Chapitre 50: When in Doubt Send a Sun
The clash of metal on corrupted flesh echoed across the battlefield as Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles, found himself unexpectedly airborne. His majestic form, usually an imposing presence on any battlefield, sailed through the putrid air of the Nurgle-infested world. As he tumbled, his mind reeled not just from the physical impact, but from the sheer improbability of the situation.
Within the confines of his consciousness, a conversation sparked to life. The voice of Khaine, or rather the shard of the Eldar god residing within the Deathsword, rang out with a mix of disbelief and indignation.
"How in the name of Asuryan did you manage to get flung away like a ragdoll?" Khaine's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Aren't you actively using your psyker powers? The very forces of reality bend to your will, and yet here we are, performing an impromptu acrobatic routine."
Franklin, even as he righted himself mid-air, couldn't help but respond with his characteristic dry humor. "It's called physics, my dear shard. You know, that pesky little thing that governs the universe when warp fuckery isn't involved?"
He landed with a thud, immediately assessing the situation. Scabeiathrax, the Greater Demon of Nurgle, loomed before him. The creature was a mountain of rotting flesh and rusted metal, easily dwarfing even Franklin's impressive stature.
"Physics?" Khaine scoffed. "You're a being of transhuman perfection wielding a sword housing a shard of a god. Physics should be a minor inconvenience at best."
Franklin dusted himself off, his eyes never leaving the grotesque form of Scabeiathrax. "Well, our friend here is built like Gorlock. There's a slight weight disadvantage we're dealing with."
"Slight?" Khaine's voice dripped with sarcasm. "That's like saying the Warp is a 'bit chaotic'. The beast probably weighs as much as a small moon."
As they bantered, both Franklin and Khaine observed Scabeiathrax with keen interest. The greater demon was nursing its backhand, where a vicious burn mark marred its pestilent flesh. Despite the seemingly one-sided exchange that had sent Franklin flying, it was clear that the Primarch had left his mark.
Khaine's tone shifted from sarcastic to intrigued. "Well, well. It seems our little love tap left quite an impression. Care to explain how you're dealing permanent damage to a being of pure Chaos?"
Franklin allowed himself a small smirk. "That's the million-throne question, isn't it? I was hoping you might have some insight, being the expert on all things stabby and killy."
"Flattery will get you everywhere, Primarch," Khaine retorted. "But in this case, I'm as surprised as you are. Although..." The god-shard's voice trailed off thoughtfully.
"Although?" Franklin prompted, his eyes still fixed on Scabeiathrax, who seemed to be regrouping for another assault.
"Well, it's not entirely unprecedented," Khaine mused. "In my heyday, I could deal permanent death to just about anything. Daemons, gods, you name it. Nothing was truly immortal before my blade."
Franklin raised an eyebrow, an expression lost on the incorporeal god-shard. "Impressive resume. So, you're saying we could potentially give this overgrown plague bearer a permanent dirt nap?"
"In theory, yes," Khaine replied. "But there's a slight catch. I'm not exactly at my peak performance right now, am I? Being shattered into pieces and stuffed into a sword tends to put a damper on one's godly powers."
Franklin couldn't help but chuckle. "Now who's understating things? You sound just like me. I must be rubbing off on you."
"Isha forbid," Khaine groaned. "Next thing you know, I'll be cracking jokes in the face of certain death and flirting with Eldar Farseers."
As they bantered, Scabeiathrax seemed to have recovered from the initial shock of its wound. The greater demon lumbered forward, its massive form causing the ground to quake with each step.
Franklin readied himself, the Crone Sword humming with barely contained power. "Well, peak performance or not, we seem to be making an impression. Any advice for round two?"
Khaine's voice took on a more serious tone. "Hit it harder."
Franklin blinked. "That's it? That's your godly wisdom? 'Hit it harder'?"
"What were you expecting? A dissertation on the metaphysical nature of Chaos and its vulnerabilities?" Khaine shot back. "We're in the middle of a battle. Complexities can wait. For now, just hit the damn thing harder."
Franklin couldn't argue with that logic. As Scabeiathrax charged, the Primarch of Liberty braced himself, channeling every ounce of his transhuman strength and psychic might into the Crone Sword.
"Although we can't kill it permanently, any damage we inflict while it remains in the Materium will be permanent, making it easier to banish," Khaine, the Eldar God of War and Murder, declared, his voice echoing in Franklin's mind with grim satisfaction.
The battlefield, already a hellscape of decay and corruption, somehow managed to plumb new depths of revulsion as the confrontation between Franklin Valorian and Scabeiathrax, the Greater Daemon of Nurgle, reached a nauseating climax. The Primarch of the Liberty Eagles, a figure typically radiating confidence and good humor, found himself in a situation that tested even his legendary composure.
Once again, Franklin was hurled through the air by the sheer mass of his grotesque opponent, slamming into the decaying ground with a force that would have shattered lesser beings. His mind raced, tactical calculations blending with mounting frustration. His attacks had seared Scabeiathrax's pestilent flesh, leaving permanent marks that should have brought some satisfaction, knowing the damage dealt would remain. But any sense of triumph was immediately eclipsed by what followed.
With a grotesque heave, Scabeiathrax unleashed a torrent of vomit upon the Primarch. This was no ordinary expulsion, even by the foul standards of Nurgle's abominations. The corrosive bile hit with terrifying force, its acidic power rapidly eating away at Franklin's mechsuit, its layers buckling under the onslaught of hyper-accelerated decay. Even Franklin's formidable psychic shields, which had withstood the horrors of war across countless worlds, began to falter under this most base and repugnant of assaults.
Disgust flooded Franklin's senses. Not the simple revulsion of the physical act—though that was certainly overwhelming—but something deeper, more existential. In all his years of battle, all the nightmares he had faced, nothing had prepared him for the sheer indignity of this moment. The sight, the smell, the feel of the bile seeping through his armor left him shaken in a way no weapon ever had.
Anger followed swiftly. Franklin Valorian, the Liberator, one of the Emperor's finest creations, brought low by this revolting creature? His mind seethed with fury. But this wasn't the cold, calculated rage of a general whose plans had gone awry. Nor was it the primal heat of a warrior in the throes of battle. This was something more—a wrath that burned hotter and brighter than anything Franklin had ever felt, so intense it threatened to consume his every thought.
And then, to his utter disbelief, Scabeiathrax turned, presenting its flabby posterior in a clear threat of further defilement. The grotesque creature was about to take its revolting assault to a new level.
Something snapped inside Franklin. The smirk that had so often graced his face, the expression that radiated charm and confidence no matter the odds, twisted into a scowl of pure, unadulterated contempt. He had faced the worst horrors the galaxy could throw at him, stared into the abyss countless times—and this was the insult? This was what it came down to? Vomited upon, almost shat on, by a bloated monstrosity of rot?
In that instant, a wild, irrational thought surged in Franklin's mind: glass the entire damn planet.
The urge hit him with startling clarity. With his power, with the Liberty Eagles' overwhelming firepower at his command, he could do it. One order, one command, and the entire cursed world of Austeria Extremis could be reduced to molten slag. The idea was almost seductive in its simplicity—wipe the slate clean, burn the corruption away in a purifying firestorm. Let Scabeiathrax and his foul minions rot in the ashes of a world forever lost to Nurgle's filth.
The temptation to obliterate the source of his current misery gnawed at him, a twisted desire born from anger and frustration. Glass the planet, the thought repeated. No more filth, no more indignity, no more of this sickening, wretched world.
But as quickly as it came, Franklin reined the thought in, forcing his mind to clear. No, he reminded himself. I'm here to save this Knight world. Not destroy it.
He gritted his teeth, focusing on the mission at hand. The people of Austeria Extremis needed him. The Knights, the warriors, his own Liberty Eagles—they were counting on him to lead them to victory. He had come here to liberate, not annihilate. Glassing the planet in a fit of rage would be the opposite of everything he stood for.
In one furious motion, Franklin tore off the corroded remains of his helmet, the acidic bile having eaten away at its outer shell
The Deathsword, sensing its wielder's emotional state, responded in kind. The blade, already a fearsome weapon, began to glow with the intensity of a miniature sun. It was as if the sword was feeding off Franklin's rage, amplifying it and focusing it into a singular purpose: destruction.
As his men watched, Franklin Valorian's perpetual smirk transformed into a scowl of such intensity that it seemed to reshape the very fabric of reality around him. The Deathsword in his hand blazed with the fury of a newborn star, and waves of searing heat began to roll outward from his position.
"Everyone, fall back!" A Sergeant roared, his tactical acumen kicking in even as his mind reeled from the unprecedented sight before him. "All units, establish a perimeter at least 50 miles from the Primarch's position!"
The order was hardly necessary. Every warrior, from the most seasoned Astartes to the freshest Guardsman recruit, could feel the primal urge to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the epicenter of the coming storm.
As they began their strategic withdrawal, the effects of Franklin's fury became horrifyingly apparent. Nurgle's daemons, creatures that had seemed all but unkillable moments before, were reduced to ash the moment they came within range of the Primarch's aura.
With a roar that was equal parts battle cry and primal scream, Franklin unleashed a slash of such ferocity that it defied the laws of physics. The heat extended far beyond the arc of the blade itself, creating a wave of immolation that sent Scabeiathrax hurtling backward. The sheer force of the attack didn't stop there - it continued outward, incinerating every daemon unfortunate enough to be within a 40-mile radius.
As the wave of destruction expanded outward, Franklin stood at its epicenter, a figure wreathed in purifying flame. The fire wasn't just burning away the physical corruption - it seemed to be cleansing Franklin's very essence, as if trying to scour away the memory of the degradation he had just endured.
In the aftermath of his cataclysmic attack, Franklin surveyed his surroundings. A 200-meter radius around him was utterly clear, the ground scoured to glass and molten lava by the intensity of his fury. The Primarch's face, usually so expressive and full of life, was now a mask of grim determination. He was done with the antics of Nurgle's minions, done with their filth, their decay, their mockery of life.
Within the Deathsword, Khaine's presence stirred. The shard of the Eldar god of war could feel the seething anger radiating from its wielder. Where before there had been playful banter, now there was only a grim appreciation for the destruction wrought.
"Yes," Khaine's voice resonated in Franklin's mind, a mix of approval and excitement. "That's the way. Channel your anger, let it fuel you!"
Franklin, his mechsuit half-corroded and his patience utterly spent, made a decision. "I'm about to do something incredibly stupid," he announced, his voice a low growl, "or equally brilliant."
Khaine's response was immediate and enthusiastic. "Haha, yes!" the god-shard cried, reveling in the prospect of further violence.
Franklin Valorian, his patience exhausted and his anger incandescent, decided it was time to end this fight in the most spectacular way possible.
With a burst from the thrusters on his half-corroded mechsuit, Franklin launched himself directly at Scabeiathrax. The Greater Demon of Nurgle, still reeling from the Primarch's previous assault, barely had time to register the incoming threat before Franklin was upon him.
Franklin's attack was a blur of motion, each strike of the Deathsword leaving trails of searing light in its wake. The Primarch's face, usually adorned with his trademark smirk, was set in a grim scowl of concentration and fury. This was no longer a battle - it was an execution.
Scabeiathrax, despite its massive size and eons of experience, found itself on the back foot. The Greater Demon swung its enormous plague-ridden blade, aiming to once again send the Primarch flying. But Franklin was ready this time.
With a stance wide and solid, Franklin sidestepped the attack with preternatural grace. In one fluid motion, he parried the massive blade aside, the Deathsword screaming with delight as it made contact. The force of the parry left Scabeiathrax off-balance, an opening that Franklin exploited without hesitation.
Before the Greater Demon could recover, Franklin struck. The Deathsword, glowing with the intensity of a dying star, cleaved through Scabeiathrax's arm at the shoulder. The limb, still clutching its corrupted blade, fell to the ground with a thunderous impact.
Scabeiathrax stared at the stump of its arm in disbelief, its pestilent mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened. In all its long existence, it had never experienced pain quite like this. As the Greater Demon's gaze lowered to its severed limb, Franklin seized the moment.
With his free hand, the Primarch drew a disintegration pistol - a weapon that under normal circumstances would be considered overkill. But these were not normal circumstances, and Franklin was done taking chances.
The shot struck Scabeiathrax square in the face, the energy beam eating away at the demon's features. For a moment, it seemed as if even this might not be enough, as the corrupted flesh began to regenerate almost immediately. But then something unexpected happened - the wound left by the Deathsword refused to heal.
Khaine's words echoed in Franklin's mind: the sword could indeed deal permanent damage, at least while the demon remained in the Materium. A savage grin replaced Franklin's scowl for just a moment, a glimpse of the old Franklin shining through the battle rage.
Seizing the advantage, Franklin widened his stance once more. The Deathsword sang a song of destruction as the Primarch brought it down in one devastating arc. The blade, empowered by Franklin's fury and Khaine's divine essence, cleaved Scabeiathrax clean in two from head to groin.
As the two halves of the Greater Demon began to topple, Franklin leapt back, putting distance between himself and his fallen foe. But the Primarch wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot.
Reaching through his Dimensional Pocket, Franklin produced a weapon that would have made even the most zealous Mechanicum tech-priest raise an eyebrow - a Fatman Launcher. This wasn't just any ordinary weapon; it was a handheld nuclear warhead launcher, a remnant of Old Terra's most destructive age.
As Franklin hefted the launcher onto his shoulder, a part of his mind couldn't help but appreciate the irony. Here he was, the Liberator, about to unleash the ultimate expression of freedom as understood by ancient Terra - the ability to say "fuck you" to your enemies with a tactical nuke.
With a grim chuckle, Franklin muttered under his breath, "A Certain ancient Terran nation could tell you all about this, if they were still around."
The first warhead streaked toward the grotesque, fallen form of Scabeiathrax, trailing a plume of smoke in its wake. The battlefield, already a wasteland of decay, was momentarily illuminated by a flash brighter than a thousand suns. The nuke detonated with a deafening roar, sending a shockwave that rippled across the blighted landscape, vaporizing everything in its path. The air shook, and for a brief moment, all was silent, save for the faint hiss of dissipating energy.
Franklin Valorian was many things, but at this moment, rational was not one of them.
Without so much as pausing for breath, he loaded another nuke into the Fatman and fired again. And again. And yet again.
Each detonation was a declaration, a statement written in atomic fire. It was Franklin Valorian saying to the universe at large, and to the forces of Chaos in particular, that he had well and truly run out of patience.
It was only after the 11th nuke detonated that a small voice of reason managed to penetrate the fog of Franklin's rage.
"Father, stop! It's dead!"
The voice belonged to one of his Space Marines, a brave soul who had managed to approach close enough to be heard over the rolling thunder of explosions that had shaken the very foundations of the battlefield.
When the dust finally settled and the radiation cleared (thanks to some handy psychic manipulation from Franklin), what remained was a sight that would have made even the most hardened Imperial commander pause. Where Scabeiathrax had fallen, there was now a crater 300 miles wide, the earth scorched and glassed by the fury of atomic fire.
Franklin's gaze swept over the battlefield, the crackling heat and silence a stark contrast to the chaos that had raged only moments before. He exhaled deeply, feeling the last of the rage ebb from his mind. Slowly, he nodded, acknowledging the marine who had brought him back to his senses.
The Space Marine saluted, then turned and returned to his position without a word.
Franklin stood at the edge of the devastation, the Fatman Launcher still smoking on his shoulder. His mechsuit was in tatters, his armor scorched and pitted. But his eyes blazed with a fire that had nothing to do with the nuclear inferno he had just unleashed.
For a long moment, there was silence. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, Franklin's perpetual smirk began to return. He glanced down at the Deathsword, which was humming contentedly in his grip.
"Well," he said, his voice hoarse from the smoke and exertion, "I think we can safely say that Fat Fuck won't be troubling us again."
Khaine's laughter rang in Franklin's mind, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy at the destruction they had wrought together. "I must say, Primarch, when you decide to end a fight, you certainly don't do things by halves."
Franklin allowed himself a chuckle, feeling the battle rage begin to subside. "What can I say? When you absolutely, positively need to kill every last molecule of a Greater Demon in the area, accept no substitutes."
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From a vantage point far removed from the chaos of battle, Eldrad Ulthran, the venerable Farseer of Craftworld Ulthwé, stood in silent observation. His ancient eyes, which had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, were fixed upon the figure of Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles. The scene unfolding before him was one of unparalleled destruction, a display of raw power that even the eldest of the Aeldari would find difficult to ignore.
Eldrad's mind, ever attuned to the ebb and flow of fate, struggled to reconcile what he was witnessing with the visions that had long guided his actions. The Franklin Valorian he saw now, a whirlwind of psychic might and martial prowess, stood in stark contrast to the figure that had appeared in his prophetic glimpses of possible futures.
In those visions, Eldrad had seen a different Franklin - a gunslinger, relying more on his marksmanship and tactical acumen than on psychic abilities. That version of the Primarch had been formidable, certainly, but not the force of nature that now laid waste to the forces of Nurgle with such ease.
As Franklin unleashed another devastating attack, Eldrad's gaze was drawn to the sword in the Primarch's hand. Even from this distance, the Farseer could sense its power, and more importantly, recognize its origin. The blade was unmistakably of Aeldari design, its elegant curves and ethereal glow a stark contrast to the brutish weaponry typically wielded by the Imperium's forces.
Eldrad's brow furrowed in concentration, his mind racing through millennia of lore and prophecy. He knew this weapon, or at least he should. Yet its purpose, its very reason for existence, eluded him. This gap in his knowledge was as unsettling as it was intriguing. For an Aeldari artifact of such power to find its way into the hands of a human, let alone a Primarch, spoke of events set in motion long ago, their purpose obscured even to one as prescient as himself.
The battle continued to unfold, and with each passing moment, the divergence from Eldrad's visions became more pronounced. In the futures he had foreseen, this moment should have marked the beginning of Franklin's downfall. The Primarch should have been overwhelmed by now, the tide of Nurgle's daemons proving too much even for his considerable skills.
Instead, Eldrad watched in barely concealed amazement as Franklin not only held his ground but pushed back against the forces of Chaos with unprecedented effectiveness. The obliteration of a Greater Daemon of Nurgle, a feat that would be the crowning achievement of most warriors' careers, seemed almost routine for this version of Franklin Valorian.
As the Primarch unleashed a barrage of nuclear warheads, turning a vast swath of corrupted land into a glass crater, Eldrad couldn't help but marvel at the sheer audacity of the act. It was a level of overkill that bordered on the absurd, yet it was undeniably effective. In that moment, Eldrad saw not just the tactical genius he had foreseen, but a being capable of reshaping the very fabric of reality through sheer force of will.
This discrepancy between vision and reality set Eldrad's mind racing. What had changed? What unforeseen variable had been introduced to so dramatically alter the course of events? The Farseer's thoughts turned to the myriad threads of fate he had so carefully woven and manipulated over the centuries. Had one of his own actions, or perhaps the actions of another, inadvertently set this new future in motion?
As he pondered these questions, Eldrad maintained his vigil, his forces hidden and ready to intervene should the tides of fate suddenly turn. The Aeldari way was one of subtlety and manipulation from the shadows, a stark contrast to the bombastic display of power they now witnessed. Yet Eldrad knew better than most the value of adaptability, of seizing unexpected opportunities when they arose.
The Franklin Valorian before him now represented both a challenge and an opportunity. This Primarch, with his Aeldari blade and his reality-warping powers, could be either a powerful ally or a dire threat to the Aeldari's long-term plans. The original future Eldrad had foreseen had been one of carefully calculated risks and measured responses. This new reality demanded a complete reevaluation of strategies that had been centuries in the making.
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The battlefield was a maelstrom of chaos and destruction. For 45 minutes, the Liberty Eagles had been pushing back against the tide of daemonic forces, closing three of the four portals that spewed forth Nurgle's minions. The last portal stood defiant, a festering wound in reality that continued to vomit corruption into the material realm.
Franklin Valorian, stood at the forefront of this final assault. His Deathsword, carved through daemon flesh with terrifying efficiency. Each swing of the blade sent arcs of purifying flame through the ranks of Nurgle's forces, incinerating the unclean and leaving nothing but ash in its wake.
As he fought, Franklin maintained a running dialogue with Khaine, the god-shard within his blade. It had become a habit of sorts, this banter in the heat of battle. But now, Franklin noticed something was amiss. Khaine, usually quick with a sardonic comment or bloodthirsty encouragement, had fallen uncharacteristically silent.
"Getting tired, old man?" Franklin quipped as he bisected a particularly bloated Plague Bearer. "Don't tell me you're losing your taste for battle already."
But Khaine remained quiet, his presence in Franklin's mind muted and distant. The Primarch felt a flicker of concern. In all their time together, he had never known the war god to be so subdued.
"Khaine?" Franklin pressed, his voice taking on a more serious tone even as he continued to lay waste to the daemonic horde. "What's going on? I need you with me here."
For a moment longer, there was silence. Then, finally, Khaine's voice echoed in Franklin's mind, but it was distracted, almost wistful. "I... I heard a voice, Franklin. A voice I haven't heard in millennia."
Franklin raised an eyebrow, narrowly dodging a stream of corrosive bile from a daemon. "A voice? Care to elaborate, or are we playing twenty questions while I'm trying not to get turned into nurgling chow?"
Khaine's presence seemed to refocus, a hint of his usual acerbic tone returning. "It was Isha, the Aeldari goddess of harvest, fertility, and healing. She... she was calling out to me."
Franklin paused for a fraction of a second, processing this information even as he parried a rusted blade aimed at his head. "Isha? I thought most of the Aeldari pantheon was, well, indisposed these days. No offense."
"None taken," Khaine replied dryly. "And you're not wrong. Isha's fate has been... uncertain. When I asked where she was, I felt her presence coming from the direction of Nurgle's Garden. But then she was gone, her voice fading away as quickly as it had come."
Franklin was silent for a moment, his mind working through this new information even as his body continued the deadly dance of combat. "Do you think... is there any way to help her? To rescue her?"
Khaine's laugh was bitter. "In my current state? Fragmented, a mere shard of my former self? No, Franklin. As much as I might wish otherwise, I am not strong enough to challenge Nurgle in his own realm. Not anymore."
The Primarch nodded, a grim understanding settling over him. "I'm sorry, Khaine. That can't be easy, knowing she's out there and not being able to do anything about it."
"Your sympathy is appreciated, but unnecessary," Khaine replied, some of his usual bravado returning. "Save it for the daemons you're about to send back to their pestilent master."
Franklin couldn't help but smirk at that, raising his sword for another assault. "Now that's more like the bloodthirsty god I know and tolerate. Speaking of voices, though, I don't suppose you're hearing any other divine whispers? Maybe some helpful tips on how to give these fools permanent deaths?"
Khaine's presence in Franklin's mind seemed to sharpen, focusing once more on the battle at hand. "Afraid not. Though given that most of my pantheon is either dead, eaten by Slaanesh, or otherwise occupied, I wouldn't hold out much hope for divine intervention."
"Fair enough," Franklin chuckled, cleaving through another wave of daemons. "Though I have to say, for someone who claims most of the Aeldari gods are gone, you seem to be keeping some interesting company. First you, now Isha making long-distance calls. Should I be expecting Cegorach to pop up and start telling jokes next?"
"Let's hope not," Khaine grumbled. "The last thing we need right now is that insufferable harlequin's idea of humor. Focus on the task at hand, Franklin. We may not be able to save Isha today, but we can at least send these daemons back to their foul master with our compliments."
Franklin nodded, his grip on the Deathsword tightening as he surveyed the battlefield. The last portal pulsed with malevolent energy, a constant reminder of the work yet to be done. "You're right, of course. One problem at a time. Let's close this portal and worry about rescuing goddesses later."
The air crackled with psychic energy as a fierce Warp Storm erupted, shaking the very foundations of the Liberty Spires. The skies above the battlefield twisted into impossible colors, reality itself buckling under the strain of the immaterial realm pushing against it. As if the situation wasn't dire enough, the storm had the unfortunate side effect of extending the duration of the Chaos portal, allowing a fresh wave of daemons from all four Chaos Gods to pour onto the planet's surface.
Franklin Stood as he incinerated Daemons. With a grimace that was equal parts frustration and anticipation, he muttered under his breath, "Shit. Always leave it to the Chaos Gods to make some random encounter happen. We're in the endgame now."
As if on cue, Franklin's vox crackled to life. The voice of Vladimir Mendelev, cut through the background noise of battle.
"My Lord," Vladimir's thick Russian accent was evident, his voice tense but controlled. "We have situation."
Franklin couldn't help but chuckle darkly. "You don't say, Vova. Let me guess, it has something to do with the sky trying to tear itself a new one and the sudden influx of multi-colored hostile wildlife?"
There was a brief pause before Vladimir responded, and Franklin could almost imagine his raised eyebrow on the other end.
"Your talent for understatement is unmatched, Lord Franklin. But da, this is precisely it. Our calculations show that Warp Storm has… how do you say… significantly extended duration of Chaos portal."
Franklin's mind raced, assessing the new variables in play. "How long are we looking at, Vova? Give me numbers."
Vladimir's tone grew more serious, a low grumble of frustration underlining his words. "Is difficult to say with certainty, my Lord. The Warp Storm is interfering with all our prognostications. However, best estimates suggest portal could remain open for… thirty minutes, maybe more. Liberty Spires are working their magic, after all—regardless of what Ruinous Powers want."
Franklin let out a slow breath, his eyes scanning the battlefield now filled with the frenzied masses of Chaos daemons. "Thirty minutes, huh? Alright, let's see if we can't speed things along. Keep me updated, Vladimir."
"Da, Primarch. I will monitor from here," Vladimir replied, his voice as steady as ever, despite the chaos unfolding across the planet. "But… let us hope the Spires hold, and we do not have to deal with any more 'random encounters.'"
Franklin smirked, even as he readied his weapons once more. "Wouldn't be a true fight without a few surprises, Vova. Stay sharp."
The vox link crackled into silence as Franklin ended his conversation with Vladimir. The Primarch barely had time to take a breath before a Beast of Nurgle, all tentacles and pustulent flesh, lunged at him from the chaotic melee. With a practiced motion, Franklin brought the Deathsword to bear, its Aeldari-crafted edge slicing through the daemon's corrupted form like a hot knife through butter. The beast's bifurcated halves fell to either side of the Primarch, instantly incinerating in the wake of the sword's psychic fire.
Even in the face of this unexpected Warp Storm and the fresh hordes of daemons it had brought, he felt confident in his ability to carve a path through the Daemon hordes. The Deathsword hummed contentedly in his grip, Khaine's bloodthirst momentarily sated.
It was in this fleeting moment of triumph that everything changed.
A blur of motion caught the corner of Franklin's eye, moving with a speed that defied mortal comprehension. Even with his transhuman reflexes and heightened senses, the Primarch barely had time to register the attack before it was upon him.
The assailant struck with precision, their weapon finding a minute gap in Franklin's armor that no ordinary foe could have exploited. Pain, sharp and unexpected, lanced through Franklin's side. It wasn't a mortal wound - few things could truly threaten a Primarch's life - but it was enough to stagger him, to shake his usual unflappable demeanor.
As Franklin whirled to face this new threat, his eyes widened in disbelief. Around him, he could hear the collective gasp of the nearby Liberty Eagles, their shock palpable even amidst the chaos of battle.
The identity of the assailant was so utterly impossible, so wildly out of place on this daemon-infested battlefield, that for a moment Franklin's mind struggled to comprehend it. His senses, finely honed by decades of warfare and hardened against the horrors of the galaxy, rejected what stood before him.
He hadn't expected this. He couldn't have expected this.
"No fucking way," the words escaped Franklin's lips before he could stop them, his usual eloquence deserting him in the face of this impossible scenario.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone