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72.51% The Primarch of Liberty / Chapter 123: The Schism of Mars

Chapter 123: The Schism of Mars

The crimson dust of Mars swirled around the spires of Olympus Mons as the parliament session approached. Within the vast chamber of the Forge Temple, thousands of mechadendrites swayed like metallic kelp in an digital ocean, their owners - the Archmagos representatives of countless forgeworlds - exchanging data-bursts and binharic whispers. The air was thick with incense from countless censers, their holy smoke designed to appease machine spirits and purify the recycled atmosphere.

Archmagos Koriel Zeth stood beside Belisarius Cawl, their augmented forms casting long shadows in the ruddy light filtering through the crystaline dome above. Their internal chronometers counted down to the moment that would change the face of Mars forever.

"The probability matrices favor us," Zeth transmitted via encrypted vox, her voice a carefully modulated whisper of static and code. "64.2% of the neutral forgeworlds are represented here today, and our preliminary calculations suggest 40% are already aligned with our cause."

Cawl's optical sensors whirred as they adjusted, focusing on the ancient throne of the Fabricator-General - empty now, but not for long. "Numbers are but one variable in this equation, Koriel. The human element remains... unpredictable."

The parliament chamber itself was a testament to the Mechanicum's grandeur - a perfect hemisphere carved from the living rock of Olympus Mons, with concentric rings of seats descending like the circles of an inverted crater. Each seat was a masterwork of engineering, featuring direct neural interfaces and holocast projectors that allowed the occupant to participate in the proceedings with maximum efficiency.

"Honored representatives of the Omnissiah's domains," Cawl began, his mechadendrites moving in precise, measured patterns that matched his words. "We stand at a crossroads. Before us lies a choice between stagnation and progression, between isolation and unity, between fear and understanding."

The assembled Tech-priests processed his words through countless cognitive engines, analyzing every nuance. Many had already made their decisions, their votes secured through careful negotiation and the promise of lost knowledge. But ceremony demanded their attention, and Cawl's presence commanded it.

"My achievements speak not of personal glory, but of potential realized," he continued. "The recovered STC patterns I have shared demonstrate but a fraction of what we might achieve together. Each forge world that has received these gifts has already begun to see increased production efficiency by an average of 47.3%."

A ripple of binary cant flowed through the chamber as Tech-priests communicated their approval. The STCs had been carefully chosen – each one valuable enough to secure loyalty, but not so powerful as to upset the balance of power between forge worlds.

"But this is merely the beginning," Cawl's voice grew stronger. "As Forge Master of Olympus Mons, I propose a new era of cooperation between our domains. No more shall we hide knowledge from each other, no more shall we play politics with the advancement of technology. The Omnissiah's gifts are meant for all who serve Him faithfully."

From her position among the senior Archmagos, Koriel Zeth watched the proceedings with careful attention. Their preparations had been meticulous, every detail calculated. The voting protocols were already being initialized, streams of data flowing through the ancient systems of the Amphitheatrum.

The voting began with the closest forge worlds to Mars. One by one, representatives signaled their choices through the noosphere, each vote recorded in unbreakable encryption. The pattern became clear almost immediately – Cawl's support was overwhelming.

APPROVE: ██████████████████████ 71.3%

REJECT: ███ 12.4%

ABSTAIN: ████ 16.3%

Victory was assured. The Radicals had won, and with them, the future of Mars would—

The final tallies were still being processed when the grand doors of the chamber burst open. Kelbor Hal strode in, his crimson robes billowing, surrounded by his inner circle. His mechanical voice crackled with barely contained rage.

"HERESY! This gathering is a mockery of our traditions! Belisarius Cawl is a puppet of outside forces, seeking to corrupt the pure doctrine of the Machine God!"

The chamber erupted in binary cant and mechanically enhanced voices. Cawl remained motionless at the podium, his optical sensors fixed on Hal.

"Curious," Cawl's voice cut through the chaos, "that you speak of heresy, Archmagos Hal." His mechadendrites activated a new hololithic display. "Perhaps we should examine the meaning of that word."

The projection filled the chamber – a recording of Hal in his private sanctum, surrounded by his inner circle. His voice, unmistakable, rang out: "The False Omnissiah and his lies... We shall show the Imperium that Mars bows to no one, least of all a fraudulent deity..."

Silence fell, broken only by the soft whirring of cooling fans and servo-motors. Hal's optical sensors flared with rage and disbelief.

"Impossible," he whispered. "How did you—"

"The Omnissiah's sight reaches far," Cawl replied calmly. "Your true beliefs are now known to all."

"Interesting words, Archmagos Hal," Cawl's voice cut through the silence. "Perhaps you'd care to explain to this assembly why you refer to our Emperor, the living vessel of the Omnissiah's will, as false?"

Hal's mechadendrites writhed in fury as he realized the depth of his predicament. His support base was crumbling, his credibility destroyed, and now he stood exposed as a heretic before the entire Parliament.

In that moment, Kelbor Hal made his choice. A choice that would write itself in fire across the face of Mars.

"Initiate Protocol Omega," he transmitted on a encrypted frequency. His Skitarii raised their weapons, and reality itself seemed to bend as teleportation fields enveloped them.

For three seconds, the chamber remained silent. Then all hell broke loose.

Emergency alerts screamed through Mars's noosphere. Orbital defense platforms suddenly turned their weapons planetward. Forge-temples sealed their blast doors. Ancient weapons, long dormant, hummed to life in hidden chambers.

In the Parliament chamber, Cawl's voice cut through the chaos: "All loyal forces, implement Protocol Omega. This is not an exercise."

Across Mars, prepared loyalist forces moved to secure critical infrastructure. But Hal had prepared as well. Sleeper agents activated, weapon caches were unsealed, and hidden armies of battle-automata emerged from secret forges.

In orbit, Kelbor Hal's Battlefleet moved into blocking positions, their ancient weapons arrays powering up. Hal's forces had effectively quarantined the Solar System, but carefully avoided any provocative moves toward Terra. This was to be a purely Martian civil war.

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

The command sanctum's air was thick with incense and binary cant, ancient cogitators humming their eternal hymns to the Omnissiah. Zagreus Kane's augmented form cast long shadows across monitoring stations displaying the escalating civil war. His mechadendrites coiled and uncoiled like serpents of brass and steel, betraying an agitation that his carefully modulated voice did not.

"Blood flows in the forges," Kane's voice resonated through augmetic enhancement, each word falling like a hammer strike. "Mars burns while her children wage war in her sacred halls. Explain yourselves, Archmagos Cawl, Archmagos Zeth."

Belisarius Cawl's towering frame stood unmoved, his own mechadendrites weaving patterns of calculated precision through the air. "The explanation, Fabricator Locum, echoed through the Parliamentarium mere hours ago. Or did your cognitive engines fail to process Kelbor Hal's heresy?"

"You were there, Kane," Koriel Zeth added, her tone modulated for perfect diplomatic resonance. "You witnessed his declaration of the Emperor as the 'False Omnissiah.' Such thoughts are cancer in the Mechanicum's body."

Kane's optical sensors flared. "I witnessed a carefully orchestrated performance. A political masterstroke that has plunged Mars into civil war. Do not pretend this is mere happenstance, Cawl. Your rise has been... unprecedented."

"As was Hal's fall," Cawl countered smoothly. "His ambitions for the position of Fabricator General were well known. That he would resort to violence when thwarted should surprise none who knew him. The mathematics of his character were always clear."

"Mathematics," Kane's laugh was harsh, mechanical. "You speak of calculations while forge-temples burn. While brother turns against brother in halls consecrated to the Omnissiah's wisdom. And now you stand here, master of Olympus Mons itself, positioned for the very role Hal coveted."

Zeth stepped forward, her own augmetics humming with barely contained energy. "Would you prefer Hal's vision, Fabricator Locum? A Mechanicum turned against the Imperium? Against the Omnissiah's chosen?"

"I prefer Mars whole," Kane's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "This conflict must remain internal. Terra must not be drawn in. And..." he paused, optical sensors fixing on both of them with laser intensity, "neither must other... interested parties."

The unspoken hung in the air between them like a sword - the Independence Sector's shadow over all these events. Cawl and Zeth exchanged microsecond bursts of data, acknowledging the warning's weight.

"The Radicals' connections are well known," Kane continued. "But this is Martian soil. Martian politics. Outside forces have no place here, regardless of their... technological gifts."

"Our focus is survival," Cawl responded carefully. "Hal's forces control the orbitals. Communications are cut. Even if we wished external intervention, it is currently impossible."

Kane's mechadendrites writhed with something approaching satisfaction. "Good. The Parliament will assist in defense, of course. Hal's madness leaves us little choice. But remember, Archmagos Cawl - your position at Olympus Mons, while impressive, is not yet Fabricator General."

"Of course, Fabricator Locum," Cawl bowed slightly, the gesture precise to the millisecond of appropriate deference. "Your authority in this crisis is unquestioned. We seek only to preserve Mars's future."

"As do we all," Kane's tone carried infinite layers of meaning. "I congratulate you on your appointment to Olympus Mons, Cawl. May your service honor its traditions. But know that until a new Fabricator General is chosen, my influence remains... significant."

"Logic dictates acknowledgment of hierarchical authority," Zeth interjected smoothly. "The Mechanicum's structure must be preserved, especially in times of crisis."

"Indeed," Kane's massive form turned toward the chamber's exit. "Remember that wisdom. Mars will survive this conflict, but its scars will run deep. Ensure your actions do not deepen them unnecessarily."

As the Fabricator Locum's footsteps echoed away, Cawl and Zeth stood in momentary silence, their cogitators processing the layers of threat and promise contained in the exchange.

"He knows more than he reveals," Zeth observed quietly.

"As do we all," Cawl responded, his mechadendrites resuming their fluid motion. "But his warning is logical. This conflict must maintain its proper form, even as its music changes. The gears of revolution turn best when properly aligned with tradition's teeth."

In the distance, the sounds of battle echoed through Mars's ancient halls, while above, Hal's blockade maintained its stranglehold on the red planet. The game continued, its players moving with precision across a board marked in blood and binary.

The future of Mars hung in the balance, watched over by eyes both mechanical and divine.

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

From the Master of Mankind's private sanctum in the Imperial Palace, Terra's sister planet burned like a second sun. The Emperor stood before a window that spanned the height of the chamber, His superhuman eyes discerning the microscopic flashes of weapon batteries and the precise geometries of ships locked in orbital combat. His presence filled the room with an almost tangible weight, golden light pooling around His feet like liquid divinity.

"So it begins."

Malcador the Sigillite approached, his ancient staff tapping a steady rhythm on the marble floor, a counterpoint to the silent symphony of destruction above Mars. Beside the Emperor's radiance, the First Lord of Terra appeared as a shadow, his cowled form absorbing the ambient light.

"Another of Franklin's... initiatives?" Malcador's tone carried a mixture of exasperation and grudging admiration. "Your son seems to have inherited your taste for grand designs, though his methods are uniquely his own."

"Franklin has been positioning his pieces for some time now." The Emperor's voice, deep and resonant, seemed to reverberate through the air itself. "This is not mere spectacle. It is transformation—violence as the catalyst for inevitability."

"I had envisioned a more gradual approach," the Emperor continued, golden eyes reflecting the light of distant carnage. "Centuries of careful integration, subtle manipulation, binding Mars to Terra through threads of logic and loyalty. Franklin..." He paused, and for the briefest moment, a smile touched His perfect features. "Franklin has seen fit to accelerate the process. Where I would weave, he forges."

Malcador leaned slightly on his staff, the faint crackle of energy betraying the boundless power within. "And yet you permit this? Such escalation risks destabilizing the very foundations of our alliance with the Mechanicum."

The Emperor's expression remained impassive. "The Mechanicum's independence was always a convenient fiction, one I allowed for a time. But fiction cannot be the foundation of empire. My son sees what must be done, as do I. Half-measures would only prolong the inevitable. Mars must be reforged, or it will fracture beyond repair."

"Cawl," Malcador said, his tone thoughtful. "The instrument of your son's vision. A fascinating paradox—a future's hand reshaping its own past."

"A weapon of knowledge," the Emperor said, His gaze never wavering from the hololithic displays now shimmering into existence. Tactical overlays illuminated the civil war raging across Mars. "Cawl provides clarity where time obscures. Franklin wields him as deftly as a master swordsman wields his blade. Every move calculated, every outcome anticipated."

The silence deepened, broken only by the faint hum of distant machinery and the occasional tremor of unseen energies. Through their heightened senses, they could almost hear the prayers of the tech-priests, the binary screams of ancient machines as Martian forges became battlegrounds.

"And what future does he craft?" Malcador's question hung in the air, rhetorical yet expectant.

"A Mars inseparably bound to Terra," the Emperor replied. "Not through conquest or coercion, but through necessity and transformation. The Mechanicum will emerge from this crucible as something greater—its fractures healed, its potential fully realized."

"And the cost?"

"Acceptable." The Emperor's tone hardened, a stark declaration. "The alternatives lead to ruin. I have seen the futures where Mars remains divided, Adeptus Mechanicus and the Dark Mechanicum. Those paths lead to collapse, to wars that bleed the Imperium dry. This..." He gestured to the chaos above Mars. "This is precision. This is inevitability."

Malcador inclined his head slightly, his ancient mind processing the layers of strategy at play. "Shall we intervene, then? Or do we continue to let Franklin's plan play itself out?"

"We watch." The Emperor's voice carried absolute certainty. "We let the operation proceed as planned. Franklin has positioned every piece with perfect precision. Battlefleet Solar holds the line, preventing outside interference while appearing to maintain Imperial authority. Cawl and his allies fight for survival, their desperation masking the true nature of their transformation. And Kelbor Hal..." A trace of dark amusement colored His words. "Hal plays his part perfectly, burning away the old order so the new may rise from its ashes."

"A masterstroke," Malcador mused, "to orchestrate chaos itself. A dangerous game, even for one so adept."

"Not chaos," the Emperor corrected, His tone measured and unyielding. "It is a grand design, one where each player follows the path dictated by their own nature, yet all converge toward a singular purpose. That is Franklin's true genius. He does not command with overt force or impose rigid control; instead, he aligns outcomes through subtle influence, shaping the natural inclinations of others to serve his vision. He understands that the most enduring results arise not from domination, but from enabling inevitability to unfold according to his design."

"Quite the puppeteer indeed," Malcador noted dryly, "for one who preaches liberty above all."

"The greatest freedom is the freedom to choose one's own chains," the Emperor replied. "

They stood in contemplative silence, watching as the gears of revolution turned exactly as planned. Somewhere in the void, Franklin's forces waited, ready to intervene at the perfect moment - not too soon to rob Mars of its agency, not too late to risk true catastrophe.

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

The strategium aboard the Sweet Liberty was a cathedral to warfare's art, its vast dome pierced by hololithic projections that transformed the chamber into a miniature galaxy. At its heart stood Franklin Valorian, the Liberator, his massive form casting long shadows across tactical displays showing Mars burning in the void. The red planet's suffering reflected in his eyes as he studied the spreading conflagration, watching forge-cities ignite like funeral pyres across its ancient surface.

Above them, the vessel's quantum cogitators hummed with crystalline precision, processing battle-data from a thousand sources. The Sweet Liberty's ten-thousand-kilometer bulk hung in the void at the door step of the Solar System.

Franklin's gaze swept across his gathered sons, each a legend in their own right, each carrying a piece of his vision for humanity's future. The perpetual Damon Prytanis in their holding cells below screamed secrets into the void, while Dr. Chen's laboratories echoed with the sound of progress.

"Was there another way?" Franklin's voice filled the chamber, not with volume but with weight. "Could we have achieved our aims without setting the forges of Mars ablaze?"

First Captain Denzel Washington stepped forward. His voice carried the measured tones of centuries of diplomatic experience.

"My lord, revolution need not always wear the face of violence. Yet Mars's transformation was inevitable - the only choice was whether to guide it or let it occur naturally, potentially with far greater bloodshed. We've chosen the surgeon's knife over the executioner's axe."

Second Captain Steven Armstrong's augmetic fist crashed against his chest plate, his face twisted in a fierce grin. "Guide it? We're purging the rot, lord! Every drop of blood shed today prevents oceans of it tomorrow. Kelbor Hal and his tech-heretics would have eventually turned Mars against the Imperium. Better to lance the boil now, under controlled conditions, than wait for it to burst!"

The chamber's temperature seemed to drop as Third Captain Henry Cavill spoke, his eyes carrying the weight of futures yet to come. "I've seen the alternatives, father. I've walked the timeline where we didn't act. If the Dropsite Massacre was Horus's opening move, The Schism of Mars is Kelbor Hal's. Billions die. Entire forge worlds fall to Chaos. What we do today..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "...this is mercy, compared to what could be."

John Ezra, his Secret Service regalia stark against his power armor, analyzed the tactical displays with professional detachment. "The numbers support our action, lord. Calculated risks, measured responses. We've contained the conflict to manageable parameters while achieving our strategic objectives. The human cost is... regrettable, but within acceptable margins."

Vladimir Mendelev's psychic hood crackled with restrained energy, arcs of blue lightning playing around its edges as the Chief Librarian stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Da, the warp, she is fickle mistress," he said, his voice deep and heavily accented, each word carrying a weight of ancient wisdom and vodka-soaked pragmatism. "I see currents of destiny, shifting, turning like great river under ice. What we do today, eh? This sends ripples through time, making futures twist and bend. But..." He paused, his eyes narrowing, staring into a void only he could see. "The alternatives? Bah. Is worse. Much worse. Like winter storm with no end."

Director Samuel L. Jaxsen's scarred face twisted into a predatory smile, his eyes glowing with fierce intensity. "With respect, lord, you're asking the wrong question. It's not about whether this was right - it's about whether we're willing to go far enough. The Cabal's perpetual gave us invaluable intelligence, but there are still threats out there. Mars is just the beginning. We need to be ready to do what's necessary, when it's necessary, without hesitation."

Franklin stood silent for a moment, the weight of their words settling over him like a mantle of iron. His gaze swept across his gathered sons, each one embodying the ideals he had cultivated in them. The glow of the hololithic displays painted his face in shifting shades of red and gold, a reflection of Mars burning in the void.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried the gravity of a leader who bore the weight of an entire galaxy on his shoulders.

"Your words reflect the wisdom I hoped to see in you. Each of you holds a piece of the truth, and together, you've shaped the answer I sought."

He gestured to the projections of Mars, the forges burning, the fractured lines of the Mechanicum splitting apart. "This… this was always going to happen. Whether by our hand or by theirs, the old order was doomed. Kelbor-Hal and his ilk could not abide a future where humanity held the reins of its destiny. Their gods are chains, their traditions a cage. We didn't create this conflict—we revealed it. We made it inevitable. And in doing so, we took control of it, and now we need only wait for the conclusion"


Chapter 124: The First Look

The gilded halls of the Imperial Palace stretched like arteries of gold and marble, their vaulted ceilings disappearing into shadows where ancient mechanisms clicked and whirred with patient vigilance. Through these halls strode two figures whose very presence seemed to bend reality – one, a giant in ceremonial exo armor bearing the heraldry of the Liberty Eagles, his easy grin at odds with the gravity of his station; the other, an ancient being whose staff clicked against the floor with each measured step, his hood drawn close as if to contain the raw psychic might that radiated from his form.

Malcador the Sigillite, First Lord of Terra, deftly sidestepped what would have been a bone-crushing embrace from the Primarch Franklin Valorian. The movement was graceful, practiced – suggesting this was not the first time he had avoided such displays of fraternal affection. His eyes, ancient and sharp as obsidian shards, studied the towering demigod before him with careful scrutiny.

"Your machinations on Mars," Malcador began, his voice carrying the weight of millennia, "they walk a dangerous path, Lord Valorian." The formal address was deliberate, a reminder of station and responsibility. "Should Kelbor-Hal break through to the Martian Parliament..."

Franklin's response was a smile that seemed to carry echoes of ancient Terra's long-lost horizons. "Careful, Mal. Your skepticism is showing." The giant's armor's baroque surfaces reflecting the warm light of phosphor strips that lined the corridor. "Though I'll grant you've earned every ounce of it."

"If Kelbor-Hal breaks through the defenses of the Martian Parliament. The Treaty of Olympus binds even the Emperor's hands in matters of Martian internal affairs. We would be forced to watch as he purges the opposition."

A knowing smirk played across Franklin's features. "Your skepticism has merit, Mal," he acknowledged, using the diminutive that never failed to make the Regent's eye twitch. "But Belisarius Cawl and the Radicals will not lose. This, I guarantee."

Malcador's eyes narrowed, decades of political intrigue condensed into a single, penetrating gaze. "Why?"

Franklin's chuckle echoed through the corridor, a sound that seemed to make the very crystals in the illumination panels vibrate in sympathy. "Because Cawl is one of my Eggheads," he revealed, gesturing expansively. "Brilliant mind, ego the size of a Gloriana-class battleship – but then again, which of my scientists doesn't have that particular quirk? They're all masters of their craft."

"The connection, Franklin," Malcador pressed, patience wearing thin.

"Let's just say," Franklin's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that still managed to fill the entire hallway, "that Cawl has been given state-of-the-art equipment and... support." He emphasized the last word with another chuckle. "Yeah, let's call the new ones 'support.'"

The mysterious emphasis on 'support' caused Malcador's psychic senses to prickle, but he recognized the futility of pressing further. Franklin Valorian, for all his apparent openness, could be as inscrutable as the Emperor when he chose to be. Besides, the Primarch had never acted against the greater Imperial design, his methods unorthodox but his loyalty unquestionable.

The Sigillite fell silent for a moment, weighing his next words carefully. Franklin had proven himself trustworthy thus far, never truly jeopardizing the Emperor's grand design. Perhaps it was time to test the waters regarding the future – a future that, by design, would have no place for Primarchs at its helm.

"Tell me, Franklin," Malcador began, his voice carefully neutral, "what are your plans after the Great Crusade? What are your thoughts on allowing common citizens to rule themselves?"

The answer that came shook the foundations of Malcador's carefully constructed understanding of the Primarchs' nature. Franklin laughed, the sound bouncing off the ancient stones like a challenge to fate itself.

"Farming," he declared with a grin that could have lit the depths of the Palace. "Or maybe I'll push the borders out a bit further. Either way, you'll find me in the background, Mal, with a Libertan beer in one hand and tending to the galaxy's finest barbecue with the other." His eyes took on a distant look, as if seeing through the Palace walls to some future only he could envision. "Just as the Founding Fathers intended. Just as Washington did."

The reference to ancient Terra's leaders might have seemed presumptuous from any other, but from Franklin, it carried the weight of genuine conviction.

Malcador stopped dead in his tracks, his ancient eyes widening with disbelief. In all his centuries of existence, in all his careful studies of power and those who wielded it, he had never encountered this – a demigod who genuinely desired to step aside.

Seeing Malcador's stunned expression, Franklin laughed heartily. "Look, Mal, I've got talent for ruling – we both know that. But I don't particularly enjoy it. If this galaxy needs the Liberator, I'll wear that mantle until they don't need one anymore." His voice took on a more contemplative tone. "The galaxy's vast, and we've barely scratched its surface. I might push those borders out just for the fun of it, but I won't be taking any leadership roles unless absolutely necessary."

He gestured expansively. "The Liberty Eagles, the Independence Sector, My Industrial Heart , the Military Arm – sure, they're mine. But even those will be ruled by mortals. I'll keep the Megacorporations and the 11th Legion for border expansion and conquest when needed, but we won't meddle in Imperial affairs unless absolutely necessary." His grin returned. "I've got 99 problems, but being a king isn't one of them. Let the Imperium be ruled by whoever and whatever works best."

Standing there in the ancient corridor, Malcador the Sigillite, First Lord of Terra, greatest of the Emperor's servants, found himself reevaluating everything he thought he knew about the nature of power and those destined to wield it. Before him stood a Primarch who viewed immortality not as an endless burden of rule, but as an opportunity for endless discovery. Who saw power not as a right to be claimed, but as a responsibility to be set aside when no longer needed.

The echoes of their conversation faded into the depths of the Palace, but the impact of Franklin's words would resonate through the corridors of power for millennia to come. In the end, perhaps the greatest victory was not in the eternal grip of power, but in the strength to open one's hand and let it go

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

In the heart of the Imperial Palace, before the towering edifice of the Golden Throne, Franklin Valorian stood in contemplative silence. The chamber thrummed with power both seen and unseen, each pulse of energy from the Astronomican sending ripples through reality itself. The Emperor sat motionless upon His ancient seat, His physical form a mere anchor while His consciousness soared through the infinite depths of the Empyrean.

The radiance emanating from the Akashic Reader cast strange shadows across the vast chamber, its light interweaving with the golden luminescence of the Astronomican in an ethereal dance. Franklin observed the phenomenon with the eyes of both a warrior and a son, understanding that each shimmer represented untold depths of knowledge and power being sifted through by humanity's Master.

As he waited, Franklin's consciousness began to drift through the layers of memory that clung to this sacred space like cosmic cobwebs. The recollection of his first encounter with the God Emperor surfaced unbidden – not the being who now sat before him, but the entity of power that would exist ten millennia hence. The revelation still sent shivers through his transhuman frame: his father, as he existed now, already possessed the full might of that future self, a power so vast it could shake the foundations of reality.

The strategic brilliance of it all dawned on him anew. The Emperor had orchestrated events to force Chaos' hand, to make them initiate their End Times. It was a gambit of such magnificent scope that even attempting to comprehend its full implications made Franklin's enhanced mind reel.

As his thoughts probed deeper into these memories, they encountered an unyielding barrier – a psychic lock crafted by the God Emperor Himself. Franklin could sense the immense power sealed behind it, knowledge meant for eyes that had weathered ten thousand years of grimdark future. The lock was not impenetrable; with his abilities, he could potentially force his way through. But wisdom stayed his hand. Some doors were meant to remain closed, some knowledge meant to remain veiled until its appointed time.

Besides, he had already witnessed enough to understand why his father could accomplish feats that defied comprehension. The memory of the Emperor facing down the Tyranid Hivemind in the Helican Sector Crusade flashed through his mind – a confrontation that had ended with the vast alien consciousness reeling in defeat. It explained why Khaine, the shattered god of war, believed that only Franklin and the Emperor could truly stand against a Krork, those terrifying ancient weapons of the Old Ones.

The sudden silence snapped Franklin back to the present moment. The Akashic Reader's hum diminished to a whisper, then ceased entirely. The change in the chamber's atmosphere was palpable, like the quiet before a thunderstorm. The Emperor's consciousness was returning to His mortal form, reality reshaping itself around His presence.

Franklin straightened, his massive frame casting long shadows in the golden light. The weight of future knowledge pressed against his thoughts, but he pushed it aside. The present moment demanded his full attention, for few beings in the galaxy could claim to stand before the Master of Mankind and truly know the depths of power they witnessed.

The chamber held its breath, waiting for the Emperor to open His eyes and address His son. In that suspended moment, Franklin couldn't help but marvel at the intricate web of time and circumstance that had brought him here. He was one of the few beings in existence who knew both versions of his father – the Emperor of the present and the God Emperor of the future – and understood that they were one and the same, merely separated by the veil of time.

The Emperor's return to corporeal awareness rippled through the chamber like a tide of molten gold, each wave of consciousness bringing with it fragments of infinite knowledge gleaned from the Empyrean's depths. The ancient being's eyes focused on His son's massive form, noting the familiar irreverent grin that played across Franklin's features despite the crushing weight of power that filled the chamber.

Franklin snapped a crisp salute, though he couldn't resist adding, "Hey there, Pops! How was surfing the Empyrean web?" The words should have been blasphemous in their casualness, yet they carried an underlying warmth that few beings in the galaxy could dare express toward the Master of Mankind.

"What requires my immediate attention?" The Emperor's voice resonated with undertones that could shake worlds or whisper secrets to dying stars. Yet there was patience there, an acknowledgment of His son's unique position among His gene-forged champions.

Franklin's grin widened, though a shadow of cosmic understanding darkened his eyes. "Read my mind, Father. There's something you need to see about your future self." A pause, heavy with the weight of temporal paradox. "Spoiler alert: you become the God-Emperor and the Golden Throne becomes a fancy golden toilet"

The attempt at humor masked the gravity of the moment as the Emperor's consciousness reached out, an act as natural as breathing yet containing power enough to unmake reality. He delved into Franklin's memories with surgical precision, excavating knowledge of futures yet unlived, of destinies yet unwoven.

The revelation struck like a thunderbolt from beyond time itself – the Emperor saw Himself as He would be, as He already was, a being of such transcendent power that galaxy trembled in His wake. The perfect loop of causality revealed itself: He had not merely been born powerful, He had been born with the accumulated might of ten millennia of worship, sacrifice, and struggle. His future self had reached across the vast epochs of time, seeding His own beginning with the power of His end.

Contemplation fell over the Emperor like a mantle of stars. The gambit He had played – would play – stretched across timelines like a web of crystalline perfection. The power He had claimed from the Four at Molech was merely another thread in this tapestry, along with the knowledge of the Primarchs' creation. The Webway Project, that grand dream of human advancement, was but the first step on a path He had already walked.

"The loop closes," the Emperor spoke, His words carrying the weight of ages. "What I am now is what I will become, and what I will become has shaped what I am." His gaze fell upon Franklin, seeing His son with new understanding. "You carry this knowledge well, bearing its weight without breaking under its truth."

"Well, when you've got a sense of humor as good as mine, cosmic revelations are just another Tuesday," Franklin replied, though his levity couldn't entirely mask the profound respect in his eyes. "Though I've got to say, the whole 'future you empowering past you' thing? That's some next-level planning, even for you, Father."

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

The ancient Martian winds howled across the scarred battlefield, carrying with them the acrid stench of burning promethium and molten adamantium. Princeps Darius stood at the helm of his Acastus Knight Porphyrion, its massive frame trembling with barely contained power as his mind merged with the war machine's spirit through the Throne Mechanicum. Around him, the pantheon of his knightly household moved with practiced precision, their footfalls sending tremors through the rust-red earth.

The explosions that rocked the frontlines painted the crimson sky with artificial auroras, the screech of god-machines dying echoing across the plains like the death throes of ancient dragons. Through his neural link, Darius could taste the metallic tang of war in the air, his augmented senses processing battlefield data with cold efficiency.

"Thirty kills," he broadcast across the squadron's vox-net, pride suffusing his augmented voice. "The True Omnissiah blesses our crusade against these hereteks" The words carried the weight of conviction, even as his enhanced eyes scanned the suspiciously poorly defended sector before them.

Sir Meridius, piloting one of the Cerastus Knights, voiced what they all felt through their shared battlenet. "Lord Princeps, this approach to the shield generators... it's too easy. Where are the defense batteries? The Skitarii battalions? Many of our allies had lost contact here as well even a Titan"

Darius acknowledged the concern with a burst of binary cant, but pressed forward nonetheless. Their mission was clear - disable the generators protecting the Martian Parliament, where Belisarius Cawl and his Heretek dogs clung to their false interpretations of the Omnissiah's will and investigate the disappearance of their Allies.

The first line of defensive turrets fell easily beneath their coordinated assault. Too easily. Warning runes flickered across Darius's consciousness, his machine spirit growling with unease. Something was wrong. The patterns were off, like a corrupted data-sequence that refused to resolve properly.

Then came the first report, cutting through the cacophony of battle.

"Lord Princeps! Contact at bearing three-three-zero!" The voice belonged to Sir Cassius, one of their most experienced pilots. "Single Knight-class signature... configuration unknown. Colors red and black,It's just... standing there."

Through shared visual feeds, Darius observed the stranger. The unknown Knight was sleeker than any pattern he had encountered in his centuries of service. Its armor bore none of the traditional markings of Mars' knight houses. Instead, its surfaces were smooth, almost predatory in their simplicity.

"Hold position," Darius commanded, suppressing the surge of unease that rippled through his neural links. "Maintain targeting solutions. Wait for full lance assembly."

The minutes it took for their full complement to assemble felt like hours, each moment weighted with mounting dread. The strange knight remained motionless, its presence an implicit challenge that made their previous victories feel hollow.

"Weapons lock established," Cassius reported, his voice carrying an edge of uncertainty that Darius had never heard before. "Configuration matches no known Knight or Titan pattern. Moderate scale but readings suggest extreme power density."

Darius opened his mouth to give the order to fire, to unleash the combined fury of their squadron upon this lone adversary. But before he could speak, data began flooding across his command screens. Binary code cascaded through his neural interface, resolving into a single message that burned itself into his augmented retinas:

TARGET VERIFIED.

COMMENCING HOSTILITIES!

What happened next defied everything Darius knew about Knight warfare. The unknown machine moved with lightning speed, its energy blade describing an arc of pure light through the air. Before anyone could react, two of his squadron's Knights were bisected, their reactor cores barely having time to begin their death sequences before their upper halves slid free from their legs.

"By the Machine God!" someone screamed across the vox. "It's not possible-"

A volley of grenades streaked through the air. Sir Meridius raised his ion shields, the defensive barrier flaring bright enough to overwhelm optical sensors. But in that microsecond of blindness, the red and black Knight simply... appeared... on their flank.

Darius had fought in hundreds of battles. He had faced down Titan-class enemies and emerged victorious. But nothing in his extensive combat logarithms could account for what he was witnessing. The unknown Knight moved like liquid mercury, weaving through weapons fire with ease,each motion precise yet utterly alien. It wasn't fighting like a Knight should - it was fighting like something else entirely, something that had merely adopted a Knight's form.

"Break formation!" he ordered, bringing his own weapons to bear. "Spread out and-"

Three more Knights fell in the time it took him to give the command, their destruction so swift and precise it seemed almost merciful. Darius fired, his Knight's massive weapons lighting up the battlefield with enough firepower to level a hab-block. The stranger's machine simply wasn't there when the shots landed.

For a brief moment, Darius thought he saw something emblazoned on its carapace - a number that seemed to burn itself into his mind.

Nine.

The last thing Princeps Darius saw was a flash of energy moving faster than his augmented eyes could track. His final thought, before his consciousness was severed from his Knight's dying machine spirit, was a prayer to the Machine God- not for salvation, but for understanding of what they had faced.

The Martian wind continued its eternal passage across the battlefield, gradually revealing what lay beneath the disturbed red sands - dozens of Knights and even Titans, their mighty frames torn apart with surgical precision, all bearing the same marks of destruction.

The shield generators remained protected, and deep within the Martian Parliament, Belisarius Cawl allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. The support is performing exactly as expected, though even he had not expected quite such devastating efficiency. In his most heavily encrypted data-logs, he made a note: "Armored Core: Nine Ball, exceeds all projected parameters"


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