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88.3% The Primarch of Liberty / Chapter 150: Going out with a Bang! Literally

Chapter 150: Going out with a Bang! Literally

The impact crater stretched before Franklin Valorian, a molten scar on Vigilarus that burned with the fury of a god's will made manifest. Steam hissed from molten rock, veiling the battlefield in a hellish shroud, while flames flickered around the Liberator like spectral sentinels. His avian skull-helm gleamed in the unholy glow, an unyielding silhouette against the chaos of his creation.

Yet, from within the crater's molten depths, movement stirred.

A fissure tore through the meteorite's surface, splitting it with a thunderous crack that reverberated across the desolation. From the depths of fire and stone emerged three figures—broken, enraged, and reforged.

Mortarion rose first, his bloated form an affront to reason, the very air around him wilting under the weight of necrotic fumes. His tattered cloak of pestilence whipped in the caustic winds, leaving streaks of decay carved into the ground.

Angron followed, a towering maelstrom of rage and sinew, his warped frame thrumming with the frenetic energy of the Butcher's Nails. His war cries echoed like thunderclaps, shaking the earth as warp-fire coursed through veins that no longer seemed bound by mortality.

Last came Fulgrim, coiling from the depths like a serpent reborn. His serpentine body slithered with impossible grace, even as the burns and cuts marring his perfect visage betrayed his fury. A cruel smile split his lips as his gaze swept over the devastation.

Fulgrim's voice cut through the toxic air, honeyed with disdain. "Is that it, brother?" he sneered, his words thick with derision. "A single meteorite? This is the best you can muster against the chosen of the Gods?"

Franklin tilted his head, the skull-helm casting a sinister shadow over the molten ridge. He let the silence linger, savoring the anticipation like a predator toying with its prey. Then came the chuckle—low, deliberate, and laced with menace.

"Fulgrim," Franklin murmured, his voice steady. "Tell me... what are you going to do about the second one?"

Fulgrim's mocking smile faltered. "The second—"

"SHUT UP, FOOL!" Mortarion bellowed, his voice tinged with urgency and rage as he yanked Fulgrim aside. "DO YOU WANT HIM TO GET ANY MORE IDEAS?"

Franklin stood unmoving, his arms folded as he watched his fallen brothers scramble through the molten terrain, the ground beneath them shifting and sliding like quicksand. Despite their daemonic power, their retreat was ungraceful, almost pitiful against the scale of the weapon descending upon them.

"You know," Franklin called out, his voice carrying effortlessly over the cacophony, "there's an old saying about humanity's greatest strength." His skull-helm gleamed, the flickering firelight casting him as both judge and executioner. "We've always been really good at throwing rocks."

The daemonic primarchs' roars of fury and panic were drowned out as the second meteorite filled the sky, its descent transforming the heavens into a wall of fire. The air itself screamed as the behemoth tore through it, its sheer mass promising to rewrite the landscape upon impact.

"And if it's worth hitting once," Franklin continued, a smirk audible in his voice, "it's worth hitting twice."

The final approach silenced all else. The battlefield seemed to hold its breath as the weapon neared the kill zone, its radiant mass reflecting the unstoppable resolve of humanity. Franklin remained where he stood, a lone sentinel witnessing the vengeance of a species unbowed by gods or daemons.

As the sky shattered and the earth convulsed, Franklin's voice carried one last, quiet observation to his scrambling brothers:

"Bigger rocks... always work better."

In the heartbeat before the second meteor's impact, as the world seemed to hold its breath, Franklin made a choice that would transcend tactical brilliance. He was not driven by strategy or necessity, but by something purer—a yearning for mercy amidst the chaos. With a burst of celestial flame, his divine wings carved searing trails through the ash-choked air, carrying him toward a brother lost to rage and despair.

Angron stood alone in the heart of the devastation, his massive form silhouetted against the boiling sky. Unlike Fulgrim and Mortarion, who scrambled to escape the second meteor's wrath, the Red Angel did not flee. The Butcher's Nails, those cruel implants that had shattered his soul, screamed their endless song of bloodlust, driving him forward even as doom approached from the heavens.

Franklin knew if Angron dies from this Meteor he will return to the Warp, forever enslaved to the Blood God.

Franklin's talons, wrought from divine metal, struck with unerring precision. He seized Angron, his momentum carrying them both across the ruined landscape, away from the kill zone. They crashed through molten rock and twisted wreckage, the impact shattering stone and sending tremors through the ground.

Angron recovered first, rising on instinct and fury, his daemonic arm wielding a howling chain-axe that demanded blood. The Butcher's Nails drove him forward, their eternal cry blotting out reason. The weapon met Anaris in a clash of flame and fury, the divine blade sparking against the unnatural metal of the axe.

Franklin parried, his movements precise, deliberate. Each blow was met and countered with the care of a brother trying not to kill but to save. "I know you, brother," Franklin said, his voice steady despite the chaos. "I know what they did to you. I know what you've endured."

Angron's only answer was a roar, raw and guttural, a sound of ancient pain and fury. He swung again, and Franklin sidestepped, Anaris flashing in a clean arc that severed Angron's leg at the knee. The Red Angel collapsed, his body crumpling under its own weight, forced to kneel as he once had in the bloody pits of Nuceria.

"In another time, I couldn't save you," Franklin said, his voice soft, his blade lowered. "None of us could"

Angron lunged, his head a weapon now, driven by the Nails' relentless demand for violence. Franklin caught his brother's skull in an iron grip, his fingers finding the cruel archaeotech embedded in flesh and bone. With a cry of defiance, Franklin pulled.

The Butcher's Nails came free with a sound that was more than mechanical—a keening wail, as if the universe itself mourned what they had done. For the first time in centuries, Angron's mind was his own. The endless scream fell silent, leaving only the echoes of his ragged breathing and the distant roar of approaching destruction.

For the first time in millennia, silence fell over Angron's mind. He gasped, his body shuddering as if the weight of eternity had finally lifted. His blazing, bloodshot eyes met Franklin's. Clarity returned, fragile but undeniable, and in that moment, Angron was no longer a daemon, no longer a monster. He was a brother—a broken man, a victim, asking for an end.

"Please…" Angron whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling, his eyes filled with a painful uncertainty. "End this… end me."

Angron did not know if Franklin could truly end his suffering. He did not know if any warrior, even one as mighty as his brother, could grant him the release he so desperately sought. But, for the first time in ages, Angron asked for it. His voice quivered with that raw, ancient pain—the tortured hope that perhaps, in this moment of clarity, his suffering could cease.

Franklin nodded, the gesture containing all the solemnity of an executioner who understood the weight of mercy. Anaris rose, its divine flame burning brighter as if recognizing the importance of this moment. The blade that had tasted the flesh of gods and demons would now serve as an instrument of liberation.

The strike was perfect – a single, clean cut that separated head from shoulders. There was no resistance, a last-minute surge of power but Anaris sliced cleanly regardless.

Angron's massive form collapsed, but unlike previous deaths, there was no sense of impermanence. The power of the God of War and Murder ensured true death, final rest for a warrior who had known only war. As his brother's essence departed not to the Warp but to true oblivion, Franklin spoke words that were both eulogy and promise:

"Rest now, brother. The Nails are silent. The battles are done. You die free."

The body of the Red Angel began to dissolve, not into warp energy returning to its dark gods, but into motes of light that drifted skyward like embers from a dying fire. Each spark seemed to carry with it a fragment of the rage and pain that had defined Angron's existence, until nothing remained but a sense of peace that felt alien in this place of violence.

This moment, this death, had been about more than tactical advantage or strategic victory. It had been about brotherhood, about mercy, about ending a cycle of pain that had persisted since the dark days of Unity. The Red Angel, the gladiator-king of Nuceria, the unwilling servant of the Blood God, had finally found his freedom in oblivion.

"One liberated," he murmured, his voice carrying the burden of uncountable struggles, "an infinity left to free." His thoughts briefly drifted to a kinder moment, his timeline, this timeline where he had salvaged Angron's soul from the agony of the Butcher's Nails and the unrelenting path of slaughter.

But such reflections had no place here. The storm of war raged on, announcing itself with four luminous streaks tearing across the heavens. Wielding weapons imbued with the dark blessings of their infernal patrons, the daemon Primarchs surged toward Franklin with murderous intent.

Franklin moved, his form an embodiment of tactical perfection. A sidestep turned Fulgrim's deadly strike into a misguided lunge. Anaris answered in turn, its blade arcing with feral precision carving another scar on Fulgrim's scarred visage.

Fulgrim's bellow of pain was a chorus of rage and agony, amplified by the maddened whispers of Slaanesh. His serpentine body coiled and slashed with vicious intent, each strike powered by the unrelenting currents of the Warp. Their battle was a clash of light and darkness, each movement fast enough to reduce the air between them to incandescent plasma. Even the legendary Custodians, whose reactions were sharper than any mortal's, could barely glimpse the combat as afterimages of raw power and violence.

The Chaos Gods, ever-watchful, poured their essence into their champions. Fulgrim's strikes took on an unnatural fluidity, his four blades moving with a rhythm that defied logic. Mortarion advanced next, his corroded armor exuding pestilence that warped reality itself. The duo no longer fought as individuals but as a singular, malevolent force. Every feint, every strike, was orchestrated with ruthless synergy.

Franklin's voice cut through the cacophony, edged with amusement. "So, you're finally learning teamwork?" His metallic wings shimmered as he parried a barrage of strikes with supernatural precision. Anaris danced between Fulgrim's blades, while Franklin's wings deflected Mortarion's rusted scythe.

Seizing an opening, Franklin lunged. Anaris sang as it sought Fulgrim's throat, blazing with the fury of Khaine. For a heartbeat, Fulgrim's mask of arrogance cracked, replaced by raw fear. But Mortarion intervened, his ancient scythe hooking Franklin's armor with a predatory grace, dragging him closer to the virulent embrace of decay.

Franklin twisted, leveraging the moment. Anaris clashed against the scythe, locking them in a brutal stalemate. Mortarion's strength, enhanced by Nurgle's gifts, pressed down with crushing inevitability. Yet Franklin's free hand moved with unerring purpose, drawing his sidearm, The Last Word.

The Revolver barked once—a simple, uncompromising sound amid the chaos. Its blessed round, found its mark. Mortarion's head exploded in a grotesque spray of corrupted ichor, fractured ceramite, and fragmented bone.

The Death Lord recoiled, his remaining eye blazing with shock. Pain was meaningless to him, but the audacity of the attack cut deeper than the wound itself. His withered fingers clawed at the remnants of his jaw as warp-tainted flesh began knitting itself back together.

Franklin's helm tilted, and though his face was obscured, the smirk in his tone was unmistakable. "Surprised? Sometimes all you need is a good sidearm."

The absurdity of it hung in the air: demigods battling with powers capable of annihilating entire star systems, yet Franklin had landed a decisive blow with a sidearm—a weapon of humanity's ingenuity and pragmatism.

Fulgrim capitalized on the momentary lull, his four blades weaving intricate patterns of death. Mortarion's regeneration accelerated, driven by Nurgle's foul energies. Franklin, undeterred, stepped back into the fray.

The ground beneath Franklin's feet bore testament to the ferocity of their clash, cratered and scarred by weapons that could end worlds. His divine form, though battered, remained unbowed as Fulgrim's mocking laughter echoed across the ruined landscape.

"This is all you are, Franklin Valorian!" The Daemon Primarch's voice dripped with corrupt confidence, his serpentine form coiling through reality itself. "Your legendary will may shield you from corruption, but what of your mortal vessel? We will destroy it, offer your soul to the Dark Gods, and then we shall see where your incorruptibility leads!"

Fulgrim's perfect features twisted in triumph. "So what if you can pull asteroids from the sky? We survived, and then what?"

Franklin's laughter started low, a rumbling that seemed to emanate from the planet's core itself, before building into a manic cackling that caused even the daemon primarchs to pause. "Alright, Fulgrim," he said, his skull-helm tilting with predatory intent. "I grow tired of trying to kill you with mere skill and swordsmanship. I didn't want to look try-hard and sweaty but, seeing as how resilient you Chaos bitches are..." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Let me show you the chasm between us."

With deliberate ceremony, Franklin planted Anaris into the ground before him. The sword's divine flame pulsed in anticipation as he raised his hands toward the heavens. Reality shuddered, and then... broke.

Mortarion, ever the tactician, spat a curse at Fulgrim. "Silence, fool! He was formidable enough before you goaded him into this display!" The Death Lord's words were punctuated by the need to dodge or cleave through the artillery of earth being hurled their way.

Franklin's power reached skyward, grasping something from the void above. "Fulgrim, you mentioned something about surviving meteors?" His skull-helm seemed to glow with inner mirth. "How about five?"

The heavens split asunder as five burning harbingers of destruction punched through the atmosphere. Though smaller than their predecessors, they screamed toward the surface with terrible purpose, their velocity unchanged. With casual poise, Franklin wove Aeldari runes into the air – ancient symbols of power that would maintain this bombardment automatically. "I think I'll call it Starscourge," he mused. "Because it sounds cool."

The Sky began to rain meteorites.

Gripping Anaris once more, Franklin channeled his psychic might through the earth itself. Pillars of magma erupted around the daemon primarchs, turning their battlefield into an apocalyptic hellscape. The rain of asteroids continued their relentless assault as Franklin took to the air, his voice building with terrible purpose as he began to chant:

"Hear me now, wretched foes of humanity and champions of false divinity!"

Anaris responded to his words, its crystalline blade blazing with psychic energy until it glowed white-hot, reality itself bending around its edge.

"I am Franklin Valorian, the Hand of Khaine, the Liberator, the Lord of the 11th!"

The air grew thick with power, each word carrying the weight of divine authority.

"By the flames of liberty, I unbind the seals of Anaris—the blade of gods, the harbinger of annihilation!"

The sword's glow intensified, burning away shadows and truth alike.

"Behold my Patron, Khaela Mensha Khaine, the Bloody-Handed One, the Manifestation of Murder, War, and Destruction, Sunderer of the C'tan!"

Reality trembled as ancient names of power were invoked.

"By his wrath and my will, I cast thee into eternal oblivion!"

The very fabric of space-time began to warp around Anaris's blade.

"Know this truth, and despair: There will be no salvation. There will be no mercy. Against the fires of humanity's unshackled might, your twisted faith and stolen power shall be as ash."

Power beyond mortal comprehension gathered around Franklin's form, his divine aspect blazing with the fury of a dying sun.

"In Khaine's name die and be silent! Enal'ii'Nerash!"

(From the Heavens to the Void)

The universe held its breath for one eternal moment. Then Franklin released everything – all his power, all his divine might, channeled through Anaris in a single, world-ending strike. His warp-god form faded, the energy required for such an attack depleting even his tremendous reserves.

A beam of pure annihilation – not light, not fire, but something more fundamental – erupted from Anaris's point. It struck the surface of Vigilarus with the force of a thousand suns, boring through reality itself. The beam punched through the planet's core and emerged from the other side, a spear of judgment that pieced the world itself.

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

Magnus the Red is locked in combat with a twisted reflection of his own potential. The air crackled with psychic energy, reality fracturing around the two masters of the immaterium as they waged war on levels both physical and metaphysical.

Then came the chanting.

Magnus's singular eye widened as Franklin's words reached across the battlefield, each syllable carrying undertones of power that made the very fabric of space-time shudder in anticipation. Even as he parried a strike from his daemonic counterpart, his vast intellect processed the implications of what was about to unfold.

The sword in Franklin's grasp blazed with an intensity that threatened to burn holes in reality itself, white-hot energy condensing around its edge in defiance of natural law. In that moment, Magnus's prodigious knowledge of the arcane triggered warnings in his mind that screamed of imminent catastrophe.

With characteristic swiftness of thought and action, Magnus executed a complex series of psychic bindings. His corrupted self recognized the danger too late, desperately attempting to break free of the mortal realm before Franklin's attack could manifest. But Magnus had anticipated this, his bindings redirecting his daemon-self's every attempt at escape back into the planet's material framework.

"Simple," Magnus observed with scholarly satisfaction, "but quite unbreakable."

Before his corrupted reflection could mount another escape attempt, Magnus had already initiated his teleportation, reality bending around him as he translated himself to the Valley where the Emperor had established his command presence.

The scene that greeted him was surprisingly sparse. Where armies had clashed mere moments before, now only Constantine Valdor remained, his auramite armor reflecting the distant fires of battle like captured starlight.

"Where is everyone?" Magnus inquired, his tone carrying the casual curiosity of one god-being addressing another.

Valdor's response was characteristically precise: "Back to the ship. The battle is over."

"The Liberty Eagles? The Thousand Sons?"

"Back to the ship."

Magnus's brow furrowed slightly, his vast intellect processing the timing of events. "When did the battle end?"

"Just A Minute ago," Valdor replied with the exactitude expected of the Emperor's First Companion. "The Emperor voxed the retreat, having anticipated Lord Franklin's..." he paused, searching for the appropriate term, "...antics."

A knowing smile crossed Magnus's features. "I see. We should observe from orbit then."

The teleportation to the Sweet Liberty's observation deck was instantaneous, reality bending once more to accommodate the translation of beings whose very existence strained the boundaries of physical law.

From the grand viewports of Franklin's flagship, Magnus watched as his brother's attack manifested. A pillar of light and flame, more akin to the death of stars than any mortal weapon, bored through the planet Vigilarus. The display was simultaneously magnificent and excessive, a perfect encapsulation of Franklin's approach to warfare.

Magnus allowed himself a moment of scholarly critique as he observed the phenomenon. "I could achieve the same level of planetary devastation much more efficiently," he mused, his tone carrying the weight of academic discussion rather than criticism. "A simple folding of space-time around the planet's core would accomplish the task with far less..." he gestured at the continuing lightshow, "...spectacle."

Yet there was appreciation in his voice as he watched the beam continue its work. Franklin's method might lack the elegant efficiency of Magnus's own approach to planet-killing, but it certainly made a statement. In its own way, it was perfectly in character for his brother – overwhelming force combined with theatrical presentation.

"Though I must admit," Magnus added, his eye reflecting the continuing devastation below, "there is something to be said for his approach. Sometimes the message is as important as the method."

The beam continued its work, boring through Vigilarus with implacable purpose, while in orbit, one of the most powerful psykers in existence watched with the detached interest of a scholar observing an interesting but somewhat unorthodox experiment.

Such was the nature of relationship amongst the strongest Primarchs, where planet-killing attacks could be discussed with the same casualness others might reserve for discussing the weather, and brothers could critique each other's methods of mass destruction as if reviewing academic papers.

Franklin was teleported in by Sweet Liberty now he find himself taking a knee on the Teleportarium.

The vast viewscreens of the 10,000-kilometer vessel displayed the aftermath of his handiwork – a planet with a perfect hole burned through its core, still glowing with divine fire. Vigilarus would never be the same, its very existence now a testament to what happened when the Eleventh Primarch truly unleashed his might.

But in Franklin's mind, a presence made itself known – ancient, terrible, and currently somewhat exasperated. Khaine's consciousness pressed against his thoughts, the War God's essence manifesting as a burning corona of judgment and barely contained amusement.

"I find it interesting," the god's voice resonated through Franklin's consciousness, each word carrying echoes of ancient battles and sundered worlds, "that you would use a chunk of my divinity to blast two Daemon Primarchs to oblivion along with the planet."

The mental projection of the god crossed its arms, somehow managing to convey divine disapproval while maintaining an air of grudging appreciation. "This was unnecessary," Khaine continued, "but it is also so quintessentially you."

Franklin's chuckle echoed across the room, drawing curious glances from the mortal crew who could not hear the divine conversation taking place. "It's about sending a message, remember?" His voice carried both exhaustion and satisfaction, like a performer who had just completed their masterpiece.

Khaine's response carried the weight of millennia of divine experience. "Sending a message, along with rendering your Warp God form unusable for this month." The ancient deity's mental projection shook its head, flames dancing around its form. "Sometimes I wonder why my chosen champion has such an... explosive interpretation of warfare."

"Oh come on," Franklin protested, finally managing to rise to his feet. His armor, still bearing the scars of battle, creaked with the movement. "You have to admit it was impressive. Did you see Fulgrim's face when I started pulling asteroids out of orbit? Classic!"

"I am the God of War and Murder," Khaine reminded him, though there was an undercurrent of amusement in the divine voice. "My chosen champion should perhaps consider subtlety occasionally. There are other ways to win battles besides punching holes through planets."

"Says the god who literally shattered a C'tan," Franklin countered, making his way to the command throne proper. "Besides, subtlety is overrated. When you're fighting Daemon Primarchs hopped up on Chaos steroids, sometimes you need to remind them that they are not the only ones with a God.

"By destroying perfectly good planets?"

"By showing them that we can hit harder than they can ever imagine." Franklin's voice took on a more serious tone. "They think they're so special with their patron gods and their warp powers."

"Oh?" Khaine's mental presence radiated curiosity. "And what would you say humanity's greatest weapon is besides throwing rocks? and hitting things harder?"

"Escalation." Franklin grinned beneath his helm. "We're the species that looked at a rock and thought 'this would work better if I threw it.' Then we invented the sling, the catapult, the cannon, and finally figured out how to drop rocks from orbit. We don't just adapt – we take whatever works and make it work better, just to impose more casualties on the otherside"

The War God was silent for a moment, considering. "And this justified using my power to create a planet-piercing beam of annihilation?"

"Would you have preferred I used interpretive dance to defeat them?"

A sound like clashing armies filled Franklin's mind – Khaine's version of a laugh. "You are impossible, Primarch. Though I suppose there is a certain... elegance to your methods. Crude, overwhelming, but effective."

"High praise from the God of Murder himself," Franklin quipped, finally settling into the command throne. "Though I notice you're not actually saying I was wrong."

"You pierced a planet to kill two enemies," Khaine observed dryly.

"Two Daemon Primarchs," Franklin corrected. "And technically, I pierced the planet after pulling multiple asteroids from orbit and creating an automatic asteroid-throwing system that I named 'Starscourge' because it sounded cool."

"Ah yes, how could I forget the asteroid rain? Truly, the pinnacle of martial sophistication."

"Says the god who literally has 'Bloody-Handed' as part of his title."

The mental projection of Khaine seemed to sigh, though the flames around its form danced with something approaching pride. "You are fortunate, Franklin not many could kill you in this galaxy. Though perhaps next time..."

"If you're about to suggest a more subtle approach, may I remind you of that time you fought Slaanesh?"

"Point taken," the god conceded. "Though you will be spending the next month without access to your Warp God form. I trust you can manage to avoid any more planet-destroying exhibitions during that time?"

Franklin's helmet tilted thoughtfully. "Well, that depends. Does dropping a moon on something count as planet-destroying?"

The sensation of divine exasperation flooded Franklin's mind. "Sometimes I wonder if I chose my champion wisely."

"Too late to change your mind now," Franklin said cheerfully. "Besides, admit it – you enjoy the spectacle as much as I do."

"I am an ancient god of war and destruction," Khaine replied with all the dignity he could muster. "I do not 'enjoy spectacle.'"

"Says the god who literally manifests as a giant statue of burning metal before battle."

There was a pause, and then something like resigned amusement colored Khaine's mental voice. "Rest, champion. You have earned it, even if your methods give me pause. But remember – a few months without your divine form. Try not to start any wars that require piercing planets during that time."

"No promises," Franklin replied, settling back in his throne. "But I'll try to keep the collateral damage to a minimum. Maybe just a continent or two?"

The War God's presence began to fade, but not before Franklin caught a final thought: "Why couldn't I have chosen a champion who appreciated the subtle art of regular battlefield murder?"

Franklin's laughter echoed through the bridge of the Sweet Liberty, leaving his mortal crew to wonder what cosmic joke their Primarch found so amusing. Above them, the screens continued to display Vigilarus who was slowly becoming debris, its new hole still glowing with divine fire – a testament to what happened when subtlety was discarded in favor of pure, overwhelming force.


Chapter 151: Vacation and a New Primarch

The golden halls of the Imperial Palace stretched endlessly, their magnificent architecture a testament to humanity's renewed glory. Within one of its more private chambers, two figures stood before a massive hololithic display showing the expanse of the growing Imperium. The Emperor, his radiant form barely contained by mortal perception, studied the countless points of light representing conquered worlds. Beside him, Malcador the Sigillite leaned on his staff, his aged features illuminated by the cosmic cartography before them.

"Five hundred thousand worlds, my friend," Malcador began, his voice carrying the weight of both triumph and concern. "The Great Crusade proceeds at a pace even we didn't anticipate. The Independence Sector alone has integrated fifty thousand worlds into their administration."

The Emperor's face showed a hint of pride at the mention of Franklin's realm. "Franklin has proven quite efficient at expansion and integration. Though I suspect having future knowledge helps somewhat with avoiding potential pitfalls."

Malcador chuckled. "Indeed. Speaking of efficiency, my lord, we need to discuss the Administratum. They're drowning in parchment and ink, trying to manage this vast empire with quill and scroll. It's becoming problematic."

"How so?" The Emperor turned his gaze to his oldest friend, though His mind never truly stopped restructuring the Impossible city through the Reality Engine.

"The current system simply cannot scale," Malcador explained, waving his hand through the hologram to highlight several sectors. "We're seeing increasing delays in resource allocation, miscommunications between sectors, and data loss. Franklin's been complaining – quite colorfully, I might add – about the Administratum constantly misplacing or misrecording the Independence Sector's production numbers, and I quote He's complained, and I quote, 'These idiots keep confusing billions with millions.'"

"Franklin has never been one for bureaucratic inefficiency," the Emperor mused, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "What solutions do you propose?"

Malcador straightened, his eyes gleaming with purpose. "We should consider implementing what Franklin has been advocating: Base Artificial Intelligence systems for data management. Before you raise your concerns," he added quickly, seeing the Emperor's expression shift, "I'm not suggesting anything close to the Men of Iron. These would be simple calculating machines, no more capable of rebellion than a well-designed abacus."

The Emperor's brow furrowed. "Elaborate."

"During the Humanity's Golden Age, we had programs – Gigahard Excel and its ilk – that could process terabytes of data in milliseconds. Simple, predictable machines with no consciousness, no ability to evolve beyond their programming. Just very, very fast calculators. and Data Banks" Malcador gestured to a small device on a nearby table, about the size of his palm. "Franklin's provided examples from his sector. They've been using them for years without incident."

"And you believe these would solve our administrative problems?"

"They would certainly help. The Administratum is buckling under the weight of managing half a million worlds. With these devices, we could process supply requisitions, population censuses, and resource distributions in a fraction of the time, with far fewer errors."

The Emperor moved to examine the device Malcador had indicated. "What of the Mechanicum? They hold strong views about such technology."

A knowing smile crossed Malcador's face. "That's where Belisarius comes in. As the soon-to-be Fabricator-General, he's shown remarkable... flexibility in his interpretation of the Machine Cult's doctrine. If we provide Mars with the STCs for these calculators, it would help secure their cooperation in other matters."

"Cawl," the Emperor mused. "Yes, his appointment will bring significant changes to Mars. You believe he would support this initiative?"

"He's already expressed interest in the examples from the Independence Sector. More importantly, he understands the practical necessity. The Imperium cannot function efficiently if we're relying on manual calculation and physical documentation for everything."

The Emperor was silent for a moment, His mind weighing countless possibilities. "These devices – you're certain they cannot develop beyond their programming? The risks of artificial intelligence—"

"Are well known to us both," Malcador interjected gently. "These are not thinking machines, my lord. They're tools, no more capable of rebellion than a sword or a bolter. Their programming is fixed, their functions limited to mathematical calculations and data organization."

"Show me," the Emperor commanded.

Malcador activated the palm-sized device, and a holographic display sprang to life between them. "Observe. This unit contains production data from three sectors over the past five years. Watch how quickly it can sort, analyze, and present the information."

The display flickered as the device processed millions of data points in seconds, organizing them into clear, comprehensible patterns. The Emperor watched intently as years of administrative work was completed in moments.

"Impressive," He acknowledged. "And this would free our human administrators to focus on actual governance rather than mere calculation."

"Exactly," Malcador nodded. "The Administratum would still make the decisions, but they'd have accurate, organized data to base those decisions on. No more lost records, no more misplaced decimal points, no more delays because someone spilled ink on crucial documents."

The Emperor's lips quirked in amusement. "I assume Franklin was quite vocal about those incidents?"

"Oh, the stories I could tell," Malcador chuckled. "Did you know he once sent an entire shipping container of rubber stamps to the Administratum's head office? Each one read 'PLEASE DOUBLE-CHECK YOUR MATH.'"

"That does sound like him," the Emperor shook his head, fondness evident in His voice. "Very well, old friend. Draft a proposal for implementing these calculation devices. Work with Cawl on the technical specifications and security measures. We'll begin with a trial run in several key sectors."

"And the Independence Sector's expansion?" Malcador inquired, returning to their earlier topic.

"Let them continue as they have been," the Emperor decided. "Franklin's methods may be unconventional, but they're effective. The knowledge his son brought from that other timeline... it's proving invaluable. The Webway Project alone is years ahead of schedule thanks to the information from the Black Library."

"Speaking of the Webway," Malcador's voice turned thoughtful, "the cooperation we're receiving from certain Aeldari factions is unprecedented. Franklin's connection to Khaine seems to have opened doors we never expected."

"The question remains," Malcador said carefully, "of how we handle the integration of such vast territories. Even with these calculation devices, governing five hundred thousand worlds – and growing – is no small task."

"We'll adapt," the Emperor stated firmly. "The Imperium must be flexible enough to grow, yet structured enough to endure. These administrative reforms you propose are a good start. Work with Franklin and Cawl on implementation, but keep a close eye on any potential risks."

"Of course, my lord. And what of the other Primarchs? Some may see the Independence Sector's autonomy and technological advancement as... preferential treatment."

The Emperor's expression hardened slightly. "They would do well to remember that Franklin's cooperation and contribution to the Imperium comes with certain necessities. The Independence Sector's production capabilities alone justify its special status. Let them focus on their own duties rather than coveting their brother's responsibilities."

"As you say," Malcador nodded, making a mental note to monitor any brewing tensions. "Shall I begin drafting the reforms immediately?"

"Yes. And Malcador?" The Emperor turned to face his oldest friend fully. "Thank you. Your counsel, as always, proves invaluable."

"That's what friends are for," the Sigillite replied with a slight smile, already planning his next meeting with Cawl. As he turned to leave, he couldn't help but reflect on how different things were from that other timeline Franklin had described. Perhaps, just perhaps, they were building something that would truly last this time.

The Emperor watched him go, His mind already processing countless possible futures. The introduction of these calculation devices would change the Imperium in ways both subtle and profound. But then, change was inevitable. The key was ensuring it served humanity's ascension rather than its downfall.

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

In the strategium of the Sweet Liberty, four of the Emperor's finest sons gathered around a massive hololithic table displaying the remnants of recently crushed Ork empires. The room's advanced technology painted their faces in an eerie green glow as they studied the tactical overlays.

Franklin Valorian cleared his throat dramatically. "So, my dear brothers, we find ourselves faced with an unusual phenomenon: Ork empires popping up like mushrooms after rain, led by surprisingly competent Mekboy Warbosses."

Magnus the Red adjusted his scholarly robes, his single eye gleaming with intellectual interest. "Indeed. Their technological advancement rate is... concerning. Though 'technological' might be giving their ramshackle contraptions too much credit."

"They work," Rogal Dorn stated with his characteristic bluntness. "That is sufficient for the greenskins."

Roboute Guilliman gestured to a particular cluster of defeated Ork strongholds. "The pattern is undeniable. These Mekboy Warbosses are displaying a level of strategic coordination that goes beyond typical Orkish behavior."

Franklin coughed awkwardly, knowing exactly why the Orks were "evolving" but choosing to keep that particular tidbit of future knowledge to himself. "Yeah, funny how that works..."

Magnus raised an eyebrow at Franklin's obvious deflection but continued, "I have a proposition. We could theoretically influence their development by selectively eliminating the more technologically inclined Warbosses. Guide their evolution, if you will."

"Explain." Dorn's voice echoed with interest.

"Well," Magnus gestured, creating a small psychic display, "if we prioritize the elimination of Mekboy Warbosses while allowing the more... shall we say, traditionally minded Warbosses to survive, we could potentially shift their species toward a preference for melee combat."

"You mean make them dumber," Franklin grinned.

"I prefer the term 'specialized in close-combat tactics,'" Magnus replied primly.

Guilliman's eyes lit up with understanding. "Brilliant. By controlling which strains survive, we guide their development toward a more manageable threat. Less shooting, more chopping."

"choppas are easier to wall against than shootas," Dorn nodded approvingly. "i support this plan."

"Great!" Franklin clapped his hands together. "Let's get this to Father. Here's the data-slate with all the details..." He pushed it toward his brothers.

The other three Primarchs stared at him.

"What?"

"You take it," they said in unison.

Franklin blinked. "Why me?"

"you are father's problem solver," Dorn stated matter-of-factly.

"His 'little fixer,'" Guilliman added with a slight smirk.

"His Favorite Bureaucrat besides Malcador ," Magnus finished, his eye twinkling with amusement.

Franklin slumped in his chair. "I hate all of you."

"No, you don't," Magnus chuckled. "Besides, our Legion's handling of the Kaos Xenos situation we handled last month."

"Speaking of which," Dorn interjected, "i require more information about these 'kaos' xenos you encountered. their ability to bypass my fortifications is concerning."

Franklin and Magnus exchanged a quick glance.

"Yes, the... xenos," Franklin said carefully. "Nasty bunch. Very... alien."

"extremely alien," Magnus added, matching Franklin's tone. "nothing like anything we've seen before. certainly not related to any other known threats."

Guilliman was already scribbling notes. "Fascinating. Their tactical patterns suggest a level of strategic thinking that could pose significant challenges. We'll need to adjust our defensive protocols accordingly."

"i shall design new walls," Dorn declared. "these kaos xenos will not bypass my fortifications again."

Franklin struggled to keep a straight face. "That's... that's exactly what we need, brother. Strong walls. For the xenos. The very alien xenos."

"who are definitely not something else," Magnus added helpfully.

"Right!" Franklin stood quickly. "Well, this has been productive. I'll just take this data-slate to Father and—"

"Before you go," Guilliman interrupted, "while you're speaking with Father..."

Franklin sighed. "What do you need?"

"Additional trade routes would be beneficial," Guilliman began. "And perhaps some diplomatic considerations for Ultramar..."

"i require more construction materials," Dorn stated. "for the walls against the kaos xenos."

"And I was hoping," Magnus added innocently, "that Father might share more of his knowledge about the Empyrean's concepts."

Franklin looked at his brothers incredulously. "Are you seriously using me as a messenger boy?"

"you are the emperor's favorite," Dorn stated bluntly.

"His confidant," Guilliman added.

"His most trusted Primarch," Magnus smiled.

"I'm starting to think helping cure the Flesh Change was a mistake," Franklin muttered.

"Too late now, brother," Magnus grinned. "You're stuck with us."

"Fine," Franklin grabbed the data-slate. "But next time we need someone to explain to Father why an entire sector's worth of administratum clerks received rubber stamps that say 'learn to count,' one of you is doing it."

"that was you?" Dorn's eyes widened slightly.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Franklin said innocently, heading for the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go convince Father to approve an anti-Ork evolutionary program and increased funding for definitely-not-Chaos-related fortifications."

"Don't forget my trade routes!" Guilliman called after him.

"and my materials!"

"And the metaphysical knowledge!"

Franklin's voice echoed back: "I hate all of you!"

"no, you don't," Dorn called back.

"He really doesn't," Magnus chuckled.

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

The Imperial Palace's Grand Ceremonial Hall gleamed with a warmth that seemed to emanate from more than just its gold-laden walls. Natural light streamed through vast crystal windows, casting the assembled demigods in an almost ethereal glow. The Emperor, resplendent in formal regalia that somehow managed to be both understated and magnificent, stood at the center of the gathering. His presence, while still overwhelming to mortals, was carefully modulated to allow his sons to stand comfortably in his presence.

"A little to the left, Angron," Franklin called out, directing his brother with the expertise of someone who had organized far too many family photos. "Fulgrim, your hair is perfect, stop fidgeting. Leman, try to look noble for five seconds, please."

"I always look noble, ye meddlesome showman," Leman growled good-naturedly, though he did straighten his formal wolfskin cloak.

The Emperor's lips quirked in amusement as his sons arranged themselves. On his left stood Horus, The Primarch of the Luna Wolves in his formal white and gold attire, followed by Angron in a surprisingly well-fitted formal uniform of deep blue and Ashen white. The absence of the Butcher's Nails had transformed the once-rage-filled Primarch into a stern but composed warrior. Next to him, Fulgrim practically glowed in his purple and gold raiment, while Ferrus Manus managed to make even his formal wear look functional, the silvered hands of his arms contrasting sharply with the dark material of his clothing. Vulkan, massive even among his brothers, wore formal robes in deep green with gold flame patterns that seemed to dance in the light.

On the Emperor's right, Franklin stood proudly in his liberty-themed formal attire: a tailored navy-blue suit with crisp red gloves and polished red shoes. A star-spangled necktie added a bold flair, while a subtle eagle motif embroidered on the lapels completed the ensemble. Next to him, Leman continued his silent war with his collar, while Roboute maintained perfect posture in his Ultramarines blue formal attire. Dorn stood stoic in imperial yellow, and Magnus cut an impressive figure in his crimson robes, adorned with subtle scholarly symbols.

"Remember," Franklin announced, "we're going for 'unified Imperial family' here. Try to look like we're not constantly arguing about everything."

"We do not argue about everything," Dorn stated.

"We're arguing about arguing right now," Magnus pointed out.

"That is not correct. I am merely stating a fact."

The Emperor's psychic voice echoed in their minds, tinged with amusement. "My sons, please."

The remembrancer's servitors began their work, flash-bulbs illuminating the scene. Franklin, ever the director, called out adjustments. "Fulgrim, slightly left – perfect. Ferrus, try to look less like you're planning to punch the camera. Angron, excellent neutral expression, brother!"

Several flashes later, Franklin clapped his hands. "Excellent! That's our family portrait done, and some propaganda pics for the Imperium. Great job, everyone!"

The formal photography session concluded, the brothers began to disperse around the hall's adjacent garden terrace. Franklin, who had somehow produced an apron reading "Best BBQ Primarch" from somewhere, was already firing up an enormous grill that looked like it had been designed by the Independence Sector's finest engineers.

"I still can't believe Father approved this," Roboute said, approaching Franklin as the latter began laying out various cuts of meat.

Franklin chuckled, expertly seasoning what appeared to be a steak the size of a Rhino's armor plate. "We're ahead of schedule, brother. Five hundred thousand worlds and counting. Even the Master of Mankind understands the value of R&R. Besides," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "I think he enjoys seeing all of us together without someone starting a war."

Nearby, Fulgrim and Ferrus had fallen into their usual debate about aesthetics versus function. "But imagine if you just added some decorative elements to the servo-harness," Fulgrim was saying, gesturing enthusiastically. "Nothing excessive, just some subtle filigree..."

"The purpose of a servo-harness is utility, brother," Ferrus replied with the patience of someone who'd had this exact conversation a hundred times before. "It doesn't need to be 'pretty.'"

"Everything needs to be pretty!"

On the other side of the terrace, Vulkan and Angron were deep in discussion about legion traditions. "The brotherhood rituals of the War Hounds have great potential," Vulkan was saying warmly. "Perhaps we could arrange some joint exercises?"

"My sons could benefit from your perspective on warrior-craftsmen traditions," Angron nodded, in thoughtful consideration. "The discipline might help channel their aggression more productively."

Meanwhile, Leman and Magnus had somehow already managed to start their usual scholarly dispute.

"I'm merely saying," Magnus insisted, "that your Rune Priests are clearly utilizing warp energies—"

"They're using the power of Fenris itself, ye one-eyed scroll-counter!"

"That's literally impossible and you know it!"

Horus and Dorn observed their brothers' various discussions with matching expressions of resigned amusement.

"At least they're not actually fighting this time," Horus noted.

"The last time cost us three walls," Dorn remembered. "I had to rebuild them all."

Roboute approached, having changed into more comfortable attire. "Brother, about Father's approval of these... informal gatherings..."

Franklin chuckled, flipping what looked suspiciously like a Grox steak. "Relax, Roboute. We're ahead of schedule – 500,000 worlds found and integrated. A week-long vacation while our sons lead the Crusade? We've earned it."

"But the formality protocols—"

"Were written by people who never had to manage an empire of half a million worlds," Franklin interrupted, handing Roboute a plate. "Here, try this. Special marinade from Nova Libertas."

The Emperor watched His sons from a comfortable distance, a subtle smile playing at His lips. Custodians stood nearby.

Horus and Dorn watched this exchange with varying degrees of amusement while discussing fortification patterns for newly compliant worlds. The smell of cooking meat began to fill the air as Franklin worked his culinary magic on the grill.

The Emperor, having taken a seat that somehow managed to be both casual and regal, observed his sons with poorly concealed satisfaction. 

"Food's almost ready!" Franklin called out. "Leman, stop trying to steal pieces before they're done! Yes, I can see you sneaking over there. Magnus, stop encouraging him by psychically moving the tongs away!"

"I would never," Magnus said with exaggerated innocence, while definitely moving the tongs again.

"Fortify the GRILL," Dorn suggested seriously.

"Don't you dare," Franklin pointed his spatula at Dorn threateningly. "The last time you 'fortified' my grill, it took Cawl 3 weeks to figure out how to open it again."

Roboute, ever the organizer, had somehow produced a dataslate and was creating a schedule for serving order. "If we optimize the distribution pattern..."

"Put that away," Franklin snatched the dataslate. "This is a barbecue, not a military campaign. Though if it were," he added with a grin, "I'd still be in charge. Best BBQ Primarch, remember?"

"The apron proves nothing," Fulgrim sniffed, though he was eyeing the grilling meat with obvious interest.

"The empirical evidence of previous gatherings supports Franklin's claim," Ferrus pointed out pragmatically.

"HA!" Franklin pointed his spatula triumphantly at Fulgrim. "See? Even the function-over-form brother acknowledges my supremacy in this domain!"

The Emperor watched as his sons fell into comfortable banter, the weight of empire temporarily lifted from their shoulders. These moments, He knew, were as important as any military victory. They were building bonds that would help prevent that dark future he and Franklin is trying to prevent.

"Father?" Franklin's voice interrupted His thoughts. "Your usual? Medium-rare with that special sauce you like?"

"Perfect," He replied, allowing a truly paternal smile to show. For just this moment, He wasn't the Master of Mankind or the being of immense power that had guided humanity for millennia. He was simply a father, watching his sons enjoy each other's company.

The afternoon stretched on, filled with laughter, arguments, impromptu contests (somehow Leman and Magnus had started a competition about who could flip burgers better - psychically or manually), and the kind of familial chaos that only superhuman demigods could generate.

"Leman, I swear by Father's golden throne, if you try to steal one more piece before it's ready..."

After all, sometimes the best way to help your sons save the galaxy was to keep them busy with family portraits and barbecue.

And if anyone noticed that Franklin seemed to check his data-slate a bit too often, well, they just assumed he was monitoring the cooking temperatures.

Just another day in the life of the Imperial family.

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

The Imperator Somnium hung in the void a few thousand Astronomical Units away from Baal. its golden hull reflecting the harsh light of the system's star. Through the vessel's crystal-clear viewing port, a deathworld painted in shades of red and brown rotated slowly beneath them, its twin moons casting shifting shadows across the radiation-scarred surface.

Franklin Valorian stood beside his father, both figures cast in the ruddy light of Baal's sun. The Primarch's usually jovial expression had given way to something more contemplative as he studied the harsh world below.

"What a shithole," Franklin remarked, though there was no real venom in his voice. "We should begin terraforming operations once we find Sanguinius. The radiation levels alone..."

The Emperor's presence filled the chamber, not overwhelming but comforting, like the warmth of a sun on a cool day. His golden eyes studied not the planet below, but His son's face, reading the calculations and plans already forming behind Franklin's eyes.

"The process would take a few years" the Emperor noted, "even with the Independence Sector's technology."

"Worth it," Franklin replied without hesitation. "This world shapes the Blood Angels in ways that..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "...well, let's just say a less hostile environment might help with certain issues down the line."

The Emperor turned fully to face His son now. "Speaking of which – have you found it? The cure for the Red Thirst?"

Franklin shook his head, frustration evident in the set of his shoulders. "Not yet. It's similar to Magnus's sons' flesh-change in some ways, but also fundamentally different. I'll need to examine Sanguinius's DNA directly, and more importantly, his soul or souls." He gestured at the data-slate in his hand. "The theoretical models suggest it's tied to both, just like the flesh-change was, but the exact mechanism..."

The Emperor placed a hand on Franklin's shoulder, the gesture carrying both reassurance and expectation. "Keep at it, son. I trust your input on this. Do not fail me."

A chuckle escaped Franklin's lips, some of his usual humor returning. "When have I ever failed you, Father?"

The Emperor's expression softened slightly, though few would have noticed the change. "Never. Which is precisely why I trust you with this. The Red Thirst... it could become a significant problem if left unchecked."

As father and son began discussing the technical details of transforming Baal, the deathworld continued its slow rotation below them, unaware that its days as a radiation-scarred wasteland were numbered. Soon, a new chapter would begin – both for the planet and for the brother they had yet to find.

And if Franklin was already planning how to explain to Sanguinius why his homeworld needed a complete environmental overhaul... well, he had plenty of practice delivering difficult news to his brothers by now.

After all, that's what family was for.


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