The barren surface of Vigilarus bore witness to a clash of titanic proportions. Beneath a sky turned crimson by Magnus's ritual, three demigods engaged in a battle that would echo through the ages. Franklin Valorian, the Liberator, faced his fallen brothers—Fulgrim, the daemon-possessed Phoenician, and Angron, the eternally rage-consumed Red Angel.
The battlefield vibrated with the psychic resonance of the Emperor holding back the Chaos Gods in the distance. Magnus chanted incantations to save his Thousand Sons from the flesh-change, his efforts casting arcs of power into the sky. But here, on Vigilarus's broken plains, Franklin fought his own war.
"Try harder, Fulgrim!" Franklin's voice carried above the din of battle as he parried a flurry of slashes from the serpentine primarch. Anaris, burned with divine hatred as it met each of Fulgrim's Lethal graceful strikes. "For someone obsessed with perfection, you're really dropping the ball today. Did you skip arm day or something?"
Fulgrim hissed, his once-glorious visage now a mask of fury, corrupted by the influence of Slaanesh. "You dare mock me, you insipid mongrel?!" His four arms lashed out, each wielding a blade forged in the crucible of damnation.
"Yeah, I dare," Franklin replied with a smirk, sidestepping another lightning-fast strike. "It's sort of my thing. What's yours? Losing your temper? No wonder you're everyone's least favorite."
Behind Franklin, the ground quaked with the furious charge of Angron. The Red Angel's chain-axe screamed with murderous glee, sparks flying as it's teeth made trails across the ground. Franklin heard him coming without looking, his combat instincts processing every threat simultaneously.
Fulgrim, sensing Angron's approach, smirked. "Angron, crush this insolent fool beneath your heel!"
But coordination was never Angron's strong suit. With a bellow of rage, he ignored Fulgrim's elegant strategy and barreled toward Franklin like a living battering ram.
Franklin acted instantly. Pivoting on his heel, he caught Fulgrim's blades in a dazzling series of parries before locking them with Anaris. In the same motion, he reached out and grabbed Fulgrim's serpentine tail.
"What are you doing, you cretin—" Fulgrim began, only to have his words cut off as Franklin hurled him with a mighty heave straight into the oncoming Angron.
The collision was apocalyptic. Fulgrim's elongated body wrapped around Angron like a constricting python as the two were sent sprawling through a jagged crystal formation. The impact shattered the structure, sending shards of crystal flying across the battlefield like razor-edged hail.
As the dust settled, Angron roared in frustration, his chain-axes lost in the debris. Fulgrim snarled in a mix of languages—Eldar, Daemonic, and unfiltered profanity—as he attempted to untangle his serpentine body from Angron's armored form.
"You absolute imbecile!" Fulgrim screeched, his voice oscillating between a silken tenor and a guttural growl. "Watch where you're charging, you brainless brute!"
Angron responded with a furious swing of his remaining arm, smacking Fulgrim across his already battered face. "Shut up, you perfumed worm!" he bellowed. "I was killing him before you got in the way!"
Fulgrim hissed, glaring at his brother while trying to wrench free from their entangled forms. "Killing him? You couldn't kill a drunken grox, you red-faced simpleton!"
Franklin watched the exchange with a bemused expression, casually resting Anaris on his shoulder. "Wow. Family reunions with you two must be a real hoot. Do you always play nice, or is this just a special occasion?"
Both daemon primarchs turned their attention back to Franklin, their rage momentarily redirected. Fulgrim's once-golden armor was now tarnished with burns and crystalline shards embedded in his flesh. Angron, his Butcher's Nails sparking wildly, loomed like a mountain of seething hatred.
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The ritual circle faded, its crimson glow dispersing like smoke in the wind. Magnus stood amidst the stillness, his eye surveying the Thousand Sons. Their forms were stable, their flesh no longer betraying them. For the first time since their creation, his sons were whole.
Magnus flexed his hand, feeling the lingering psychic energies. "Right then," he muttered to himself, "crisis averted. Now for the existential dread." Reaching out through the Warp, he connected to the Emperor's mind.
"Father. It is done." His voice was laced with triumph, though it faltered as doubt crept in. "But what now?"
The Emperor's response came swiftly, resonating with the weight of the Immaterium itself. Through their connection, Magnus glimpsed his father's current state—a radiant figure of pure golden energy standing as an unyielding bulwark against an endless tide of writhing darkness.
"Well done, Magnus. But don't start patting yourself on the back just yet," the Emperor replied, his tone both weary and wry. "The Ruinous Powers have noticed. And they are… let's say, extremely displeased."
Magnus frowned, his single eye narrowing. His gaze flicked toward the battlefield, where Franklin Valorian's laughter rang out over the clamor of war. The Liberator clashed with Fulgrim and Angron, his weapon blazing with golden fire as he danced through the chaos with almost insulting ease.
"Franklin? Surely not," Magnus replied, incredulous. "He's not even... I mean, he helped, but why would they—?"
The Emperor's voice carried a rare note of amusement, like a cosmic parent suppressing a chuckle at a particularly naive child.
"Your brother is unique, Magnus," the Emperor explained. "Across the infinite permutations of existence, he alone remains impervious to Chaos. No temptation, no scheme, no power can sway him. He is, for lack of a better term, an absolute irritant."
Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose. "So, let me get this straight. Franklin's very presence is unraveling their plans, and their solution is to dogpile him like disgruntled fans at a convention?"
"Precisely," the Emperor confirmed, his tone tinged with amusement. "Warn him, Magnus. Chaos is mustering its full strength. They'll throw everything at him before reality reasserts itself."
Through their connection, Magnus could sense the immense strain his father was enduring. The Emperor's psychic might remained unshakable, a radiant pillar of golden power standing resolute against four distinct cosmic forces. This was not a battle of raw strength; the Emperor's power could outlast the Chaos Gods' relentless attempts. He stood unwavering, like an unyielding wall of light in the face of infinite darkness. Yet, the enormity of the task was undeniable. The mental image was vivid: his father stood like Atlas—not holding up the world, but holding back four universe-shattering abominations, each one striving to pry open the fabric of reality like a gate, sending their champions to inject their influence into the world.
"The Chaos Gods are expending tremendous energy, pushing their influence far beyond the Eye of Terror and the Cadian Gate," Magnus remarked, his mind analyzing the situation with cold precision. "It's not that you lack the power to contain them, Father. You're not facing them directly. Instead, you're intercepting their attempts to channel their strength into their champions, halting the assassins before they can strike."
The Emperor's psychic presence flared, a burst of golden light in the immaterium. Yet, there was no anger, only an unwavering focus, a determination that pulsed through the very air. "Correct," he affirmed. "They are trying to slip their power through the cracks, seeking to empower their chosen and tip the scales in their favor"
Magnus felt the weight of his father's words, the sheer strain beneath them. The Emperor's psychic might was vast, yet stretched thin, as he defended multiple points of entry. "A dangerous game they play," Magnus mused, his voice tinged with awe. "But they are squandering their strength. They cannot maintain this assault for much longer, can they?"
"No," the Emperor replied, his psychic barriers reinforcing themselves in perfect synchronization, "But for now, it is not about endurance. It is a matter of timing. I must intercept their efforts at the right moment. This is not a battle of attrition, Magnus, but a delicate operation. The closer their champions come to their end, the more desperate their attempts to pour power into them will become."
Magnus sighed, glancing toward Franklin's distant figure. "He's going to make a joke about this, isn't he? Something along the lines of, 'Oh no, the big scary gods are mad at me. Whatever shall I do?'"
The Emperor smirked at the thought "You know your brother well. Go to him. Quickly."
"Fine," Magnus relented. "But if he starts laughing mid-battle, I'm blaming you for enabling him."
Magnus turned to his legion. "Ahzek!" he called, his voice echoing like thunder. "Lead the Thousand Sons into the fray! Show the galaxy what it means to stand as one!"
Ahriman saluted sharply. "By your will, father!" he replied, rallying the warriors. "Thousand Sons, to battle!"
As his legion advanced, Magnus spread his psychic wings, preparing to take flight. He paused briefly, sending one last thought to the Emperor. "Father... thank you. For everything."
The Emperor's response was warm, yet resolute. "Thank your brother, too. He is the lynchpin of this victory. Now go, Magnus. The storm approaches."
Magnus took to the skies, his single eye locked on the battlefield where Franklin continued to duel two daemon primarchs. The Liberator's voice carried through the air.
"Well, Angron," Franklin said with a wink, "I always heard you were a bit... one-sided in your approach, but I didn't think you'd take it that literally."
He chuckled, the sound booming, echoing across the battlefield. Angron's eyes flared with rage, but Franklin just shrugged, unfazed.
"Come on," he added with a casual flick of his wrist. "If you're looking for a hand, just ask. I'm sure someone around here can spare one... though you might have to settle for a right one instead, and Fulgrim, that sword's compensating for something, isn't it?"
Magnus groaned aloud as he flew. "Chaos is about to throw the entire Warp at him, and he's heckling them like a court jester. This timeline is going to give me an ulcer."
The crimson sky above darkened, the Warp's pressure growing. Magnus increased his speed, muttering to himself as he neared the battle. "At least Franklin's ridiculous antics make him easy to find."
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The skies of Vigilarus trembled as Franklin in his transcendent Warp God form, wielded Fulgrim's serpentine body like an improvised weapon against Angron. The impact sent both Daemon Primarchs sprawling, but Franklin's enhanced senses detected another threat – a miasma of decay and pestilence approaching from behind.
Without hesitation, Franklin dropped from his position, his steel wings flaring as he spiraled around his would-be ambusher. The stench hit him first – a nauseating wave of rot and corruption that would have felled a lesser being. Mortarion, the Death Lord, stood before him, transformed by Nurgle's "blessings" into a towering monstrosity of decay and resilience.
"By the Throne," Franklin quipped, his avian skull-helm casting divine flames into the corrupted air, "do all Nurgle's chosen smell this bad, or are you just trying extra hard to impress me?"
Mortarion's response came through a vox-grille corroded by centuries of toxic exposure. "You will die and embrace Grandfather's gifts, brother. All things rot. All things decay." The Death Lord's presence alone caused the ground beneath him to blacken and wither.
But where Mortarion's aura of decay spread outward, Franklin's own divine radiance blazed like a newborn sun. Where the two auras met, Franklin's flames of purity burned away the corruption, causing Mortarion to take an involuntary step backward. The sight of his brother's pestilent powers being countered so easily caused the first flicker of uncertainty in Mortarion's toxic-green eyes.
"Funny thing about decay," Franklin responded, Anaris blazing in his grip, "it tends to burn away pretty quick under the right circumstances."
Before he could press his advantage, Franklin's combat instincts screamed a warning. The space around him began to fold and twist, reality itself attempting to crush him in its distorted grip. Lesser beings would have been trapped, crushed into nothing by the spatial manipulation.
Franklin wasn't a lesser being.
With nonchalant poise he clenched his right fist and struck the folding space itself. The impact created a sound like reality screaming, as cracks appeared in the very air. A massive shockwave of counter-force exploded outward, racing toward its source – another corrupted brother, the Daemon Primarch version of Magnus the Red.
This Magnus was a far cry from the noble being who even now raced to warn his brother of coming danger. Twisted by Tzeentch's influence, the daemon version of Magnus floated above the battlefield, his single eye blazing with warp-fire, his crimson form wreathed in impossible geometries.
Franklin's laughter echoed across the battlefield as he took in the tableau before him. Angron and Fulgrim were extracting themselves from their tangled collision, Mortarion stood wreathed in his failing miasma of decay, and daemon Magnus hovered with arrays of sorcerous energy already forming around him.
"Well, well," Franklin called out, his voice carrying both amusement and deadly intent, "looks like we've got the whole color spectrum of corruption here! Red for Khorne," he nodded to Angron, who answered with an incoherent roar of rage, "Purple for Slaanesh," Fulgrim hissed in response, his serpentine form coiling in preparation to strike, "Green for Nurgle," Mortarion's only response was a wet, choking sound, "and Blue for Tzeentch." The daemon Magnus's eye narrowed at being so casually categorized.
Franklin's steel wings spread wide, their edges gleaming with the same divine fire that wreathed his avian skull-helm. "Did your patrons tell you what happened to their last batch of champions? No?" His voice took on a mock-sympathetic tone. "That's awkward. You'd think they'd want you to learn from their predecessors' mistakes."
The four Daemon Primarchs moved to surround him, each radiating their patron's corrupt power. Angron's rage manifested as visible waves of blood-red energy, Fulgrim's presence distorted reality with impossible pleasures and pains, Mortarion's decay sought to corrupt everything it touched, and Magnus's sorceries twisted the very fabric of space-time.
Franklin stood in their midst, Anaris held casually at his side, his divine form a beacon of defiance against their corruption. Anaris pulsed with Khaine's power, eager to taste daemon flesh once more.
"Four against one," Franklin mused aloud, his tone suggesting he was discussing weather rather than facing four of the most powerful beings in existence. "Hardly seems fair." He paused for dramatic effect. "For you, I mean. Maybe you should call for backup?"
Angron snarled he will not charge first this time. Fulgrim's blades whispered through the air from multiple angles while Mortarion's scythe carved a path of decay through reality itself. Above, daemon Magnus began weaving a spell that would have unmade a lesser being.
Franklin's response was to laugh – a sound of pure, genuine amusement that seemed to physically pain his corrupted brothers. His wings flared brighter, and Anaris blazed with renewed fury as he prepared to meet their assault.
The crimson sky of Vigilarus seemed to darken further as Magnus the Red materialized beside his brother Franklin, whose avian skull-helm still blazed with divine fire. The Crimson King's singular eye immediately locked onto his corrupted counterpart, and the rage that filled him was almost palpable in the air.
Franklin, still maintaining his combat stance against the four Daemon Primarchs, glanced at his brother. "Magnus! What brings you to this lovely party? How did the ritual go? Don't tell me you're just here for the ambiance."
Magnus couldn't tear his gaze from his fallen self. The daemon version of him floated there, wrapped in impossible geometries and emanating raw Tzeentchian power. Every twist of corrupt sorcery around his counterpart's form was like a personal insult, a mockery of everything Magnus had believed about himself.
"The ritual is complete," Magnus said, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Father sent me to warn you. He said they would try to kill you with everything they have, but..." He gestured at the assembled Daemon Primarchs. "It seems they're already here."
Franklin's response was a laugh that echoed across the battlefield, causing Fulgrim to hiss in annoyance and Angron to growl deeper. "Oh no," Franklin's voice dripped with theatrical fear, "the big scary gods are mad at me. Whatever shall I do?" He placed a hand against his helm in an exaggerated gesture of distress.
Magnus sighed, shaking his head. "I knew you'd say something like that." Despite the gravity of the situation, a slight smile tugged at his lips. This was exactly the kind of response he'd expected from his irrepressible brother.
Looking at the assembled threats, Magnus made a tactical decision. "Franklin, I'll take my... other self out of the equation. You deal with the other three."
Franklin turned his burning gaze toward Magnus, the flames of his divine form casting dancing shadows across the battlefield. "Sure thing, brother. Just try not to get too caught up in self-reflection. Though I have to say," he gestured toward daemon Magnus, "your evil twin really needs fashion advice. The whole 'Feathery wings with eyes' look is so last millennium."
Before Magnus could respond, his daemon counterpart's voice boomed across the battlefield, a sound that contained both his original voice and the echoes of countless whispers. "You think you can stand against me?" Daemon Magnus sneered, his single eye blazing with warp-fire. "I have had ten thousand years to perfect my craft. Ten thousand years to learn the deepest secrets of the warp. What hope do you have, you who are but a child in comparison?"
Magnus straightened to his full height, his own psychic power flaring around him like a crimson aurora. "Oh yeah?" His voice carried both challenge and determination. "We'll see about that! At least I still have enough sense not to accessorize with daemon parts!"
The daemon version of himself seemed taken aback by the casual dismissal. "You dare mock what I have become? I am power incarnate! I have transcended the limitations of mortality!"
"Transcended right into bad fashion choices, apparently," Magnus retorted, channeling a bit of his brother's wit. "Tell me, did Tzeentch's gift package come with those extra eyes, or did you have to apply for them separately?"
Franklin's laughter rang out again. "Oh, I am loving this! It's like watching the universe's most violent family therapy session." He raised Anaris, the sword blazing with divine fire. "Should we give them some privacy? I'm sure they have a lot to talk about."
Magnus nodded, his psychic power continuing to build. "Try not to have too much fun with the others. And Franklin?" He paused, looking at his brother. "Thank you. For helping me save my sons."
"Anytime, brother," Franklin replied, his tone momentarily serious before returning to its usual levity. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to teach these three the importance of proper personal hygiene, anger management, and not being murderous snakes."
As the two brothers prepared to engage their respective opponents, daemon Magnus began weaving impossible geometries in the air, his corrupted power reaching out to challenge his loyal self. The original Magnus met the power with his own, creating a psychic display that rivaled the Emperor's own battles.
"Let's see what ten thousand years of bad life choices has taught you," Magnus called out to his daemon self, his power forming intricate patterns that countered his counterpart's corrupted sorcery. "I'm particularly interested in learning what not to do!"
The battlefield split into two distinct conflicts – Magnus versus his fallen self in a duel of supreme sorcerous might, and Franklin facing down three daemon primarchs with his characteristic mix of deadly skill and irreverent humor. The fate of Vigilarus, and perhaps much more, hung in the balance.
But as the battles commenced in earnest, one thing became clear – the bonds between loyal brothers, forged in trust and strengthened by sacrifice, stood in stark contrast to the corrupted mockeries that Chaos had created. And in that difference lay their greatest strength.
The sky above Vigilarus began to clear, the unnatural crimson hue giving way to something approaching normalcy. Yet in this theater of war, nothing was truly normal. High above the scarred landscape, Franklin Valorian engaged in an aerial ballet of violence with three of his corrupted brothers.
Fulgrim struck first, his serpentine form allowing him impossible angles of attack. Four daemon-forged blades whistled through the air, each seeking to claim a piece of Franklin's flesh. But the Primarch of Liberty had long since transcended mere conventional combat. His steel wings, extensions of his divine form, moved with impossible precision, each feather-blade catching one of Fulgrim's swords in a shower of sparks.
"Four arms and you still can't land a hit?" Franklin taunted, his avian skull-helm burning bright. "Maybe you should have asked for better coordination instead of extra limbs!"
While his wings handled Fulgrim's assault, Franklin focused his attention on Mortarion. His eyes narrowed behind his avian skull-helm as memories – not his own, but from a future that would never be – flashed through his mind. In that timeline, Nurgle's corruption had been the key to his death at Horus's hands. The Death Lord found himself facing not just Franklin's usual combat prowess, but the full, unleashed skill of the Primarch of Liberty.
"Let's see how Rot fares against Flames of freedom," Franklin quipped, Anaris blazing in his grip as he engaged Mortarion.
Mortarion Swung forward with Silence, his massive scythe crackling with pestilent energy. Franklin met the attack with the Halberd-Anaris, the Anaris's divine energy burning away the corruption that tried to creep along its length. But instead of disengaging, Franklin did something unexpected – he locked his Halberd with Mortarion's scythe and held fast.
The Death Lord, true to his stubborn nature, refused to release his grip. It was exactly what Franklin had planned.
From below, Angron's bellow of rage announced his charge. The Red Angel had launched himself skyward, chain-axe whirling, ready to tear into his brother's exposed back. But Franklin had fought in three dimensions for centuries in the warp and reality, and ground combat was a completely different beast from aerial warfare.
Still holding Mortarion's scythe in a blade-lock – which the Death Lord refused to release – Franklin used the momentum to his advantage. In the air, Franklin was in his element, and he demonstrated why he was considered the master of aerial combat.
The Death Lord, still refusing to release his precious scythe, found himself being swung directly into Angron's path.
"Here's a lesson in aerial combat," Franklin called out as he completed the maneuver. "Always mind your positioning!"
The impact between the two Daemon Primarchs was catastrophic. Mortarion's pestilent armor met Angron's brass-clad form with a sound like a thunderclap. Both corrupted brothers plummeted toward the ground, a tangle of limbs, weapons, and curses in various daemonic languages.
But Franklin wasn't done. Even as he used Mortarion as an impromptu shield, his wings had never stopped their dance with Fulgrim's blades. Each parry had been precisely calculated, each movement exact. The Phoenician's perfect features contorted in rage as he realized what had happened – dozens of burning cuts decorated his form where Franklin's steel feathers had slipped past his guard.
"You see, Fulgrim," Franklin called out, disengaging his wings from the blade-lock with a flourish that opened several new cuts on the Daemon Primarch's serpentine body, "the problem with having four arms is that you start relying on quantity over quality. But up here?" He gestured to the open sky around them. "Quality wins every time."
Fulgrim's response was a screech of rage that contained both pleasure and pain, his Slaaneshi nature unable to fully separate the two sensations. The burning cuts from Franklin's wings refused to heal properly, each one marked by the same divine fire that wreathed Franklin's form.
Angron, ever the berserker, recovered first. His remaining arm, enhanced by Khorne's blessings, lashed out with devastating force. The blow connected, sending Franklin hurtling through the air. Mortarion, seeing an opportunity, moved to intercept his brother's trajectory.
But Franklin had been playing this game far too long to fall for such obvious tactics. Banking hard left, he reached into a pouch and withdrew what appeared to be a simple bottle. With casual accuracy, he tossed it toward Mortarion.
The Death Lord, expecting a more conventional weapon, cleaved the bottle in two with his scythe. It proved to be a grave mistake. The contents splashed across his corrupted form, and for the first time in millennia, Mortarion felt real pain.
"AAAGHHH!" The scream that erupted from Mortarion's vox-grille was equal parts pain and surprise.
"What is this?!" he demanded, his corrupted form smoking where the liquid had touched him.
Franklin's laughter rang out across the battlefield. "I honestly didn't think that would work! H2O2, brother. Hydrogen peroxide – because frankly, you could use a good cleaning."
Before Mortarion could recover, another bottle was sailing through the air. This time, the Death Lord caught it and crushed it in his gauntlet – another mistake. The liquid within seared his corrupted flesh, and though he fought to contain it, the pain was evident in his posture.
"That one's chlorine," Franklin announced cheerfully. "I figured if we're having a family reunion, we might as well include some basic chemistry lessons."
Mortarion charged forward, his usual calculating nature overcome by pain and rage. The sight of the mighty Death Lord, bearer of Nurgle's greatest blessings, being undone by common cleaning agents seemed to amuse Franklin to no end.
"Who knew?" Franklin called out as he dodged Mortarion's enraged assault. "Apparently Nurgle's blessings don't include protection against basic sanitation. Might want to bring that up with your boss next time!"
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Magnus the Red found himself in what could only be described as the universe's most dangerous mirror match. His daemon counterpart, corrupted by ten millennia of Tzeentch's influence, was proving to be every bit as formidable as he had boasted. The air between them crackled with competing psychic energies as reality itself bent and warped around their duel.
"Who knew," Magnus muttered to himself as he bent space to avoid another of his counterpart's attacks, "that I could be such an insufferable opponent?" He twisted through impossible geometries, only to find himself facing a hidden spell his daemon self had carefully concealed in the fabric of reality.
"What's wrong?" Daemon Magnus taunted, his voice carrying the echoes of countless whispers. "Where's that bravado now? You stand before one who has been blessed by the Changer of Ways himself, who has mastered the currents of the warp for ten thousand years!" Arms gestured, weaving new spells into reality.
Magnus deflected another barrage of warp-lightning, his single eye narrowing in frustration. "Says the version of me who's been drinking Chaos-flavored Kool-Aid," he shot back, though he had to admit – if only to himself – that this fight was not going as well as he'd hoped.
As he ducked under another spell that would have turned his bones to glass, Magnus found himself seriously considering something he'd promised himself he'd never do. His brother Franklin's favorite spell – if one could even dignify it with that term – was both brutally effective and utterly beneath the dignity of a scholar of his caliber.
"I cannot believe I'm about to do this," Magnus muttered to himself, dodging yet another reality-warping attack. His daemon self was pressing the advantage, clearly believing victory was within his grasp.
"Your resistance is futile," Daemon Magnus proclaimed, gathering warp energy for what looked to be a devastating attack. "Accept the inevitable. Embrace the change that awaits you!"
Magnus sighed deeply, his scholarly pride warring with his tactical necessity. He could almost hear Franklin's laughter in his head. His brother had always told him that sometimes the best solution was the most direct one, dignity be damned.
"Well," Magnus thought to himself, "at least Franklin will never let me live this down." Then, aloud, "Say hello to my brother's favorite spell!"
Making a grabbing motion toward his corrupted self, Magnus called upon the warp in a way he never thought he would. His voice rang out across the battlefield: "TESTICULAR TORSION!"
The effect was instantaneous and devastating. Daemon Magnus's multiple arms froze mid-spell, his single eye widening in shock and pain. A blood-curdling scream erupted from his throat, a sound that contained both the agony of the present and the wounded dignity of a being who never expected to be attacked in such an undignified manner.
"What nonsense is this—AAAAHHHHGGG!!!" The daemon primarch's voice rose several octaves as the spell took full effect.
Magnus watched his counterpart's reaction with a mixture of satisfaction and embarrassment. He could practically hear Franklin's cackling from the across the battlefield. This was exactly the kind of tactic his brother would employ – effective, unexpected, and completely devoid of dignity.
"Well," Magnus mused aloud, watching his daemon self writhing in most un-sorcerous agony, "I suppose there are some advantages to thinking outside the traditional spheres of sorcerous combat. Though I shall have to burn the relevant pages from my grimoire later."
The spell, while undignified, had achieved what countless complex workings had failed to do – it had completely disrupted his opponent's concentration and defenses. Though Magnus knew he would never hear the end of this from Franklin, he had to admit that sometimes the simplest solutions were indeed the most effective.
Still, as he prepared to press his advantage against his incapacitated counterpart, Magnus made a mental note to never, ever admit to Franklin that he had been right about the tactical applications of this particular spell. His brother's smugness would be absolutely unbearable.
In the distance, he could swear he heard Franklin's voice carry across the battlefield: "That's my boy! I knew you had it in you!"
Magnus sighed again, his dignity thoroughly compromised but his tactical position significantly improved. "The things we do for victory," he muttered, preparing his next spell. "Though perhaps we can keep this particular tactical innovation out of the official historical records..."
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In two separate but equally deadly battles, both Magnus and Franklin felt the shift in reality as the Chaos Gods began to assert their influence more directly. The very fabric of space seemed to shudder as divine power leaked through the Emperor's containment.
Magnus watched with growing concern as his daemon counterpart recovered from the undignified assault. The corrupted version of himself straightened, his form crackling with new power. The spell that had kept him doubled over in agony began to unravel under the surge of chaotic energy.
"That ain't good," Magnus muttered, feeling the change in the warp currents around them. Where before the warp had been relatively controlled, now it roiled with unstable energies as Tzeentch's power began seeping through the Emperor's barriers.
His daemon self rose to full height, eye blazing with renewed malevolence and fresh power. The air around him twisted with impossible geometries, reality bending in ways that shouldn't be possible in real space. Magnus prepared himself, knowing that their duel was about to become significantly more challenging.
Meanwhile, Franklin found himself adapting to the sudden escalation in his own three-way battle. Fulgrim's already impressive speed took on a new dimension as Slaanesh's power flowed more freely. The Daemon Primarch's blades became nearly invisible streaks of motion.
One strike came dangerously close to penetrating Franklin's defense. Only centuries of muscle memory and combat instinct allowed him to deflect the blade at the last possible moment. The near-miss was telling – the rules of engagement were changing.
"Getting a little boost from your sugar mommy, brother?" Franklin taunted, even as he kicked Fulgrim away with precise force. The daemon primarch's serpentine form twisted impossibly as he recovered, already preparing for another assault.
Banking right, Franklin barely avoided Angron's berserk charge. The Red Angel's movements had become even more ferocious, if that were possible. Khorne's power made his already formidable strength truly terrifying.
Franklin found himself locked in combat with Mortarion once again, Anaris in its halberd form caught in the Death Lord's grip. Despite the pain Franklin knew his opponent was feeling from gripping the molten hot handle of Anaris, Mortarion maintained his hold, Nurgle's fresh power allowing him to push through the agony.
With characteristic adaptability, Franklin produced another bottle of chlorine, hurling it directly into Mortarion's face. The Death Lord's arm twitched involuntarily at the chemical assault, creating the opening Franklin needed. In a fluid motion, he transformed Anaris back into a sword, the metamorphosis slicing through Mortarion's gauntlet and the corrupted flesh beneath.
Using the momentum of Mortarion's reflexive recoil, Franklin once again employed his favorite tactic – using one brother as a weapon against another. The Death Lord crashed into the charging Angron, though both recovered more quickly than before.
"Well," Franklin observed, his divine flames burning brighter in response to the increasing chaotic energy, "looks like dear old dad is having trouble keeping your gods on a leash." He could feel the change in the very air around them – the Chaos Gods were managing to slip more of their power past the Emperor's containment.
The sky above Vigilarus darkened once more, though differently than before. Where previously it had been touched by Magnus's ritual, now it roiled with the competing influences of five vastly powerful entities testing the bounds of their imprisonment.
Franklin knew what this meant – the battle was escalating and nearing it's end. The Emperor could only hold back so much of the Chaos Gods' power while they focused it so intensely on this single point in space and time. Their dedication to eliminating him had created a crack in reality's defenses.
"Coming at me with everything you've got?" Franklin called out to his corrupted brothers as they regrouped for another assault. "I'm flattered! Though you might want to consider anger management classes. This much attention can't be healthy for any of us."
The divine flames surrounding his avian skull-helm blazed brighter, and his steel wings spread wide, their edges gleaming with defiant light. As his opponents prepared their next assault, empowered by their dark patrons' direct intervention, Franklin's laughter echoed across the battlefield.
"Let's see what you can do with your training wheels off," he challenged, Anaris blazing in his grip. "Though I should warn you – I've got some experience dealing with gods who don't know their place."
Franklin's gaze flicked upward for the briefest of moments, as if calculating something his brothers couldn't yet fathom.
The battle had intensified with each passing moment as the Chaos Gods channeled more power through their champions. Franklin Valorian found himself engaged in an increasingly complex three-way duel of death with his corrupted brothers, his divine wings flashing like steel lightning as they caught and parried weapons from multiple angles.
The combat drifted from the larger battlefield, pulling them to a desolate mountain range where jagged peaks scraped against the storm-wracked sky. Franklin landed atop the highest summit with a deliberate, almost casual grace, the embers of his divine aura glowing faintly in the gloom. His corrupted brothers followed, landing in a semicircle, their dark forms emanating malice as the Chaos Gods channeled raw power into their champions.
Fulgrim was the first to speak, his serpentine coils tightening as he sneered, the mockery in his voice dripping with venom. "Have you finally realized your folly, brother? Seeking refuge on a mountaintop? Perhaps you're ready to kneel and accept the gifts of the true gods."
Franklin tilted his avian skull-helm slightly, flames flickering in its hollow eyes. His voice was light, almost conversational, though the sharp edge of derision was unmistakable. "Kneel?" He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Fulgrim, of all people, I'd expect you to bring that up. I mean, you would know a thing or two about kneeling, wouldn't you?"
The jab hung in the air like a blade, and even the storm around them seemed to pause. Fulgrim's perfect features contorted into a mask of rage, his pride stung by the double-edged mockery. Before he could hiss a retort, Franklin's smirk was audible in his next words.
"Relax, brother. I just thought you deserved a moment to catch your breath." His voice grew colder, a flicker of deadly intent in his tone. "After all, it's going to get much worse for you."
"You're bluffing," Mortarion's voice rasped through his corroded vox-grille. "We know who you are, Franklin Valorian, the 11th Primarch, the Liberator. The Gods have shown us your measure. This is you at full power, Warp God that you are."
Franklin's chuckle carried an edge of knowing anticipation. "Oh, did they? Did they tell you everything about my capabilities? My mastery of the arcane? My arsenal?"
"Yes," Mortarion stated with absolute certainty.
Franklin let out a low chuckle, his stance shifting ever so slightly, the flames around him intensifying. "The Gods told you everything, huh? My strengths, my powers, my weapons?" He nodded, as if considering their words. "And yet, they left out one thing. Funny how they always miss the most important details."
Angron snarled, his brass armor creaking as he shifted his grip on his chain-axe. "Enough of your riddles! Fight or die, coward!"
Franklin ignored him, addressing all three. "Tell me, brothers, what's humanity's greatest strength? What's the one thing that's allowed them to endure in a galaxy full of nightmares?"
"Is this the rambling of a dying man?" Fulgrim sneered, his twisted features marred with cuts, wrinkled in contempt.
"Come on, humor me," Franklin insisted, his tone light but his stance shifting subtly.
Fulgrim rolled his eyes, his voice thick with mockery. "Perfection, obviously. We embody that."
Mortarion's ruined visage twisted into a grimace. "No. Endurance. The capacity to suffer and persist."
Franklin laughed outright this time, shaking his head. "Wrong on both counts. It's neither perfection nor endurance. It's something much simpler... something primal." He spread his wings wide, the storm around him suddenly quieting, as if the very air waited for his answer.
"It's the ability to throw a rock."
Before they could react, Franklin raised his hand and pointed skyward. His brothers instinctively followed his gesture, their eyes narrowing as the heavens themselves seemed to tremble. A single point of light pierced through the crimson clouds, growing brighter with each passing second. At first, it seemed distant, a star perhaps, or some celestial phenomenon. Then it began to grow… and grow.
Mortarion's voice betrayed unease. "What trickery is this?"
Fulgrim snarled, his pride turning to suspicion. "You think a falling star will stop us?"
Franklin's grin widened beneath his helm. "Falling star? No, no. This… is an asteroid I pulled from Orbit"
The realization struck Mortarion first, his tactical mind racing. "You're mad! You're in the impact zone!"
Franklin's wings flared with a brilliance that lit up the mountainside. "Am I? Or am I just a little faster than you think?"
Before they could react, Franklin's blade, Anaris, blazed with divine fire. A single, calculated strike unleashed a wave of energy that engulfed his brothers in searing hot flame, halting their movements for the crucial seconds he needed. As the fire burned away their corrupted armor and flesh, Franklin launched himself skyward, effortlessly clearing the blast radius.
The mountain vanished in a blinding inferno, replaced by a glowing crater that stretched for miles. The shockwave tore through the heavens, scattering the crimson clouds like ash in a gale.
From the start of their duel, Franklin had subtly guided the battlefield to this desolate range, the perfect place to unleash a little planetary annihilation.
The battle was far from over – daemon primarchs were notoriously difficult to destroy – but Franklin had made his point. Sometimes the oldest solutions were still the best ones, even in an age of gods and demons.
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GOT IT