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85.96% The Primarch of Liberty / Chapter 146: The Different Fronts

Chapter 146: The Different Fronts

The battlefield trembled with the titanic clash of demigods. Each strike of Abaddon's daemon-clawed Talon of Horus against Denzel's twin hyper-phase blades resounded like a thunderstorm made manifest. Sparks erupted as their weapons collided, their impacts rippling with arcs of physical and metaphysical energy. The air between them shimmered with unrestrained power, a furious dance of discipline against raw malevolence.

And then came the moment that revealed the chasm between them. Denzel's hyper-phase blades blurred into motion, their arcs too swift for mortal eyes to follow. One blade slashed toward Abaddon's head, the other toward his waist, the deadly combination as elegant as it was unavoidable.

For the first time in ten millennia, the Despoiler was forced to abandon his pride. With a guttural roar, he rolled backward in a desperate bid for survival, his ancient Terminator plate groaning in protest. It was not grace that saved him but sheer, unyielding determination. Rising with murder burning in his eyes, Abaddon surveyed the battlefield.

The sight was grim. His Bringers of Despair—his elite Terminator Guard were broken, their shattered black armor strewn across the ground like scattered obsidian shards. Only three remained standing, each bloodied and battered, surrounded by the grim efficiency of the Liberty Guard.

A sudden transmission crackled in his helm, the binary cant of the Dark Mechanicum laced with something rare—panic. The reinforcements he'd counted on, the vaunted Titan Legions, would not arrive. The data-burst that followed revealed why.

The pict-feed showed the final moments of an Imperator-class Titan, a machine whose presence alone could shift the tide of war. Its death, however, defied comprehension. Towering before it was an impossibility: a Titan-class construct with a cyclopean eye that radiated predatory intelligence. The Imperator unleashed its city-destroying arsenal, but the enemy Titan moved with an unnatural grace, sidestepping apocalyptic barrages as though the gods themselves guided its every motion. In a single, brutal moment, the cyclopean construct crushed the Imperator's head like a fragile egg.

Worse still were the smaller humanoid war machines, Knight-class constructs that danced among the Dark Mechanicum forces with a blend of elegance and lethality. They wove through fire and flame, their weapons finding weak points in Titan armor with surgical precision. Warhounds were cleaved in two before they could lock their targeting systems. Reavers and Warlords crumbled as these spectral Knights pierced command chambers with unerring accuracy.

Abaddon's forces were faltering. The Liberty Eagles' Overwhelming Firepower, bolstered by their advanced war machines, was closing the net, grinding the Black Legion to their slow defeat. Then, like a cruel gift from the gods of chaos, the skies erupted with a roar that heralded doom:

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! KILL! MAIM! BURN!"

The World Eaters descended like a crimson avalanche, their Berserkers smashing into the Liberty Guard's lines. Chaos incarnate, they fought with no thought for tactics, only for slaughter. Chainaxes screamed and blood flowed freely as they shattered the encirclement forming around the Black Legion.

Abaddon seized the moment, his voice a booming warhorn over the vox. "FORWARD! PUSH THEM BACK! FOR THE DARK GODS!"

The Black Legion rallied, emboldened by the arrival of their frenzied allies. Despite their losses, they surged forward, meeting the Liberty Eagles with renewed ferocity. The World Eaters tore into their disciplined formations with savage glee, their berserker fury matched only by the grim resolve of the Liberty Guard. For every World Eater slain, three Liberty Guard fell—but they held the line, each death calculated, each sacrifice deliberate.

As chaos and order clashed across the battlefield, Denzel stepped back to reassess. The arrival of the World Eaters had forced a breach, but Denzel smiled grimly beneath his helm. That wall had never been meant to hold indefinitely. Its loss was already accounted for, a single piece in a larger gambit.

His smile vanished as Abaddon roared back into the fight. Their blades met again, the fury of their duel resuming with renewed intensity. But this time, Denzel fought with cold precision, his movements measured, his strikes calculated not to kill but to delay.

The end came in an instant. A sidestep, a gleam of light, and the Despoiler roared in pain as Denzel's blade sliced deep into his flank. Abaddon staggered, blood pouring from the wound, yet he refused to fall. Both warriors knew the truth—Denzel could have pressed the attack, but to do so would invite retaliation from the cornered beast that was Abaddon.

"Liberty Eagles, tactical withdrawal!" Denzel's voice rang out as he disengaged. "Pattern Alpha-Three!"

The Liberty Eagles began their retreat, their movements precise and deliberate. Abaddon growled through the pain, his voice lashing across the vox. "Hold position! Do not pursue!"

Not all heeded his command. Those who gave chase found themselves caught in the Eagles' retreat, annihilated by overlapping fields of fire. As the chaos forces consolidated their hold on the captured wall, Abaddon allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. Then he felt it—a vibration beneath his feet, faint but unmistakable.

The detonation that followed was apocalyptic. The wall didn't just collapse; it was obliterated in a calculated blast that turned it—and the majority of its occupiers—into molten slag. The Liberty Eagles had laid the perfect trap, their measured retreat keeping them well outside the kill zone.

As the dust settled, new transmissions flooded Abaddon's helm. More pict-captures of the cyclopean Titans and their Knight-class counterparts. They were closing in, their movements cutting off escape routes with chilling precision. The Liberty Eagles had drawn Abaddon into a killing ground, and now the true battle was about to begin.

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

The Liberty Eagles owned the sky. That was simply a fact of warfare against them, as immutable as gravity. Director Samuel L. Jaxsen stood at the command center of his modified Arsenal Bird, watching the battle unfold through its array of holographic displays. The massive aerial fortress hung in the air like a metal thundercloud, its presence alone enough to make lesser aircraft flee.

"Sir," one of his operators called out, "thermal scans showing multiple signatures scaling the valley walls. Deathguard formation, approximately company strength. They're using some kind of... biological adhesive."

Jaxsen's face twisted in disgust. Everything about the Deathguard involved something biological and unpleasant. "Show me."

The main display shifted, revealing enhanced imagery of Plague Marines, Nurglings, Beasts of Nurgle, climbing the sheer rock face. Their corrupted armor leaked viscous fluids that seemed to eat into the stone, creating handholds where none existed before. Behind them, massive drilling machines – their surfaces covered in cancerous growth and rust – were attempting to bore through the valley walls.

"Those sneaky motherfuckers," Jaxsen muttered, though there was a hint of professional respect in his voice. It was a solid strategy – if you couldn't break through the killzone at the valley's entrance, go around it. Too bad for them, the Liberty Eagles had planned for exactly this contingency.

"Launch the A-30s," he ordered, his voice carrying the authority of thousands of successful operations. "Pattern Bravo-Nine. I want those climbers turned to dust."

The Arsenal Bird's launch bays opened with pneumatic precision. A-30 Thunderbolt IIIs – the great-great-grandchildren of the ancient A-10s – emerged into the sunlight. They were beautiful machines, their lines clean and predatory, every inch of them engineered for one purpose: the delivery of overwhelming firepower through Close Air Support.

The A-30s fell into attack formation with machine precision. Their pilots were handpicked veterans, each with hundreds of missions under their belts. They dove toward the valley walls, their targeting systems already acquiring the climbing Plague Marines.

The first pass was devastating. Hyper-velocity rounds strafed the rocky walls. Plague Marines, caught in the open with nowhere to dodge, were literally pulverized. Their corrupted armor, for all its resilience, might as well have been tissue paper.

But the Deathguard were nothing if not stubborn. Even as their comrades were being systematically erased from existence, more kept climbing. The drilling machines continued their work, though the A-30s were starting to focus their attention on them as well.

"Sir," another operator called out, "Emperor's Children signatures detected. They're using some kind of sonic equipment to create handholds in the rock."

Jaxsen nodded. The Emperor's Children would never be content to simply copy the Deathguard's method. They had to do it with style. "Time to bring in the heavy hitters. Get me the BUFF Squad."

High above the battlefield, a formation of B-52-X10 Freedom Bringers emerged from the clouds. These were not the relics of the past once nicknamed "BUFF"—Big Ugly Fat Fellow. Instead, they were their mighty successors: colossal war machines, carrying even more devastating payloads and capable of operating seamlessly in the void of space. Yet, despite their advanced design, they retained the indomitable spirit of their predecessors—the ability to unleash overwhelming firepower with pinpoint accuracy, striking fear into all who witnessed their approach, if they could witness it.

The bombers cast long, ominous shadows over the battlefield, their presence a harbinger of destruction. With a mechanical hiss, their bomb bay doors opened, unleashing devastation from above.

The first wave of bombs streaked toward the drilling machines—massive Heavy Bombs. When they struck, the resulting explosions were cataclysmic. Shockwaves rippled across the battlefield as corrupted machinery and Chaos Marines were obliterated, fragments of their twisted forms scattering like dust in a storm.

The second wave shifted its focus to the Chaos forces scaling the valley walls. This time, the payload was different—specialized Darkstar neutron pulse munitions. As they detonated, invisible waves of energy cascaded through the target area, erasing all biological matter in an instant. Emperor's Children and Death Guard alike dissolved into nothingness, their corrupted flesh obliterated while their armor and weapons clattered harmlessly to the ground. The valley walls stood untouched, silent witnesses to the precision of the bombardment.

But the Chaos forces hadn't come without air support of their own. Helltalons – daemon-possessed fighter aircraft – screamed out of the cloud cover, their weapons already blazing. They were aiming for the bombers, knowing that the large aircraft were more vulnerable than the agile A-30s.

 "Squadron 42, you're up. Show these heretics how the Liberty Eagles Fly"

Director Samuel L. Jaxsen stood in the gleaming command center of the Arsenal Bird, his expression a mixture of pride and exasperation as he watched the tactical holosphere, Beside him, Yamato Nakajima, Chief of Staff of the Air Force, watched with practiced calm as two particular markers moved with impossible speed through the enemy formations.

"Alright, listen up! Squadron 42's in the air, and if you're not watchin', you better be fightin' like your life depends on it—'cause it damn well does!" Jaxsen's tone was unmistakably biting, laced with the kind of authority that made even seasoned officers sit up straighter.

Behind him, Yamato Nakajima, Chief of Staff of the Air Force, stood with arms crossed, observing the air combat on the screens. Jaxsen jabbed a finger toward the display, where A Pair of F-66s had just executed a perfect dual roll to flank a squad of Tzeentch Doomwings.

"Tell me somethin', Nakajima. Are these pair of duos always this competitive? Or did they wake up this morning and decide to have a damn pissing contest in the middle of my airspace?"

Nakajima let out a quiet, almost amused chuckle. "Lieutenant Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell and Tom 'Iceman' Kazansky? They've been at each other's throats since they were in Top Gun together. One-upmanship is their favorite game. And, of course, they're good at it."

Jaxsen groaned, rubbing his temples. "Yeah, yeah. They're aces. Best of the best. Cream of the crop. I know all that. But God help me if they don't make my job harder every damn day."

"The rivalry has made them who they are," Nakajima continued with quiet pride. "Now, they are exactly what we need them to be - the best of the best. Squadron 42 accepts nothing less. Every Ace in this squadron has at least 100 confirmed kills using standard Imperial Lightning fighters or our sector's base models. No advanced technology, only skill. Only then do they even dream of approaching a F-66"

The tactical display above them blinked, showing the approaching wave of Chaos aircraft—Hell Talons and Doomwings, their daemon-engines leaving trails of warp-fire. The enemy formation was massive, nearly 200 aircraft strong. Against them, Squadron 42 had deployed just 24 F-66 Sky Sovereigns, split into two flights under Maverick and Iceman's command.

The F-66s dropped from their holding pattern around the Arsenal Bird, their sleek forms flickering in and out of existence as their stealth systems kicked in. Each Sky Sovereign was a masterpiece of Imperial engineering, its Inertialess Drives allowing it to ignore the normal laws of physics. Powered by Zero-Point Energy cores, the F-66s could maintain Mach 50 indefinitely, their only real limit being pilot endurance—though Nakajima often joked that boredom was more of a concern.

"Maverick here. Engaging," Maverick's voice came over the comms, unmistakable cockiness in every word. "Fox Three."

"Iceman engaging," came the icy reply, the usual coolness in Iceman's tone evident. "Fox Three."

Long-range missiles launched from concealed bays, streaking toward the Hell Talons, which immediately attempted evasive maneuvers. But their daemon-enhanced reflexes couldn't save them.

"Splash three," Maverick called out casually, like he was calling a play at the bar.

"Splash three," Iceman echoed, deadpan, as if they were having a regular conversation.

Jaxsen watched the kill counters climb. "They count every hit separately?"

"Always do," Nakajima confirmed. "Watch—this is where they start getting ridiculous."

The F-66s closed into dogfighting range with unmatched precision, their Inertialess Drives enabling them to decelerate to engagement speeds in the blink of an eye. Hull-mounted disintegration cannons unleashed their fury, reducing Chaos aircraft to nothing more than scattered atoms.

"Splash two more," Maverick reported with the same casual confidence. "Hey Ice, that puts me at five."

"Splash three," Iceman replied, his tone betraying no hint of humor. "Six total. Try to keep up, Mav."

The rest of Squadron 42 joined the fray, the F-66s weaving through the Chaos formation with surgical precision. The Hell Talons might have daemon-engine enhancements, but the Sky Sovereigns were built on the pinnacle of human engineering. Stealth systems made them invisible until the moment they struck, and their targeting systems ensured perfect accuracy—even at relativistic speeds.

Jaxsen rolled his eyes and growled into the command channel. "Will you two damn egos with wings stop showboatin' for five seconds? You think the heretics care who's got more kills? Just keep them off my backline and do your damn jobs!"

Despite the reprimand, there was no missing the faint note of pride in his voice. These pilots weren't just good—they were legends in the making. Still, Jaxsen had a battle to coordinate. He turned to the broader tactical view, where dozens of Independence Sector fighters were engaging Chaos aircraft.

"Phoenix Wing, cover the flanks! Keep those Hell Talons off our bombers! Valkyrie Squadron, I need a clean sweep of that sector. Now! Don't make me come down there and explain it myself!"

Nakajima, unflappable as ever, chuckled. "You enjoy this more than you let on, Director."

"Oh, don't start with me, Nakajima. I got 24 aces up there flying my F-66s, and somehow it still feels like babysitting. But you're damn right I enjoy it. Watching these maniacs turn heretics into stardust? That's what I live for."

Back on the display, Maverick and Goose had regrouped with Iceman and Slider. The four F-66s were now weaving through the enemy formations like sharks among minnows, their kills climbing with ruthless efficiency. In less than a minute, they'd cleared 30 hostiles, leaving a trail of burning debris and banished daemon engines.

"Alright, Squadron 42," Jaxsen barked into the comms, his voice a perfect blend of authority and adrenaline. "Maverick, Iceman—if either of you tries to outscore the other at the expense of my battle plan, I will personally strap you to a Lightning and send you into orbit. Are we clear?"

A chorus of affirmations came back, but not before Maverick quipped, "Crystal clear, General. By the way—Fox Three."

The comms erupted with the sound of another explosion as another Chaos fighter disintegrated. Iceman's quiet laugh followed. "Your kill count's still behind, Maverick."

Jaxsen pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered under his breath. "I swear, these guys are gonna give me a damn ulcer."

Nakajima laughed outright. "You wouldn't trade them for anyone."

"Hell no," Jaxsen admitted, his voice dropping an octave. "They're my aces. And if the galaxy's got a problem with that—well, the F-66s will clear it up."

His appreciation of the aerial display was interrupted by movement on another monitor. Four of the Deathguard's mining vehicles had somehow slipped through the bombardment. They were already boring into the valley wall, their corrupted drills making surprisingly quick progress through the rock.

"Well, shit," Jaxsen said, reaching for his command vox. He had to warn the ground forces. The channel crackled to life as he connected with John Ezra, Director of the Secret Service.

"John, we missed four miners," he reported, his tone professional despite his annoyance at the oversight. "Expect some Deathguard company in the western walls."

Ezra's response came back immediately, touched with his characteristic dry humor. "Getting rusty up there in your flying fortress, Sam? Need me to requisition some targeting solutions from the basic training programs?"

"Man, shut your ass up," Jaxsen shot back, though there was no heat in his words. "I just woke up. Besides, their air force is leaving a lot to be desired. Making me nostalgic for an actual challenge."

Ezra's chuckle came through the vox. "Copy that. Moving out." The channel closed with a click.

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

Under the smoldering skies of Vigilarus, amidst the jagged embrace of the valley's rocky mountain walls, Director John Ezra of the Liberty Eagles' Secret Service prepared to hold the line against the encroaching tide of corruption. The valley's rugged terrain was both a natural fortress and a suffocating cage, every crevice whispering with the dark promise of war. High above, golden light fractured the heavens, the energies of the Emperor and Magnus intertwined in a ritual that could reshape the destiny of the Thousand Sons—if the defenders could buy enough time.

John's enhanced senses merged seamlessly with his neural interface, granting him a battlefield awareness beyond human comprehension. Through it, he felt the tremors in the mountains—vibrations that spoke of approaching enemies burrowing through the ancient stone. The Death Guard were coming, their daemon-infused tunneling machines violating the earth with unholy purpose. Beneath their advance, the bedrock of reality itself warped and twisted, the corruption of Nurgle spreading like a cancer.

"Echo-Pattern confirmed," John's augmented voice carried to every corner of the defensive line. "Signatures at three hundred meters depth and closing. Massacre Protocol authorized."

At once, the defenders sprang into action. Mastodon super-heavy transports locked into firing positions, their Melta weaponry glowing ominously in the dim light. Liberty Guard infantry, clad in exo-armor that gleamed with the Independence Sector's technological mastery, moved with mechanical precision. Each soldier, every weapon emplacement, and every piece of equipment was a thread in the intricate tapestry of destruction woven under John's command.

The tactical network surged with data, connecting every unit into a single, coordinated machine of war. This was the hallmark of the Liberty Eagles—an army not just of individuals, but of perfect integration for Maximum application of Overwhelming Firepower. John felt their readiness as if it were his own, a collective purpose pulsing through every neural link.

Failure was not an option.

In the festering darkness of the tunnels, Calas Typhon, Herald of Nurgle, felt something he had not known in ten millennia – doubt. Not in his god, never that, but in the very nature of reality around him. The binary walls that hemmed in their advance burned with a light that was wrong, that spoke of order and sterility and the death of beautiful decay.

His massive Terminator armor, swollen with the "gifts" of his patron, leaked pestilence with every movement. But where that holy corruption should have spread, should have taken root in metal and stone alike, it simply... vanished. The walls remained pristine, mockingly clean despite thousands of years of technological development devoted to the art of decay.

"Forward," he commanded, his voice thick with phlegm and purpose. "The Grandfather's blessing cannot be denied forever. We are his chosen."

The Death Guard responded with the inexorable advance that had broken worlds. Even as the first miners breached the surface and died in storms of phosphex and disintegration fire, more followed. Bodies piled up, flesh rendered to ash, but still they came. This was their strength – not speed or skill, but the simple inability to be stopped.

Typhon watched through a thousand eyes, through the shared consciousness of flies and maggots and things that had no names in human tongues. He saw the Liberty Eagles' defenses, recognized the technological sophistication that surpassed even the heights of the Great Crusade. But technology could be corrupted. Machine spirits could be infected. Everything, in time, would rot.

Yet as Typhon reached out with powers that had toppled titans, seeking to call down Nurgle's blessing, a searing agony lanced through his consciousness. It was unlike anything he had endured in ten thousand years—a pain that was pure, clean, and unrelenting.

"AAGH!" Typhon bellowed, his guttural roar reverberating through the festering tunnels. His massive form staggered, the pestilence clinging to his Terminator armor momentarily dimmed as if recoiling from the same agony that wracked its master.

The binary walls thrummed in response, their glow intensifying with an almost sentient defiance. Typhon's corrupted vision blurred, and for a fleeting moment, he saw something that struck terror into the depths of his rotted soul—patterns of mathematics so perfect they denied the very possibility of entropy. They burned into his mind like holy fire, their precision a blasphemy against the blessed chaos he served.

This was no mere technology. It was a weapon forged from the fundamental truths of the universe itself, a denial of decay and corruption so absolute that even Nurgle's gifts faltered before it. For the first time in centuries, Typhon felt the chill of uncertainty creep into his being.

John watched the battle unfold through multiple layers of reality. Physical sensors showed the Death Guard's advance in thermal signatures and mass displacement. Techno-seer auguries revealed the corrupt warp energies trying to seep through their defenses. And his own enhanced senses, products of the Independence Sector's mastery of transhuman development, told him the story of each explosion, each death, each small victory in their desperate holding action.

"Adjust firing solutions," he commanded, watching as another wave of Nurgle's forces died under concentrated fire. "Pattern Omega-Seven. They're learning our rhythms."

The Liberty Eagles responded instantly, their fire patterns shifting to create new killing grounds. This was the art of defense – not just overwhelming firepower, but the ability to adapt, to think ahead of your opponent. Each Death Guard that died was a data point, each failed attack a lesson in how to make the next defense even stronger.

In the tunnels below, Typhon felt the shift in the defenders' tactics. Ten thousand years of warfare had taught him to read battles like others read books, and what he read here was troubling. The Liberty Eagles fought with a precision that spoke of both technological superiority and tactical brilliance. Each position supported the others, each weapon system covered potential weaknesses.

More troubling still was the way his powers remained suppressed. The binary walls were more than mere technology – they were a form of mathematics turned into weapon, equation-engines that calculated plague out of existence. Typhon had never seen their like, not even in the greatest works of the Emperor's age.

Both commanders felt the pressure of time, though in vastly different ways. For John, each second was precious data, another moment to perfect their defense, another opportunity to prove worthy of his Primarch's trust. The ritual above needed time to complete, and every Plague Marine that died bought that time in blood and ash.

Through his neural link, he watched as another wave of Nurgle's forces breached the surface. Beasts of Nurgle, their bloated forms leaking impossible diseases, died under concentrated phosphex fire. Death Guard Terminators, their armor corroded and swollen with unholy life, were systematically torn apart by precision strikes to weak points that had taken centuries to identify.

For Typhon, time was an enemy in ways he had never expected. Each failed attack weakened the Death Guard's position, and he could feel other powers stirring above. The ritual was more than mere sorcery – it was something fundamental, something that threatened the very foundations of Chaos itself.

Yet he could not retreat. Pride and devotion warred in his rotted heart, driving him forward despite the mounting casualties. The Death Guard had weathered worse storms, endured greater fires. They would endure this too, would find a way to corrupt these perfect defenses, to bring beautiful decay to this sterile fortress.

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

The golden pillar pierced the heavens like humanity's defiance made manifest, its light casting long shadows across the ritual grounds where Vladimir Mendelev, Chief Librarian of the Liberty Eagles, maintained his eternal vigil. Around him, five hundred Techno-seers wove patterns of impossible mathematics into reality itself, their augur staves inscribing equations that denied the very possibility of Chaos.

The Firewall was their masterwork – not mere technology, nor simple psychic power, but the perfect fusion of both. Binary code flowed like living lightning through the air, each digit a calculation that strengthened reality's foundations against the whispers of gods who would unmake it. It was beautiful, in its way – the poetry of pure logic turned to humanity's defense.

Vladimir took another pull from his flask, the augmented liquid burning perfectly calibrated paths through his enhanced biology. Through eyes upgraded far beyond mere human limitations, he watched the Firewall's effects ripple across multiple layers of reality. In the material realm, it manifested as sheets of translucent energy, mathematical proofs made manifest. In the immaterium, it was a fortress of pure reason, its walls built from theorems that even daemons could not deny.

"Status report," he commanded, his voice carrying to every Techno-seer through both vox and neural link.

"Firewall integrity at optimal levels," came the response, delivered in perfect synchronization by hundreds of voices. "Chaos manifestation reduced to 0.0013% of baseline. Daemonic entities experiencing power reduction of 99.87%. The Emperor's burden is lightened."

Vladimir nodded, satisfaction warming him more than the flask's contents. This was their true purpose – not just to fight Chaos, but to deny it the very possibility of victory. While the Firewall stood, the whispers of the Dark Gods fell on deaf ears, their promises finding no purchase in minds protected by walls of pure reason.

"Firewall integrity at 98.7%," Koschei, his artificial intelligence companion, responded instantly. "Minor fluctuations in sectors 17 through 23, compensating through auxiliary power routing. Warning: significant warp disturbance detected approaching ritual site perimeter."

Vladimir nodded, taking another drink. He'd felt them coming long before the sensors picked them up – the distinctive taste of corrupted knowledge, of wisdom turned to ash in pursuit of power. The Thousand Sons were coming, and they'd brought one of their greatest champions.

The Techno-seers moved with practiced precision, spreading out in formations calculated to maximize both their defensive capabilities and their connection to the Binary Firewall. Each carried an Augur Staff, artifacts that were equal parts weapon and scientific instrument, capable of channeling both psychic energy and mathematical certainties.

Vladimir watched them deploy through multiple layers of perception. Their physical positions formed perfect geometric patterns, while their psychic presences wove together into a lattice of protective energy. But most importantly, their combined computational power fed directly into the Binary Firewall, strengthening its rejection of Chaos through pure mathematical proof.

He took a deep, slow breath, the scent of the cold steel around him mixing with the taste of vodka in his mouth. "Koschei, initiate Combat Protocol Seven," Vladimir commanded, his voice gruff and steady, like a hammer hitting an anvil. His augmented mind already running through probability calculations. "And pull everything we have on our incoming guests."

The AI complied instantly, flooding Vladimir's consciousness with data. Combat records, psychological profiles, tactical analyses – everything the Independence Sector's vast intelligence networks had gathered on the Thousand Sons from the future. But one file in particular caught his attention: Iskandar Khayon, the Kingbreaker, Abaddon's Knife, The One who made Magnus Kneel, wielder of an axe – a power axe decorated with a golden wolf's head and runes telling the saga of Eyarik Born-of-Fire called Saern.

"Vladimir took another drink, the burn of alcohol comforting in its simplicity. He leaned back, his gaze narrowing as he scanned the file. 'Интригующе,'(intriguishche) he murmured, his accent thick as iron, tinged with the cold determination of a man who had weathered a thousand battles."

"They send their best, da? Good. Let them come. Let us teach them why coming to our time is a bad idea, yes?"

Reality tore open with a sound like screaming mathematics. The Thousand Sons emerged from the Warp in a display of sorcerous might that would have broken lesser minds to witness. Ten warriors in baroque power armor, their forms twisted by mutations both subtle and gross, led by a figure whose very presence seemed to distort the fabric of space-time.

They attacked without hesitation or warning, unleashing a barrage of psychic power that would have leveled mountains. Warp lightning crackled across the sky, while waves of mutating energy sought to corrupt everything they touched. Each spell was a lethal sorcerous art, crafted by minds that had spent millennia perfecting their craft.

The Techno-seers responded with mechanical precision. Their Augur Staves came alive with streams of living binary code, each digit a rejection of Chaos's impossible mathematics. Support drones materialized from quantum storage, their fields interlocking to create barriers of pure probability.

Where sorcery met science, reality itself seemed uncertain which should prevail. Spells that could reshape continents were reduced to harmless light shows by equations that proved they could not exist. Attempts to summon daemons failed as the Binary Firewall calculated them out of possibility.

Vladimir watched it all with professional interest, but his attention remained fixed on Khayon. The infamous sorcerer stood apart from his brothers, his presence a void in reality itself. The axe in his hands sang with the memory of its original owner's death, while shadows that were not shadows writhed around him.

"Move aside or die," Khayon's voice echoed with the weight of millennia, each word a proclamation of inevitability, a threat that could crumble minds with ease.

Vladimir, nonchalantly sipping from his flask, let the enhanced liquid swirl in his systems, his demeanor as cold and unbothered as the frozen wastes of his homeland. "Ah, so dramatic," "Then you can die now." His words were blunt, unrefined, but they carried a force that matched Khayon's own. As Koschei analyzed their opponent, Vladimir's gaze remained steady, unshaken.

The fireball he conjured was almost too simple – a raw and blatant attack, easily deflected by a sorcerer of Khayon's skill. And, predictably, the The Sorcerer did exactly that, effortlessly swatting the fireball aside with a flick of his wrist. But this was the moment Vladimir had been waiting for.

With the flicker of distraction, Vladimir struck. This wasn't a punch, nor even a typical psychic assault. This was something more subtle, more precise – a mathematical equation, crafted to tear apart the very fabric of existence itself. The air seemed to hum with invisible force, as reality bent and broke under Vladimir's will.

Khayon's eyes widened in sheer disbelief as he felt the unthinkable happen. His soul, a force of untold power, was torn from its vessel. This was impossible—he was Iskandar Khayon, one of the greatest sorcerers the galaxy had ever known. He had bent the warp to his will, commanded daemons, and shattered the laws of reality itself. But here he was, standing outside his own body, helpless as it slumped to the ground.

His body hit the ground with a heavy thud, still breathing but lifeless, while his soul was left hanging in the air, confused and rattled. For a moment, Khayon couldn't comprehend it. This couldn't be happening. His mind raced, trying to grasp the impossible.

Vladimir chuckled, a low, guttural sound that carried both amusement and disdain. "Stay like this until everything is over, yes?" he said with a mocking tone, the Russian rolling off his tongue as if savoring every word.

Khayon's mind snapped into focus, briefly analyzing the rune-covered firewall now surrounding his body. His gaze shifted down to the intricate, glowing symbols...Eldar Symbols. The realization hit him like a hammer – the soul-separation wasn't some crude spell or simple psychic attack. It was far more sophisticated. This was a work of sealing runes, carefully crafted to bind the two halves of his existence apart.

Only the most skilled of psykers could pull off something like this not to mention one must be an adept in Eldar to use their runes, and Vladimir was no ordinary foe. Khayon's heart—if he still had one—burned with fury. He had underestimated this warrior, and now, trapped outside his own body, there was nothing he could do.

Vladimir stood tall, his broad shoulders like a stone wall, arms crossed over his chest as his piercing eyes glinted with cruel amusement. He let out a low, mocking chuckle. "Relax, sorcerer, watch your inevitable defeat" he said, each word dripping with cold disdain. "Made a Primarch kneel, huh? Kek." The finality of his words hung in the air like the frost of Siberia, cutting through the silence with an edge as sharp as a winter wind.


Chapter 147: A Mismatch

The hololithic projection of Rogal Dorn materialized with characteristic Imperial precision, his stern features cast in the golden light of ancient technology. Behind him, the sounds of siege warfare provided a constant backdrop – the thunder of artillery, the clash of armies, all muted by distance and technology into something almost musical.

Denzel Washington and Steven Armstrong stood at parade rest, their perfectly maintained armor reflecting the artificial light of the command center. Through the reinforced viewport behind them, the sky rumbled with ongoing aerial combat, flashes of weapons fire illuminating the clouds like artificial lightning.

"Report," Dorn said without preamble, his voice as unyielding as the fortifications he was renowned for building.

Armstrong stepped forward slightly. "Lord Dorn, the modifications to the wall systems you suggested have been implemented. The additional void shield generators are operating at 97% efficiency, and the automated defense turrets have been calibrated according to your specifications."

"Good." Dorn's eyes moved across the tactical displays visible in his projection. "The positioning of the moats is tactically sound. Though I note you've added energy field generators within them. Unusual. Expensive. Effective."

"Thank you, Lord Dorn," Denzel said smoothly. "Your expertise has been invaluable in preparing these defenses."

"Naturally." Dorn's matter-of-fact tone carried no hint of pride, merely stating what he considered an obvious truth. "However, I find myself questioning the necessity of such extensive fortifications. Franklin's Legion is not known for defensive warfare. What manner of enemy requires such measures?"

Armstrong and Denzel exchanged a microsecond glance, their enhanced reflexes allowing for an entire conversation in that brief moment.

"A particularly formidable xenos empire, Lord," Armstrong offered carefully. "Their technology level is... concerning."

Dorn's expression, if possible, became even more stoic. "Impossible."

"Sir?" Denzel managed to keep his voice steady.

"Franklin's combat record against xenos threats is extensively documented. Analysis indicates that any conventional xenos empire would be eliminated within approximately three solar months, given your Legion's' standard operational parameters." Dorn's eyes narrowed slightly. "You are attempting to deceive me. You are doing it poorly."

"Lord Dorn, I assure you—" Armstrong began.

"Your assurances are unnecessary. And incorrect." Dorn's tactical mind was visibly working through the problem. "The defensive requirements suggest an enemy capable of both conventional and unconventional warfare. The psychic dampeners integrated into the walls indicate warp-capable threats. The purification systems suggest biological or corruption-based weapons. This combination of factors..."

He was interrupted by a tremendous crash from outside the viewport. A serpentine form wreathed in purple energy slammed into the ground, its four arms flailing as it tried to right itself. Above it, a figure wrapped in divine fire drove it further down, wings of steel flashing as they nearly bisected another massive form – this one red with rage and brass with corruption.

Franklin, still locked in combat with his fallen brothers, managed to give the viewport a thumbs up as he hurled Fulgrim back into Angron's descending form.

Dorn watched this display with his characteristic lack of expression. "That was Franklin."

"Yes, Lord Dorn," both captains answered simultaneously.

"He was fighting a four-armed serpentine entity displaying distinctive purple coloration." Dorn's eyes narrowed fractionally. "That shade of purple is familiar. I have seen it before..."

Through the hololith, they could hear Sigismund's voice calling out: "Lord Dorn! The non-compliant empire's forces are in full retreat! Victory is assured!"

"Acknowledged, First Captain." Dorn turned back to the Liberty Eagles. "I must attend to this matter. However, inform Franklin that I require a full briefing on this... xenos empire. Their capabilities are clearly worthy of study, and my fortification designs must be optimized accordingly."

The hololith flickered out, leaving Denzel and Armstrong in momentary silence.

"Well," Armstrong said finally, "that could have gone worse."

Denzel nodded, allowing himself to relax slightly. "Trying to deceive Rogal Dorn is like trying to lie to a living lie detector that also happens to be a tactical genius and your uncle."

"At least Franklin's timing was..." Armstrong was cut off by another tremendous crash from outside.

Through the viewport, they could see their Primarch locked in aerial combat with his corrupted brothers, the sky itself seeming to burn around them. Franklin had Fulgrim in a headlock while using him as a makeshift club against Angron, all while maintaining perfect flight stability.

Both Captains watched as their Primarch executed a perfect aerial maneuver that sent both Angron and Fulgrim crashing into each other again. "At least he didn't ask about the giant golden pillar of light."

"Don't remind me," Armstrong groaned. "Next time Father wants to 'consult' with one of his brothers while fighting Daemon Primarchs, he can do the explaining himself."

Above them, Franklin's voice rang out clear and cheerful: "Hey boys! How'd the call with Rogal go?"

Both captains exchanged looks that spoke volumes about the unique challenges of serving in the Liberty Eagles.

"Just fine, Lord," Denzel called back. "Though we might want to revisit our definition of 'selective truth' in future briefings."

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

The horizon burned with unnatural fire, casting shadows that moved in ways shadows should not. Through enhanced optical systems and decades of battlefield experience, First Captain Denzel Washington and Second Captain Steven Armstrong watched the approaching storm of corruption and hatred given form.

Daemon Engines prowled forward like predatory mountains, their forms a mockery of both machine and flesh. Brass and blood mixed with steel and smoke, while the screams of their tortured machine spirits echoed across the valley. Behind them came the endless ranks of the damned – traitor legions, World Eaters and the Black Legion, who had turned their backs on everything they once held sacred.

From their position atop the wall, both captains could see the full scope of what approached. The defensive systems they'd helped design, each weapon and void shield generator a testament to the fusion of Rogal Dorn's expertise and Liberty Eagle innovation.

"So," Armstrong said, his voice carrying the weight of inevitable justice, "Abby finally commits fully to the attack."

Denzel nodded, his twin hyper-phase blades humming softly at his sides. "He's run out of options. The ritual continues above, and his forces are being systematically destroyed on every other front. This is his last chance to change the course of destiny itself."

"Even if he breaks through here," Armstrong's massive form shifted slightly as he checked the status of the defenders through his neural interface, "he'll face three more walls, each stronger than the last. The Liberty Guard are in position, the artillery is ranged, and our brothers stand ready."

"He'll die here," Denzel's voice carried absolute certainty. "Like the traitor he is."

Both captains fell silent for a moment, watching the approaching apocalypse. The sound of daemon horns carried across the battlefield, their notes promising death and corruption. But neither warrior showed any sign of fear. 

"It's almost poetic," Armstrong mused. "The traitor, who helped tear down humanity's dream ten thousand years ago, making his final stand against those who kept that dream alive."

Denzel's response was interrupted by a priority alert from their tactical systems. New signatures were appearing among the chaos forces – massive forms that radiated power that set off every warning rune in their enhanced senses.

"Daemon Primarchs," Armstrong confirmed grimly. "They're committing everything to this assault."

"Good." Denzel smirked. "Let them come. The walls will hold. And even if they don't..." He gestured upward, where flashes of intense flames still pierced the corrupted sky. "Franklin's keeping their heaviest hitters occupied. These walls aren't just fortifications – they're a statement of defiance against everything the traitors represent."

"For the Emperor," Armstrong said softly, "and for the dream that never died."

"For Liberty," Denzel agreed, "and for a future worth fighting for."

Above them, the sky continued to burn with the battle of demigods. Below, the forces of Chaos advanced like a tide of nightmare made manifest. But the walls stood ready, their defenses primed, waiting to prove that even the gods themselves could be denied by human ingenuity and courage.

The time for words was ending. Soon, there would only be the thunder of guns and the clash of armies. But in this last moment of relative quiet, two of humanity's greatest warriors stood together, ready to show the forces of Chaos exactly why the Liberty Eagles had the finest combat record of any legion in history.

They would hold the line. They would keep faith. And Abaddon, along with his armies of the damned, would learn exactly what price betrayal ultimately demanded.

The horns sounded closer now. The end was beginning.

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

Within the binary lattice of the Firewall, Slaanesh's malice coiled like a serpent, threading her influence into reality. A rift loomed—a wound in creation from which her favored sons sought to emerge.

The Emperor, locked in his eternal struggle, turned to Constantin Valdor, his voice calm and precise. "A Traitor Legion breaches at the Eastern Wall."

No further words were needed. Valdor, the Captain-General of the Legio Custodes, nodded and left with the silent purpose of one who had never failed his master.

Within minutes, a thousand Custodians—the Emperor's chosen—prepared for war, accompanied by the Sisters of Silence, their null auras anathema to the warp-touched. Like golden specters of judgment, they advanced, their mere presence a proclamation of death.

At the Eastern Wall, reality convulsed as the Emperor's Children clawed their way into existence. Purple lightning split the skies, their sonic corruption twisting the air into a cacophony of agony. Lord Commander Eidolon emerged first, his armor once a monument to pride now warped into a grotesque parody of its former grandeur. Behind him, Lucius the Eternal followed, his features a canvas of scarred arrogance. The Traitor Legion poured forth, a tidal wave of madness and excess.

Eidolon's expectation of resistance—some loyal Astartes or mortal regiments—crumbled into ash the moment he saw them. His enhanced senses recognized the golden warplate, the towering figures, and the unyielding discipline that no Astartes could match. The Custodians.

Dread settled in his hearts. He had witnessed their power during the Great Crusade. Now, they were here not as wardens of the palace but as executioners, sent to cleanse.

For the first time in centuries, Eidolon felt it—a cold, gnawing dread.

"For the Emperor," Valdor said simply, and the Custodians moved.

What followed was not a battle in any conventional sense. It was an exhibition of why the Custodians were considered the finest warriors humanity had ever produced. Each one moved with precision that made even space marines seem clumsy by comparison, their weapons finding weak points in armor that shouldn't have existed.

The Sisters of Silence wove through their ranks like deadly shadows, their null auras disrupting the warp-enhanced abilities of their corrupted foes. Where they passed, the screams of sonic weapons fell silent, and the unnatural strength granted by Slaanesh flickered and failed.

Lucius the Eternal saw him immediately. The champion of the Third Legion grinned, his scarred face twisting into a grotesque mask of ecstasy. Here was a worthy foe, one who radiated an aura of perfection that rivaled even his own.

Lucius approached with an almost casual stride, the blades at his side singing softly as if eager for blood. "Captain-General," he drawled, his voice carrying over the din. "Your Emperor sends you to die, I see. A shame. You'd make a fine addition to my collection."

Valdor did not answer. His Apollonian Spear rested lightly in his hands, its haft glowing faintly with a hum of restrained power. His helm concealed his expression, but the silence spoke volumes. To Lucius, it was infuriating.

"You've nothing to say?" Lucius chuckled, stepping into the killing circle. "No grand pronouncements? No demands for my surrender?"

The Captain-General tilted his head slightly, his stance shifting. It was not a defensive gesture—it was one of absolute certainty. "You will fall in three exchanges," he said simply.

Lucius laughed outright, his warped voice echoing unnaturally. "Three exchanges? Captain-General, I could toy with you for hours." His blades came up, The Laer Blade and Nineteen.

Valdor's only response was to raise his spear into the en garde position.

With a roar that echoed with maddened ecstasy, Lucius struck. His opening move was a triple strike meant to overwhelm any defense—a feint high, a thrust low, and a lightning-fast slash aimed at the throat. It was a maneuver that had claimed the lives of countless warriors, including champions of other Legions. But as Lucius' blade descended, Valdor moved. It was not a flourish or a grand display; it was efficiency distilled to its purest form. His spear tilted with the slightest adjustment, intercepting Lucius' thrust mid-motion and deflecting it upward, sending the corrupted swordsman off balance. The golden haft of the spear extended in the same breath, its butt slamming into Lucius' chestplate with concussive force. The blow was not intended to kill—it was a statement. Valdor was not playing the game Lucius thought he was playing.

Lucius staggered back, his exhilaration momentarily giving way to frustration. The Captain-General hadn't countered him in the way he expected. He hadn't met Lucius' attack with equal flair or attempted to outshine his artistry. Instead, Valdor had simply undone him, unraveling the sequence of his movements as though the famed swordsman were an overconfident apprentice. Lucius' grin widened, his scarred lips curling into a snarl of delight. "Good," he hissed, his voice dripping with sadistic anticipation. "Finally, someone worthy of my blade."

Valdor's expression remained impassive, his amber eyes fixed on Lucius with the detached scrutiny of a predator observing prey. He neither replied nor shifted his stance. For Valdor, this was not a duel or a contest of skill. This was execution, and he would perform it with the same precision he applied to every duty.

Lucius surged forward again, his blade now a blur of motion. He danced around Valdor, his strikes coming from every conceivable angle, each one a calculated assault designed to probe for weakness. The air between them shimmered with the speed of his attacks, the sheer force of his blows creating sonic cracks. To the untrained eye, it was as though Lucius were fighting a statue, for Valdor barely moved. His spear flicked left, then right, each motion perfectly timed to meet Lucius' blade. Sparks flew as daemonic steel met the Corinthine Warplate. The Captain-General's movements were so economical that they seemed to anticipate Lucius' strikes before they even began.

Lucius snarled in frustration, leaping back to reassess. He had never faced such precision, such unyielding mastery. His opponents had always been goaded into mistakes, their rage or pride exploited to his advantage. But Valdor offered him no such luxury. His strikes found no gaps, no hesitation to exploit. If Valdor was perturbed, he gave no sign. He stood as he always had: calm, poised, and entirely unshaken.

The third exchange began with Lucius abandoning finesse for raw, unbridled aggression. He charged, his blade sweeping in a wide arc intended to shear through Valdor's spear and cleave the Captain-General in two. But Valdor stepped inside the arc with inhuman speed, his spear pivoting in a precise rotation that deflected the blade just enough to alter its trajectory. The daemonic weapon screamed as it bit into the air inches from the Corinthine Warplate. Lucius stumbled, momentarily off-balance, and Valdor struck.

"No," Lucius rasped, his voice a broken whisper. "Slaanesh, help me. Save me." His hands gripped at the spear once more, but the cold of Valdor's gaze froze him where he knelt, his breath shallow and panicked. "Please…" he begged, his voice cracking, a shadow of the arrogant and proud warrior he had been. "I am yours... Save me, Glorious One..." The words died on his lips as the Captain-General twisted his spear, pulling it free with a sharp scream of torn flesh and ruptured organ. Lucius fell forward, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud. The last breath he drew was a shallow gasp, one final, desperate plea for his patron to show mercy. But there was no mercy in Valdor's eyes. There was no room for mercy in the face of duty.

Valdor stood over him, motionless, as Lucius's lifeblood pooled around him. There was no satisfaction in the kill, no exhilaration. The Captain-General had only done what needed to be done—an enemy of the Emperor, no matter how twisted, was to be eradicated, and with a mere flick of his wrist, Lucius's death was assured. Lucius's body twitched once, a final, futile attempt at survival, but Valdor's resolve had been unshakable. The champion of Slaanesh, the arrogant and self-absorbed being who had prided himself on his immortality, had been reduced to little more than a corpse at the Captain-General's feet. And as Lucius's eyes dulled, Valdor finally spoke, his voice quiet and cold: "Your god cannot save you now, traitor."

In the space of three exchanges, the Eternal had fallen.

Eidolon watched in mounting horror as his Legion faltered. For every excess they embraced, the Custodians countered with purpose. Where the Emperor's Children sought chaos, the Custodians imposed order. Every sound, every strike, every death was a judgment rendered.

He waded into battle wielding Glory Aeterna, his thunder hammer roaring with destructive power. Traitor though he was, Eidolon was no coward. He swung with desperate fury, shattering shields and battering armor. But even as he fought, he could feel the tide turning.

Then he saw Valdor.

The Captain-General strode through the battlefield like a specter of doom. No flourish, no wasted movement—only the cold, unyielding purpose of a warrior who had never known defeat.

Eidolon charged, hammer raised high, bellowing a war cry that echoed across the battlefield. The thrill of combat surged through him, feeding his corrupted soul. But beneath it lay something unfamiliar, something alien to a son of Slaanesh: fear.

Valdor met his charge with a single motion, the Apollonian Spear descending like the wrath of the Emperor himself. Eidolon's hammer crashed into Valdor's guard, and for a moment, the battlefield froze. Then the spear struck, shattering Glory Aeterna and tearing through Eidolon's armor.

Eidolon fell to his knees, the weight of failure crushing him. Around him, his Legion was annihilated. The Sisters of Silence stripped them of their warp-gifted strength, leaving them as fragile as broken glass before the Custodians' might.

There was no retreat. The warp portal that had brought them here had collapsed, severing their escape.

Eidolon looked up at Valdor, his vision blurring as life drained from him. "We sought perfection," he rasped, blood bubbling from his lips.

Valdor's voice was cold, his tone devoid of malice. "You found it. In death."

With a final thrust, the Captain-General ended Eidolon's life.

The battlefield fell silent as the last Emperor's Children died. The Custodians stood amidst the corpses of the Third Legion, their golden armor unblemished by the blood of traitors. For them, it was not a victory—it was simply another duty fulfilled.

The Emperor's Children had sought to break through reality itself, to corrupt and conquer. Instead, they found judgment.

In the end, there was no glory, no sensation, no triumph. Only the Emperor's Justice.


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