a strike from Khorne's Avatar, its axe screaming for blood, Khaine reflected on the irony of his position. He, the God of War and Murder, now stood as a bulwark against the annihilation of Aeldari souls. In eons past, he had cared little for their fate. The memory of his rampage, sparked by a prophecy from a fellow god, flashed through his mind. Eldanesh's death at his hands, the isolation imposed by Asuryan, the curse of the Bloody Hands - all consequences of his past indifference.

How times have changed, he mused, deflecting a psychic assault from Slaanesh's Avatar that threatened to shatter his very being with promises of ecstasy and torment.

In that moment of reflection, a plan crystallized in Khaine's mind. It was audacious, perhaps even heretical by the standards of the old pantheon. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

Franklin, he communicated through their psychic link, his thoughts a tempest of divine inspiration. I have a proposition that may turn the tide of this battle and secure the future of the Aeldari race.

He sensed Franklin's curiosity and apprehension mingling through their connection. I'm all ears, big guy. What's the plan?

I will bind the souls of the Aeldari to me - dead and alive, Khaine explained, his mental voice resonating with the weight of cosmic significance. Those who dedicate their souls to me will serve in my name, eternally fighting at my beck and call. The dead shall return to life to fight once more, and the living, upon their death, will join my eternal host, I require more energy for this to happen.

As he shared his plan, Khaine launched a devastating counterattack against both Avatars. His sword, a manifestation of pure violence, cleaved through the air, leaving trails of fire that seared even the immaterial forms of his opponents. The Khornate Avatar roared in fury and pain, while Slaanesh's champion hissed in a perverse mixture of agony and pleasure.

Franklin's surprise rippled through their connection. That's... intense. Are you sure about this? It's a pretty big change from your old M.O.

Khaine's response was tinged with grim determination. The alternative is to watch as Slaanesh claims these souls, empowering herself and subjecting the Aeldari to an eternity of torment. At least in my realm, they will know purpose. They will fight, yes, but it is a fate better suited to their nature than endless suffering in the Dark Prince's clutches.

The god of war pressed his attack, his form growing more radiant with each passing moment as he drew upon the faith and desperation of the Aeldari around him. The craftworld itself seemed to pulse in rhythm with his movements, as if recognizing him as its last hope for salvation.

I care not for the judgment of the Aeldari or my fellow gods, Khaine continued, his thoughts a tempest of resolve and ancient regret. I offer them a path, a choice. The Children of Isha will decide their own fate.

As he spoke, Khaine felt a shift in the cosmic balance. The souls of the dead, trapped in the infinity circuit, stirred with new purpose. Those Aspect Warriors who had dedicated their lives to his worship fought with renewed vigor, their every action a prayer to their god of war.

Slaanesh's Avatar sensed the change and redoubled its efforts, its attacks becoming increasingly desperate. "They are mine!" it shrieked, its voice a cacophony of desire and rage. "The Aeldari belong to me!"

Khaine's response was not in words, but in deed. He summoned the strength of every soul that had ever pledged itself to him, every drop of blood spilled in his name. His form grew, towering over even the massive Avatars of Chaos. When he spoke, his voice shook the foundations of reality:

"No longer. The Aeldari choose their own path, and I offer them one of eternal battle and purpose. Come, children of Isha! Rise once more and fight in my name!"

At his call, the impossible happened. Spirits emerged from the infinity circuit, taking form as ghostly warriors. Fallen Aspect Warriors rose from where they had fallen, their eyes burning with divine fire. Even some of the living Aeldari, in moments of supreme devotion, pledged their souls to Khaine, their forms shimmering with newfound power.

The Avatars of Slaanesh and Khorne were beset by a hyper-boosted Khaine, whose minions—an ever-growing host of Aeldari warriors empowered by divine purpose—crashed into the Daemon hordes, causing the tide of battle to begin to turn.

Through it all, Khaine felt a change within himself. The act of offering salvation, of providing a choice to a race he had once viewed with indifference, awakened something new in his divine essence. He was still the God of War and Murder, but now he was also becoming something more - a protector, a giver of purpose, of harsh hope in a galaxy of encroaching darkness.

As he fought on, Khaine sent one last thought to Franklin: The die is cast. Win or lose, the fate of the Aeldari changes today. Are you ready to bear witness to the birth of a new era, Primarch?

Franklin's response came tinged with awe and determination: Ready and willing, partner. Let's make history.

With that, Khaine roared his defiance against the forces of Chaos, his army of devoted souls surging forward. The battle for Altansar had become more than a fight for survival - it was now the crucible in which the future of an entire race would be forged.


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