Download App
89.47% The Primarch of Liberty / Chapter 152: The Angel and the Eagle

Chapter 152: The Angel and the Eagle

843.30M

Sanguinius had never seen a spaceship before, not outside the fractal impressions of them that sailed in his waking dreams. This one, sitting on the desert plain with its golden armour baking in the sun, had the suggestion of vulturishness. It was a thing of power and efficiency, blunt and brutal. Fire made it fly, not any notion of grace.

Clusters of figures surrounded the vessel's immense landing claws, their golden armor gleaming with the same radiant intensity as the ship itself. Every inch of that plating bore the mark of painstaking craftsmanship. Among them stood others in star-studded navy blue, no less imposing despite their subtler presentation. And then there was the largest of them—a figure like Sanguinius himself. A brother?

My father's guardians, Sanguinius thought. And what a thought it was, not only that a being such as his father required guardians, but that he had a father at all. All the years of wondering at his own heri­tage, devoid of insight into his origins – and here, at last, was the truth, standing in the shadow of a vessel from the void.

He leaned into the desert wind, stretching his muscles and rising on a thermal of bitter breeze. The temptation was there – like it always was – to soar, to break free of the ground and his responsibilities, taking to the sky and seeking distant lands where the secrets of old wars lay buried. Today that urge was both stronger and weaker; his heart was ill at ease with what this meeting would mean, but never­theless, he burned to know what lay ahead.

He arced groundward, landing lightly with a scuff of his boots across the earth and a final furling of his wings. Dust swirled around his shins as he stepped forward. The golden figures carried weapons, a panoply of axes and spears and high-calibre firearms. Sanguinius carried only his sword, undrawn, riding low on his hip.

'Welcome to Baalfora, outlanders.' He spoke Aenokhian, the tongue of his people, the Pure. He wondered if the outlanders would understand him, or whether they would be forced to rely on hand gestures and awkward mimicry.

"My son", said one of the golden ones, somehow speaking it silently.

He felt his father's voice for the first time as one of his own thoughts, a sensation rather than speech, backed by a tremendous feeling of suppressed force. The golden man – if he was a man – that sent the contact seemed to be making significant efforts to restrain himself, or to contain the power within himself.

There was… more… there, though. My son rhymed with my weapon and rhymed with the Ninth and rhymed with… other concepts that Sanguinius couldn't parse from the core of the man's meaning. A lifetime of perspective was bound up in that contact, and Sanguinius sensed only the gulf between his father's silent words and the meaning behind them.

But he felt no threat in the touch of mind upon mind. Confidence. Impatience. Love. Caution. Approximations of those, where words couldn't quite convey the actuality. It was all in there.

The man – and he did seem like a man: dark of skin and hair, smelling of metal and sweat, in possession of a heartbeat – walked closer.

"I am the Emperor" the man said as He stepped out from the spacecraft's shadow. "And I am your father."

Father, the man had said, the word rhyming in silence with Master, with Shaper, with Creator.

Sanguinius met the Emperor's eyes. What he saw there, glinting in the light of his father's gaze, was the answer to a question he'd never even considered.

This being – this Emperor – was human. But He was not, exactly, a man.

'I see the light of many souls in your eyes. Many men. Many women.'

The Emperor smiled. "Is that what you see?" He spoke flawless Aenokhian, but that perfection was itself a flaw. He spoke the tongue with the same dialect and inflection as Sanguinius himself. Either the Emperor was pulling the meaning from the Angel's mind or imprinting meaning upon it. Whichever was true, He wasn't really speaking the language at all. Nor was Sanguinius entirely certain he could see the man's mouth move.

"I have sought you for many years" said the Emperor. And behind those words, Sanguinius sensed the cheering of crowds and the burning of worlds. His blood ran cold in the desert heat.

'I've seen shades of this meeting many times in my dreams,' Sanguinius confessed. A heavier gust blew from the east. He instinctively lifted a wing to shield himself from the gritty air.

The Emperor's eyes followed the movement. He began to circle Sanguinius in a slow walk, one gauntleted hand reaching out, fingertips running down the Angel's feathers. Sanguinius' pale gaze tracked his circling father, but his wings rippled with discomfort each time the Emperor moved behind him, out of sight.

'You are uneasy,' said the Emperor. 'That is natural, my son. I have come not only to liberate you from exile, but to ease your heart and mind with all you need to know.'

Sanguinius felt a lifetime of questions trapped on his tongue. There was one, however, that was always going to break free first. One question above all others had plagued him and haunted his people, since the Tribe of Pure Blood had discovered him in the wild lands. They worshipped him for his strength and beneficence, but they feared him for the question that now lay unspoken between father and son.

"Ask" said the Emperor. "Ask the question I sense lying upon your tongue."

The Angel pulled back from his father, not furling his wings but spreading them. With sudden passion, he beat a fist against the animal hide of his breastplate. A lone feather, swan-white, drifted in an arcing dance down to the dusty earth.

"What am I?"

"You are my son," said the Emperor. And, again, meanings and concepts danced beneath those words. You are my son was overlaid by you are a primarch, and you are my Ninth General, and you are a component of the Great Work and you were stolen by the enemy, and – most unsettling of all – you may have been changed by them.

"I don't know what you mean."

"You will," the Emperor assured him.

"You are the death of faith,"Sanguinius replied. "That I know."

The Emperor regarded him before speaking. "Yes," his father agreed, "and also, no. How do you know of such things?"

"I told you, I have dreamed of this day. Fragments. Shadows. Suggestions. Sometimes they come to me, fierce with emotion yet raked clean of detail."

"Faith is a weapon," said the Emperor. "A weapon that the species cannot be trusted to wield."

"My people revere me as their god,' Sanguinius replied. 'That brings them a measure of peace. No doubt to you and your sky-sailing kind, we are nothing but primitives. Roaches in this poisoned desert. But I reward their faith in me. I am their servant. I am mercy when my people need it most, and I am death to their enemies."

"That does not make you a god, my son."

"I never said I was a god. I said my people believe me to be one."

Sanguinius stared into his father's inhuman, too-human eyes.

"My people, the Pure, are to be left in peace. Whatever pacts you and I swear this day, my inviolate condition is this – no ship will enter Baalfora's heavens without my mandate, and no interference will be permitted to the Clans of Pure Blood without my permission. We have carved out the solace of peace here, together. You will not threaten it, father."

The Emperor nodded, not in agreement, but in sudden understanding. "That is why you fear me, is it not? You fear the endanger­ment of what you have achieved here."

"I speak of loyalty and love," the Angel said gently.

"And you speak of achievement."

"Am I wrong?" asked the Emperor.

"I fear for the lives of my people, who deserve only peace. A peace we have fought so hard for. Behind your words, I hear the triumph of cultures that see you as their saviour. But I also hear the razing of cities and the burning of worlds. I hear the dirges of faiths now forbidden, and the mourning of those nations that followed them. Am I wrong?"

The Emperor said nothing.

Later – many times over the decades to come – Sanguinius would think back on those words. For all the purity of the Emperor's intent, there were so many compromises. Faith could not be tolerated… except for when it could. Religions were drowned in the ashes of defiant worlds… except when their usefulness aligned with the Great Work. The Emperor needed the Martian Mechanicum, and he allowed them to worship Him as the Omnissiah, the incarnated avatar of the Machine-God. Perhaps necessity carves holes in everyone's principles, human and god alike.

Once more Sanguinius heard the adulations of crowds in bright sunlight, and the cries of populations on burning worlds.

He asked then what no other primarch had given voice to. Even Angron, upon his discovery, would act without asking the question Sanguinius now asked.

"What if I refuse?"

The Emperor seemed to weigh this. "You will not refuse. I know your soul. Here, you've saved tens of thousands of lives. With me, you will save billions of lives on millions of worlds. You will save the life of every human yet to be born. That is not something you could turn your back on."

They stared into each other's eyes, father and son, creator and created. Neither argued against the truth of the Emperor's words.

"I want something from you. I want your oath."

The Emperor was silent, allowing His son to continue.

"Do you swear, on whatever oaths hold value to you, that you will leave the Clans of Pure Blood in peace? Untouched by your designs unless they desire otherwise. Free to exist as they already exist, believing whatever they choose to believe."

The Emperor hesitated. Sanguinius saw the calculation in his father's eyes, and he wondered: "is He taken aback by the love I bear for my people, or is He merely considering alternate avenues around this obstacle in His Great Work?"

The Emperor finally spoke. "You have my promise."

Sanguinius closed his wings. "Then let us speak of the future, father."

And so, they did.

"And now, my son," the Emperor's voice broke the stillness, carrying the quiet thunder of ages. "You will meet one of your brothers."

The word brother resonated deeply within Sanguinius, echoing through the halls of his memories, stirring thoughts of the family he had longed for in the isolation of Baal. The realization was bittersweet. He had spent countless years alone, battling the harsh world and himself, imagining what it would be like to finally meet his kin. He had dreamed of brothers in the purest sense—comrades who would share in the burden of their shared blood. And now, that dream was about to take shape before him.

From the distance, a figure approached. At first glance, Franklin Valorian seemed deceptively ordinary. His broad shoulders, framed in practical regalia that held an air of imperial splendor, carried a presence that made the very desert seem to shift under his feet. Brown hair tossed in the wind, and eyes—eyes that held the depth of ancient wisdom and the warmth of understanding—watched Sanguinius steadily. A half-smile, more knowing than amused, rested on his lips, as if he were privy to a joke no one else could yet comprehend.

But Franklin was more than the man before him, as Sanguinius's perception expanded beyond mortal bounds.

For a fleeting heartbeat, A Bloody-Handed God stood before him, wreathed in a terrible, crimson glory. In one hand, the god gripped a weapon forged from the light of dying stars, its edges soaked in the blood of conquest. Worlds crumbled and foes perished in the shadow of this deity's wrath. Yet, even in this horrifying majesty, the god smirked at Sanguinius, an unsettling amusement dancing in its gaze, as though it delighted in being seen.

The vision shifted, folding into something more mercurial. Sanguinius now beheld a Laughing God, its expression lit with uncanny mirth. The god's laughter was sharp and knowing, its movements as unpredictable as the reflections of light on water. Sanguinius stared into the being's kaleidoscopic form, and it honked back—a sound at once absurd and profound. The god offered Sanguinius a slight bow, its grin widening, as though inviting him to appreciate the cosmic absurdity of existence.

Then the vision expanded, deepened, and grew weightier. The Ultimate Manifestation of Humanity's Manifest Destiny emerged, vast and overwhelming. Sanguinius saw a conqueror whose confidence radiated with such intensity that it seemed to bend reality itself, blazing with humanity's boundless ambition and their unshakable claim to the stars.

And finally, binding them all together, Sanguinius saw an Eagle—monumental, majestic, and resplendent. Its wings spread wide, casting a shadow of freedom that stretched across the galaxy. The eagle's talons gripped chains of tyranny, tearing them apart with savage elegance. Its piercing cry echoed in Sanguinius's mind, a clarion call that heralded liberty, victory, and unyielding hope for all who dared to dream.

The visions layered, merging into one another until they became indistinguishable. Each was a part of the whole, and together they formed Franklin Valorian.

As Franklin drew closer, his smirk widening just enough to suggest he was fully aware of what had transpired, Sanguinius could not help but compare him to the Emperor. The realization was a nagging truth that refused to be ignored: This Brother was the closest thing to their father he had ever encountered.

It was as though the Emperor's light had found another vessel—not a copy, but a reflection refracted through a different lens. Franklin carried the same cosmic weight, the same unyielding purpose, yet he was tempered by something the Emperor lacked: a warmth.

"Welcome to the family, brother. I hope you like barbecue."

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

As Franklin approached his newfound brother across Baal's crimson sands, he felt Khaine's presence stir within his mind. The God of War's consciousness emerged like heat shimmer off a blade, his thoughts interweaving with Franklin's own.

"So," Khaine's voice resonated with ancient memory, "this is where that challenger of mine fell."

Franklin's mental response carried his characteristic blend of curiosity and irreverence. "Challenger? You have challengers?"

The god's laughter echoed through Franklin's consciousness, a sound like clashing armies and breaking shields. "The Aeldari Pantheon stood for sixty-five million years, Franklin. Did you think we spent all that time sitting on golden thrones and writing poetry? We crushed numerous challengers during our reign. It wasn't all rainbows and sunshine, as you well know."

"Yes, yes, I know the history," Franklin's thoughts carried a hint of amused exasperation. "But who exactly is stupid enough to challenge the God of War? That seems like a particularly poor life choice."

"Many," Khaine's response held dark mirth, "and all of them died, as you might expect. But this one..." The god's presence shifted, like a warrior adjusting his stance before telling a tale of significant battle. "This challenger was powerful even by the standards of gods. If not for me, perhaps only Asuryan himself could have brought it down."

Franklin felt Khaine's pride in the memory, mixed with something else – respect, perhaps, for a worthy opponent. The god continued, "I cleaved it in half with Anaris, a strike so perfect it split not just flesh but essence. One half became a being of light, the other of darkness. But now..."

Through their shared perception, they both observed Sanguinius – the Angel of Baal, whose soul shone with a familiar radiance. "Now I see those halves have become one again. The minor warp god that dwells within your brother is that ancient challenger, reborn and remade."

"Wait," Franklin's thoughts sharpened with sudden interest. "Are you telling me that Sanguinius has an uber power warp god inside him? One that you personally bisected?"

"More accurately, he is the god, or rather, what became of it after my victory. The Emperor's creation of the Primarchs provided an unexpected vessel for its reincarnation. Fascinating, really. In all eons of battle, I've never seen anything quite like it."

Franklin's mental smile carried a hint of irony. "And here I thought family reunions couldn't get more complicated. Should I be concerned?"

"No," Khaine's response was surprisingly definitive. "What dwells within him now is fundamentally changed from what I faced. The Emperor's work and human soul have remade it into something new. Something that might, in time, prove to be exactly what humanity needs."

"Along with a healthy dose of liberty and occasional barbecue," Franklin added, earning what felt like an exasperated sigh from the god of war.

"You never take anything entirely seriously, do you?"

"Says the god who's letting me wear his sword like some cosmic fashion accessory."

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

The desert winds of Baal whispered around them as Franklin and Sanguinius clasped hands in greeting. The contact was firm, assured – the grip of demigods acknowledging each other's strength while carefully restraining it. In that brief moment of contact, both brothers assessed each other with transhuman senses far beyond mortal ken.

Sanguinius's gaze drifted, almost imperceptibly, to Franklin's broad shoulders, a small, habitual motion that only another Primarch could have noticed. A small, searching glance – the kind forged by years of solitude and the painful awareness of being the one different among the already unique. His wings fluttered slightly, the magnificent white feathers catching the twin suns of Baal, shining bright against the red desert.

Franklin caught that glance, understanding immediately the weight of isolation behind it. He had seen the future that awaited his angelic brother – the burden of being unique even among the unique, set apart by his wings even from his fellow Primarchs. A small smile played across Franklin's face as an idea formed.

With a thought, Franklin revealed his own gift. The air shimmered with potential energy as wings of steel manifested from his back, spreading wide in the desert sun. They were not the soft, feathered pinions of Sanguinius, but rather deadly works of art – each 'feather' a blade of impossibly sharp metal that could slice through ceramite as easily as paper. The wings caught the sunlight and scattered it in prismatic patterns across the sand, a display both beautiful and lethal.

Sanguinius stood transfixed, his usual eloquence deserting him. His own wings spread unconsciously in response, white feathers contrasting with Franklin's metallic ones. For a moment, the only sound was the soft whisper of wind through feather and steel.

"This way you won't feel alone," Franklin said softly, his usual smirk softening into something more genuine. "I have wings too, you know. The Wings of an Eagle"

The simple statement carried layers of meaning between the brothers. It was an acknowledgment of shared difference, an offering of understanding, and a promise of brotherhood all in one. Franklin's wings might be different in form, but their presence meant Sanguinius would never again have to bear the burden of uniqueness alone.

Sanguinius reached out, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence as Franklin nodded permission. His fingers traced the edge of one metallic feather, feeling the deadly perfection of its edge. "They're beautiful," he whispered, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of solitude finally lifted. "And lethal."

"Form and function," Franklin grinned. "Though I have to admit, yours are more practical for actual flight. Mine are better suited for combat"

The Emperor watched His sons from a short distance, a smile playing at the corners of His mouth as He observed their bonding. This was not a moment that had existed in the timeline Franklin knew – a small change, perhaps, but one that might ripple outward in unexpected ways. Sometimes, He reflected, the greatest changes came not from grand strategies or massive battles, but from simple moments of connection.

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

The vast viewscreen of the Sweet Liberty filled with the rusty expanse of Baal and its twin moons. Massive terraforming engines, gifts from the Independence Sector, crawled across the surface like mechanical insects, their work already visible in patches of green slowly spreading across the desert world. Franklin watched his brother's face as Sanguinius took in the transformation of his homeworld.

"It will take time," Franklin said, his voice carrying the casual confidence that had become his trademark, "but your sons will have a proper home to return to. Though I ask again - are you certain you wish to delay reuniting with them?"

Sanguinius's wings shifted slightly, a tell Franklin had learned meant his brother was deep in thought. "The Emperor himself told me of how you've guided our other brothers when they were found. A smile crossed the Angel's perfect features. "I would be a fool to pass up such an opportunity."

Franklin nodded, trying to hide his pleasure at the compliment. "Well then, brother, your education begins now." He pulled out a data-slate and handed it to Sanguinius. "First lesson: understanding the political landscape you're stepping into. This contains everything from trade agreements to military doctrines. The Imperium is more complex than it appears on the surface."


Chapter 153: Arsenal of Democracy

The Library of Congress on Nova Libertas held many secrets, but none quite like what lay in its deepest vaults. Franklin led Sanguinius through corridors that seemed to descend forever, their boots echoing against adamantine floors that had supported the weight of civilization's deadliest creations for millennia.

"Open Sesame!" Franklin's voice rang out with theatrical flair, and Sanguinius couldn't help but smile at his brother's characteristic showmanship. But the smile faded to wonderment as the security protocols disengaged.

The first gate, massive plasteel reinforced with adamantium, groaned open. Then another, this one flickering with conversion fields. A third, constructed of living metal that seemed to flow rather than move. Gate after gate, each more impressive than the last - nine in total, each designed to stop a different method of intrusion. Quantum traps shimmered between them, ready to shred anything attempting unauthorized passage at the atomic level.

"Quite the security," Sanguinius noted, his tactical mind automatically analyzing the defenses. "Though I suspect this is merely the obvious layer."

Franklin's grin widened. "Smart. The real defenses... well, let's just say even our father would have to knock first."

As they passed the final gate, illumination panels activated in sequence, revealing a sight that drew an involuntary gasp from the Angel's lips. The vault stretched out before them, seemingly endless, with sections extending in impossible directions that suggested space itself had been folded to accommodate the collection.

"Welcome," Franklin announced with pride, "to the Arsenal of Democracy."

Nearest to them, arranged with meticulous precision, stood displays chronicling humanity's relationship with warfare. Sanguinius found himself drawn to a particular section where ancient projectile weapons stood beside their modern counterparts. A primitive firearm labeled 'Glock' sat beside increasingly sophisticated iterations, culminating in a plasma-based successor that bore its ancient ancestor's name.

"Every weapon?" Sanguinius asked, his voice hushed with reverence.

"Every weapon," Franklin confirmed, "known to mankind exists somewhere within these halls. The collection spans trillions of sections, each dedicated to a different era, a different path of innovation."

They passed rows of power armor, each suit telling its own story of human ingenuity. From simple exoskeletons to towering Castigator Titans, the evolution of mankind's war machines stood frozen in time.

Sanguinius approached a nearby display, his attention caught by an elegant power sword floating above what appeared to be a small blue-glowing device. Before he could ask, Franklin reached out and touched the device, causing it to collapse into a perfect sphere.

"A Tesseract Labyrinth," Franklin explained, handling the device with casual familiarity that belied its alien origins. "The Necrons used these to imprison their star gods, the C'tan. We've repurposed them as storage devices. Each one contains a billion perfect copies of the displayed weapon."

The implications struck Sanguinius like a physical blow. "A billion copies... of everything? Even the weapons from the Age of Strife? The Dark Age of Technology?"

Franklin's expression grew more serious as he returned the labyrinth to its display. "Not everything. Some technologies resist preservation. Others..." He gestured to a solitary weapon, isolated in its own containment field. "The Retcon Gun. Whatever it erases simply ceases to have ever existed. Those weapons and beings touched by it are lost forever."

"And some weapons," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "are too dangerous for even a billion copies. Those we keep in the deepest vaults, single specimens locked away where only Father himself can authorize their use. Weapons that could blow open another hole in reality like a second eye of terror, and others are sealed for the future when humanity had ascended and are wise enough for their use."

The brothers walked in silence for a moment, the weight of that responsibility hanging heavy in the climate-controlled air. Finally, Sanguinius gestured at the more conventional weapons surrounding them.

"These could arm Legions," he observed.

Franklin's familiar smirk returned. "That's rather the point. These particular sections represent our tithe to the Imperium. We maintain enough in ready storage to arm billions of Auxilia at a moment's notice. But that's not why we're here." He gestured deeper into the arsenal. "Follow me."

As they ventured further, passing sections dedicated to forgotten patterns of bolters and theoretical applications of , Sanguinius found his curiosity growing. "You mentioned Father can access the deepest vaults. How many layers does this facility have?"

"Officially? Nine," Franklin replied, his tone suggesting the truth was more complex. "Though the deeper you go, the more flexible concepts like 'layers' and 'space' become. The former Mechanicum would call this tech-heresy of the highest order, but now under Cawl I believe in time their creativity would come back."

They passed a section that seemed to bend light itself, weapons that appeared to be made of crystallized time standing in displays that hurt the eyes to look at directly. "The Golden Age of Technology taught humanity that there are no limits to what we can achieve," Franklin continued. "The Age of Strife taught us the cost of achieving it. Here, we walk the line between those lessons."

"And these weapons," Sanguinius gestured at a particularly devastating-looking device, "they're all tested? Safe?"

Franklin's laugh echoed off the impossible architecture. "Safe? Brother, there's no such thing as a safe weapon. But controlled? Understood? As much as such things can be. We maintain testing grounds in pocket dimensions, study the effects in contained environments. Every weapon here has been thoroughly documented, its capabilities and limitations mapped out in excruciating detail."

They reached what appeared to be a dead end, though Sanguinius's enhanced senses suggested the space beyond was anything but empty. Franklin placed his hand on a section of wall that looked no different from any other.

"The Arsenal of Democracy isn't just a weapons repository," he explained as complex geometric patterns began to glow beneath his palm. "It's a testament to humanity's ingenuity, our determination to survive in a hostile universe. Every weapon here tells a story of innovation, of necessity, of triumph and tragedy."

The wall dissolved, revealing yet another chamber beyond. But unlike the ordered displays they'd passed, this one hummed with active energy, workbenches and fabrication units suggesting this was more than mere storage.

"And now, brother, your very own weapons"

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

The chamber they entered bore a solemn gravity despite its clinical appearance. Twenty separate sections lined the walls, each marked with a number, each representing one of the Emperor's sons. Sanguinius's keen eyes noted the vacant spaces - numbers 3, 6, 7, 10, 11, 12, 13, 15, 16, 18, and 20 stood empty, their contents already claimed by his brothers.

"This way," Franklin gestured toward the section marked with the number 9. "Your inheritance awaits."

As Sanguinius stepped into his designated area, his breath caught at the sight before him. A suit of armor stood sentinel, its golden surface seeming to capture and amplify the chamber's lighting. Beside it, arranged with precise care, lay three weapons: a sword of beauty, a spear that had the visage of a hooded angel, and a compact but lethal-looking melta weapon.

Franklin's fingers danced across a nearby control panel, initiating diagnostic protocols. "The Resplendent Regalia," he announced, pride evident in his voice. "She's been waiting for you, brother."

As if responding to its true master's presence, the armor's surface rippled with subtle patterns of light. Sanguinius approached reverently, his wings adjusting unconsciously to accommodate the armor's specialized design.

"Go ahead," Franklin encouraged. "Let's see how she fits."

The process of donning the armor felt less like wearing a suit of war-plate and more like completing a circuit. Each piece sealed seamlessly, the armor adapting to his form with fluid precision. The sensation was unlike anything Sanguinius had experienced before - a perfect synthesis of protection and enhancement.

"Standard Independence Sector technology," Franklin explained, though his slight smirk suggested there was nothing 'standard' about it. "The primary structure is Tyranimite-Auramite alloy the same material used by Franklin's Mechsuit and his Primeborn Captains. For a Primarch, nothing less would suffice."

He walked around Sanguinius, checking connection points and interface systems. "The power source is here," he indicated a spot on the spine. "A Zero-point Energy Core, barely the size of your fingernail. And before you ask - no, it won't explode. The chance of the core even being breached is so infinitesimal it would take several lifetimes of continuous combat to approach any risk. Even then, the worst that would happen is the energy would simply dissipate."

Sanguinius flexed his wings, marveling at how the armor accommodated them. "The psychic interfaces?"

"Fully compatible with your abilities," Franklin assured him. "The armor will actually enhance your psychic output. Now, for your arsenal..." He moved to the weapons display. "This is Encarmine."

The sword seemed to sing as Franklin lifted it. "Your temporal data suggested this would be a simple power sword. We've upgraded it to hyper-phase technology. It will cut through reality itself."

"Temporal data?" Sanguinius asked, accepting the blade. Its balance was perfect, as if it had been forged from his own thoughts.

Franklin's expression turned enigmatic. "Top secret, brother. All will become clear in time." He moved to the spear. "This is Telesto. Beyond its obvious capabilities as a power weapon, it can emit focused disintegration beams. And finally, Infernus." He handed over the melta gun. "Another upgrade based on future specifications. The heat output is... impressive, melting through a Mastodon is possible."

Sanguinius tested each weapon's weight and balance, but his mind was working on another puzzle. "Eleven brothers already found?" He glanced at the empty sections. "I don't recall hearing anything about the twentieth."

Franklin's expression shifted to something more guarded. "Ah, Alpharius. Yes and no. I didn't guide him - Malcador requested his equipment personally." He waved a hand dismissively. "Very shady, very spooky. The Alpha Legion tends to be that way. Nothing to worry about though."

The Angel of Baal noticed how quickly his brother changed the subject, filing that information away for later consideration. Instead, he focused on the armor's systems coming fully online, neural interfaces connecting with his enhanced physiology.

"The temporal data you mentioned," he said carefully, testing the waters. "It speaks of a future that will not come to pass?"

"One possible future," Franklin corrected. "One we're working very hard to prevent. The equipment you're wearing now is the equipment you were meant to wear I just made some improvements." His usual humor faded slightly. "The Emperor has plans within plans, brother. Our role is to ensure those plans lead to humanity's salvation, not its damnation."

Sanguinius felt the weight of those words, heavier than the armor he now wore. "And this chamber? These preparations for all twenty of us?"

"Insurance," Franklin said simply. "Each suite of equipment is tailored to its intended bearer, designed to complement their strengths and shore up their weaknesses. Some have already claimed their inheritance. Others..." He glanced at the empty sections. "Well, we'll find them all eventually."

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

The barren training world stretched out before them, its atmosphere carefully regulated to match standard Imperial conditions. Craters from previous training sessions scarred the landscape, telling tales of lessons learned through controlled violence. Franklin and Sanguinius stood facing each other, their armor gleaming under the artificial sun.

"Your natural talents are undeniable," Franklin began, his usual jovial tone carrying an instructor's edge. "Both in combat and tactics. The grand strategy aspects we can refine later - that's more my and Bobby G's sphere." He paused, studying his brother's stance. "But there's something we need to address, my hawk boy."

Sanguinius's wings shifted slightly at the analytical tone. After a month of training, he'd learned to recognize when Franklin was transitioning from brother to teacher.

"The combat simulations show a consistent pattern," Franklin continued. "You favor decisive strikes at enemy command elements, personally leading your forces in decapitation attacks. Effective, certainly, but..." He let the thought hang.

"But?" Sanguinius prompted, already analyzing his own tactics.

"What happens when you meet an enemy commander who matches your martial prowess? A theoretical situation, I grant you - there aren't many beings in the galaxy who could survive single combat with the Angel of Baal." Franklin's smile turned slightly predatory. "But I believe your swordplay could use some refinement."

Sanguinius couldn't quite hide his surprise. "Swordplay?" He studied his brother's stance, noting nothing that suggested expertise with a blade. "Forgive me, brother, but from what I've observed in our joint operations, your preferred approach is decidedly... different."

His mind flashed to recent battles - Franklin unleashing devastating firepower, enemies vaporized before they could close to melee range. Just days ago, a xenos warlord had charged at Franklin with some ceremonial blade, only to be obliterated from several kilometers.

"You seem to favor overwhelming firepower," Sanguinius said diplomatically. "More guns, as it were."

Franklin's chuckle carried an edge that made Sanguinius's combat instincts twitch. "That's what Fulgrim and Leman thought too, Sangy."

"Sangy?" Sanguinius brought his hand to his face in exasperation. His brother's penchant for nicknames was becoming legendary among the Primarchs. Yet something else nagged at his thoughts - the casual mention of teaching their most martial brothers.

There was no time to pursue that thought. Sanguinius's enhanced senses screamed warning, and he dropped into a combat stance. Whatever Franklin's skill level, underestimating a brother was poor protocol at best, fatal at worst.

The Angel blinked.

Franklin was gone.

He blinked again.

Only decades of combat instinct saved the Angel. He stepped back, Encarmine rising to parry the strike that should have been impossible to deliver. The clash of hyper-phase weapons sent ripples through reality itself.

Franklin's face, inches from his own, wore that familiar smirk. "About that xenos commander," he said conversationally, as if they were still just talking rather than locked in combat. "I didn't avoid the duel out of necessity. I simply found them... uninspiring."

What followed defied comprehension.

Sanguinius found himself defending against attacks that transcended conventional combat. Franklin's strikes didn't merely come from physical angles; they seemed to tear through the Empyrean itself. Each parry required more than instinct or training—it demanded awareness of strikes that had already occurred, were occurring, and would occur, all at once.

The Angel's wings flared in a desperate attempt to create space, but Franklin's wings responded in kind, shadowing his every motion.

Blades clashed from impossible angles, every strike a masterclass in divine combat that warped the laws of reality. Sanguinius barely kept pace, his every move dictated by sheer survival rather than strategy.

"Only Father could best me," Franklin remarked, his voice calm despite the supernatural flurry of strikes. "And even then, it would be through his psychic might rather than skill with a blade. But in pure swordsmanship?" Another sequence of strikes forced Sanguinius onto the back foot, defending against attacks that seemed to bypass time itself. "In this galaxy, I have no equal." it was not boasting but a simple fact.

The demonstration lasted less than a minute, though to Sanguinius's transhuman perception, it felt like an eternity. When Franklin finally stepped back, the Angel of Baal stood drenched in sweat, his enhanced physiology pushed to the edge of exhaustion.

"We'll continue tomorrow," Franklin said, studying his brother's state with clinical precision. "I have a good sense of your current abilities. From here, I can craft a proper regimen for your training."

Sanguinius leaned on Encarmine, his mind racing to process what he had just experienced. "That was... I've never... How?"

Franklin's expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. "You're wondering why I've kept this skill hidden? Why let others believe I rely on firepower and technology?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," Sanguinius admitted, straightening with effort.

"Consider it a lesson in strategy," Franklin replied. "Everyone knows the Liberty Eagles for our overwhelming firepower, our mastery of technology. They expect it. They plan for it." His smirk returned, sharper now. "But they never see the blade coming, and besides I just love my guns"

"And our brothers?" Sanguinius asked. "Fulgrim claims to be the finest swordsman among us."

Franklin's chuckle was genuine. "Let him. Fulgrim thrives on the reputation—it's part of his nature. I've always preferred to keep my talents understated. That way, when they're needed, the impact is decisive. Most of our brothers have learned from me in some way, each according to their own strengths."

Sanguinius flexed his wings, already feeling his body recovering from the exertion. "And what do you see in me, brother? What are my needs?"

"You're a natural, Sangy. Talented in ways that make others—our brothers included—envious. But talent alone is raw. It's like an untempered blade: full of potential but not yet the weapon it could be." Franklin gestured around the training grounds. "What I showed you today? That's the destination. Not just mastery of the blade, but mastery of reality itself—through the blade."

Sanguinius nodded, his awe giving way to determination. "Then show me the way."

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

The battle-scarred plains of Ullanor had seen countless wars, but none as transformative as this. Once the epicenter of the mightiest Ork empire in the sector, its colossal fortresses now lay in smoldering ruin, felled not by crude violence, but by something altogether alien to Orks: precision and strategy.

At the center of the devastation stood a figure that defied every understanding of Orkoid potential—Glorblasta the Mightee. No mere Ork Warboss, Glorblasta was the apex of Orkoid evolution, a Krork, the being Orks were always meant to be. He was not the crude, chaotic force of nature typical of his kind. Glorblasta was something far worse: a deliberate and calculating predator, the embodiment of a forgotten war machine.

"WAAAGH!" Thrakar's battle cry echoed across the devastated landscape, a sound that had made armies tremble. But Glorblasta simply moved, faster than anything that size had any right to, and backhanded the Warboss with casual contempt.

"My deluded cousin," Glorblasta's voice carried the weight of genetic memory spanning millions of years, "submit or die."

The ultimatum hung in the air between them. Thrakar, despite his reputation for mindless violence, possessed enough tactical acumen to recognize when he was thoroughly beaten. "I surrender! You'z da boss now!"

A smile crossed Glorblasta's face, an expression that somehow carried both approval and predatory anticipation. "My cousin, I have a task for you. But first, you must be strong, and I will make you so." He paused, his next words carrying ritual weight. "Gork and Mork hunger for war. They desire the crushing of the Imperium. Would you crush the Imperium?"

Thrakar's response was immediate and enthusiastic. "WAAAGH! I'll crush da puny humies!"

The moment the words left his mouth, something extraordinary began to happen. Power flowed from Glorblasta into Thrakar, ancient genetic protocols awakening dormant potential. The Warboss began to grow, his form expanding and evolving. Crude musculature refined itself, becoming more efficient. Neural pathways rewired themselves, granting tactical acumen that no ordinary Ork could possess. When the transformation finished, Thrakar stood at chest height to Glorblasta, his presence now carrying an authority that transcended mere physical size.

"Thrakar Smasher, you are no longer the Smasher," Glorblasta proclaimed. "You are Thrakar the Beast, and you shall be the hammer that strikes at humanity's heart."

"WAAAGH!" The Beast's roar carried new harmonics, a complexity that spoke of his elevated status. "THE GALAXY WILL BURN FOR GORK AND MORK!"

Glorblasta produced a galactic map, its holographic display showing carefully plotted invasion routes. "Make for Terra. The path is marked. Gather your forces, grow your strength, and bring war to humanity's throne."

As the newly ascended Prime-Ork departed, already calling his forces to war with a voice that commanded absolute obedience, Glorblasta turned to his own warriors. They were a sight that would have made even the most hardened Imperial commander pause – Orks approaching the status of their ancient Krork ancestors, each one a master of warfare that transcended mere violence.

"Gather what we require," he commanded. "Our path leads to Nova Libertas."

His gaze turned skyward, where somewhere across the vast distances of space, his intended rival waited unknowing. "Dakka Bringer," he mused, using the Orkoid name for Franklin Valorian, "I hope you're ready for the rematch"

The laughter that followed carried notes of genuine anticipation.


Load failed, please RETRY

Weekly Power Status

Batch unlock chapters

Table of Contents

Display Options

Background

Font

Size

Chapter comments

Write a review Reading Status: C152
Fail to post. Please try again
  • Writing Quality
  • Stability of Updates
  • Story Development
  • Character Design
  • World Background

The total score 0.0

Review posted successfully! Read more reviews
Vote with Power Stone
Rank 200+ Power Ranking
Stone 438 Power Stone
Report inappropriate content
error Tip

Report abuse

Paragraph comments

Login

tip Paragraph comment

Paragraph comment feature is now on the Web! Move mouse over any paragraph and click the icon to add your comment.

Also, you can always turn it off/on in Settings.

GOT IT