Capítulo 77: Chaos and Charisma
The air crackled with malevolent energy as Be'lakor, the Dark Master, stood in front of the Circle. His form was a writhing mass of shadows and malice, crowned by burning eyes that held the weight of millennia of schemes and betrayals. In his clawed hand, he wielded the Blade of Shadows, an etherblade that seemed to drink in the light around it.
Franklin Valorian, still in his ascended form of an avian-skulled war god, stood at the center of the circle. The Deathsword pulsed in his grip, resonating with the combined might of Khaine and the channeled faith of the Aeldari.
Be'lakor's voice was a symphony of whispers and screams. "Step out, little demigod. Come and face your destiny."
Franklin's response was a grim chuckle that echoed with divine power. "Sorry, pal. I'm a bit tied up at the moment. Why don't you come to me?"
The daemon prince snarled and lunged forward, the Blade of Shadows leaving trails of absolute darkness in its wake. Franklin raised the Deathsword to parry, and as the weapons met, reality itself seemed to shudder.
Franklin willed the Deathsword to change. In a flash of crimson light, it transformed into a massive war axe. The sudden shift in weight and balance caught Be'lakor off guard, and Franklin pressed his advantage. He swung the axe in a wide arc, forcing the daemon prince to retreat to the edge of the circle.
Be'lakor's wings unfurled, casting a shadow over the entire ritual site. "Impressive trick, But parlor games won't save you from the inevitable."
The daemon prince launched a flurry of attacks, each strike of the Blade of Shadows threatening to unravel the very fabric of the circle. Franklin met each blow, his movements constrained but precise. He shuffled, pivoted, and swayed within the confines of the circle, turning its limitation into a strength. Every step was calculated, every position maximized for defense and counterattack.
Realizing that ranged attacks might force Franklin to misstep, Be'lakor summoned a barrage of shadow bolts. They screamed through the air, promising oblivion. But Franklin was ready. The axe shimmered, elongating into a spear. With preternatural speed, he used it to parry everything before him, creating afterimages that dissipated the shadow bolts.
"Is that all?" Franklin taunted, his voice carrying the confidence of one who had faced down gods and monsters alike. "I thought the First Prince of Chaos would pack more of a punch."
Enraged, Be'lakor charged into the circle, his massive form looming over Franklin. The ritual space crackled and warped under the presence of such concentrated Chaotic energy. For a moment, it seemed that the sheer weight of Be'lakor's evil might shatter the circle's integrity.
"Stand still and die with dignity!" Be'lakor roared, his patience wearing thin.
Franklin's skull-face somehow managed to convey a smirk. "Now where's the fun in that?"
Be'lakor's rage manifested as a corona of dark fire around his form. He launched himself forward, the Blade of Shadows weaving a tapestry of death. Franklin met each strike, the Deathsword morphing rapidly between forms - now a halberd, now a scimitar, now a war hammer - each change perfectly timed to counter Be'lakor's assault.
The two titans traded blows at a speed that defied mortal comprehension. Be'lakor's attacks grew increasingly frenzied, each one designed not just to harm but to force Franklin out of the circle. Yet the Primarch's footwork was impeccable, a deadly dance that kept him always just within the boundary.
Realizing his strategy wasn't working, Be'lakor changed tactics. He plunged the Blade of Shadows into the floor of the chamber, sending waves of darkness rippling outward. The shadows rose up like tentacles, grasping at Franklin's legs, trying to drag him out of the circle.
Franklin's response was both swift and spectacular. Warp lightning erupted from his gauntleted fingers, arcing through the shadow tentacles and racing back towards Be'lakor. The Daemon Prince roared in agony as the lightning struck him, his form momentarily destabilizing.
Taking advantage of the opening, Franklin went on the offensive. The Deathsword became a whip of pure energy, lashing out to wrap around Be'lakor's throat. With a mighty heave, Franklin pulled the Daemon Prince off his feet and into the ritual circle.
"Welcome to my parlor," Franklin quipped, his free hand forming into a fist wreathed in psychic fire.
Be'lakor, realizing the trap he'd fallen into, fought with renewed desperation. The Blade of Shadows clashed against the Deathsword, now back in sword form, sending sparks of conflicting energies cascading around them.
The two warriors were a blur of motion within the confines of the circle, their battle a microcosm of the larger war raging throughout the craftworld. Be'lakor's mastery of shadow and deceit clashed against Franklin's adaptability and raw power.
Each time Be'lakor thought he had the upper hand, Franklin would surprise him with a new tactic. The Primarch's wings are weapons in their own right, slashing and stabbing with precision while the Deathsword kept the Blade of Shadows at bay.
Even as Franklin Valorian locked blades with Be'lakor, his heightened senses and god-like perception allowed him to survey the broader battlefield. What he witnessed was nothing short of miraculous, a sight that would be etched into the annals of both Imperial and Aeldari history.
Khaine, the Aeldari God of War, had bound the Aeldari Souls to him resulting in undying warriors of Divine Fire and Wrath. The Infinity Circuits, those vast psychic networks housing the souls of dead Aeldari, pulsed with newfound energy. From these ethereal pathways poured forth an army of the dead, each warrior wreathed in divine flame and imbued with Khaine's furious might.
These spectral Aeldari crashed into the daemonic lines with a force that shook the very foundations of the craftworld. Where once the forces of Chaos had seemed unstoppable, now they faced an opponent that matched their otherworldly nature.
A Bloodletter of Khorne, its crimson form radiating bloodlust, brought its hellblade down upon one of Khaine's summoned warriors. The blade passed through the Aeldari spirit's torso, momentarily dispersing its form. But instead of a final death, the spirit warrior simply coalesced a few feet away, its eyes burning with renewed determination as it launched a counterattack.
Across the battlefield, this scene repeated itself in countless variations. Daemonettes found their claws slicing through insubstantial forms, only to be blindsided by the very same opponents moments later. Plague Bearers of Nurgle, used to wearing down their enemies through attrition, found themselves stymied by foes that simply refused to stay dead.
Franklin watched as a group of spectral Howling Banshees, their ghostly forms still bearing the iconic aspect warrior armor, tore through a pack of Flesh Hounds. Their phantom blades keened with a sound that cut through the cacophony of battle, banishing daemon flesh back to the warp. When a Flesh Hound managed to clamp its jaws around a Banshee's arm, severing it at the elbow, the limb simply regrew in a burst of divine fire.
Near the heart of the conflict, a massive Greater Daemon of Tzeentch unleashed a barrage of warp fire, incinerating dozens of the spectral Aeldari. For a moment, it seemed as though the tide might turn back in Chaos' favor. But then, from the ashes of the fallen, the same warriors rose again. Their forms reconstituted, faces set in grim determination, they charged back into the fray with undiminished vigor.
The implications of what Franklin witnessed were staggering. Khaine had effectively created an army that mirrored the daemonic legions in their ability to reconstitute after defeat, but one fueled by righteous fury rather than Chaotic corruption. It was a master stroke in the battle for Altansar, turning the craftworld's tragic history of death into a weapon against its tormentors.
As he parried another of Be'lakor's strikes, Franklin's mind raced with the tactical possibilities this development presented. The stalemate that had formed was unlike anything seen before in the long war against Chaos. For every daemon banished, a spectral Aeldari warrior stood ready to continue the fight. For every spirit temporarily dispersed, another would take its place until it could reform.
In one section of the battlefield, Franklin observed a group of phantom Fire Dragons unleashing their fusion guns upon a Soul Grinder. The daemon engine's armor melted under the assault, its form destabilizing. As it thrashed in its death throes, it managed to crush several of the Fire Dragons beneath its bulk. Yet even as their forms dissipated, Franklin could see the same warriors reforming at the edges of the conflict, ready to rejoin the battle.
The air itself seemed charged with a new energy. The psychic resonance of countless Aeldari souls, fueled by Khaine's divine power, created a tempest of emotion and will. It was a maelstrom of determination, rage, hope, and vengeance – the collected fury of a race that had suffered under the yoke of Slaanesh for Centuries, now given a chance to strike back.
As the conflict raged on, Franklin noticed another fascinating development. The living Aeldari fighting alongside their spectral kin seemed emboldened beyond measure. Where once they might have fought with the grim determination of a race on the brink of extinction, now they battled with the fervor of those who had glimpsed a new hope. The knowledge that even death might not be the end, that they too could continue the fight beyond their mortal constraints, lent them a fearlessness that even the most battle-hardened Aspect Warriors had rarely displayed.
In the midst of this epic clash, Franklin caught sight of his son, Henry Cavill, fighting alongside a mixed unit of living and spectral Aeldari. The Primaris Space Marine moved efficiently, his combat style perfectly complementing the Aeldari warriors around him. As Franklin watched, a daemon's blade sliced clean through one of Henry's spectral allies. Without missing a beat, Henry adjusted his stance to cover the temporarily fallen warrior, holding the line until his comrade's form reconstituted moments later.
As Be'lakor pressed another attack, forcing Franklin's attention back to their duel, the Primarch felt a surge of renewed determination. What he had witnessed was more than just a tactical advantage; it was a fundamental shift in the nature of the war against Chaos.
Franklin, still constrained within the ritual circle, felt the tide of battle shift. Each clash with Be'lakor sent shockwaves through the craftworld, but something was changing. The First Daemon Prince, despite taking grievous wounds that should have banished him back to the Warp, kept coming back stronger.
The battle had been raging for what felt like centuries, though in reality, it had probably only been a few hours. Time tends to lose meaning when you're locked in mortal combat with the First Daemon Prince while simultaneously channeling the power of an Aeldari god. Just another Tuesday for the Liberator.
Be'lakor, looking far too cheerful for someone who had been bisected more times than Franklin cared to count, was proving to be a particularly annoying dance partner. The Daemon Prince's latest party trick? Getting stronger with every passing second.
"Having trouble keeping up, Liberator?" Be'lakor taunted, his voice a symphony of malice and far too much self-satisfaction. "The Gods have blessed me with limitless power!"
Franklin rolled his eyes, an impressive feat considering his current avian skull visage. 'Limitless power, limited creativity. Last time I fought an Undivided bitch I got shanked' Franklin thought and fired back "Have you considered taking up knitting instead? Might be less stressful."
Be'lakor's response was a roar of fury and a barrage of shadow bolts that Franklin deflected with a casual flick of his wings. Show-off, he thought, not entirely sure if he was referring to Be'lakor or himself.
As they clashed again, Franklin couldn't help but notice a pattern. With each exchange, Be'lakor seemed to be getting just a tad stronger, a smidge faster. It was like fighting a particularly angry sponge that absorbed power instead of water.
Great, Franklin thought, he's like my doppelganger, one of those video game bosses that gets stronger the longer you fight. Didn't know the Chaos Gods were into game design and history.
Aloud, he quipped, "You know, Be'lakor, if you wanted a workout buddy, you could have just asked. I know a great gym back in Nova Libertas."
The Daemon Prince's eyes narrowed, clearly not appreciating Franklin's attempt at levity. "Joke while you can, Liberator. Soon, you'll fall, and Khaine will follow. The dominos are set."
Franklin's mind raced, processing the implications even as he parried another devastating blow. So that's their game. Take me out, and the whole house of cards comes tumbling down. No pressure or anything.
"Dominos?" Franklin replied, his voice dripping with feigned innocence. "And here I thought we were playing chess. No wonder I'm losing – I've been moving all the wrong pieces!"
Be'lakor's frustration was palpable, manifesting as waves of dark energy that rippled through the ritual chamber. Franklin had to admit, it was a clever plan. He was the lynchpin, the connection between the mortal realm and Khaine's divine power. If he fell...
Well, let's not think about that, Franklin mused, narrowly avoiding a blow that would have taken his head clean off. Focus on the positives. Like how I'm getting one hell of a workout.
The battle raged on, a deadly dance of blade and shadow. Franklin found himself grudgingly impressed by Be'lakor's tenacity. The Daemon Prince had taken enough damage to fell a small army, yet he kept coming back for more, each time a little stronger, a little faster.
Franklin panted, deflecting another savage attack, "most people would have the decency to stay down after being cut in half a few dozen times. Didn't your mother teach you any manners?"
Be'lakor's laugh was a thing of nightmares, echoing with the power of the Warp itself. "My mother? Oh, Liberator, you jest. I ascended to immortality the mortal you call my mother has no hold on me. And they have decreed that you shall fall this day."
Franklin's retort was cut short as he caught a glimpse of something odd amidst the swirling chaos of battle. A man with black hair and an unassuming face was leading a group of Aeldari warriors with a skill and familiarity that seemed... out of place.
Huh, Franklin thought, narrowly avoiding a shadow tendril aimed at his midriff. That's not something you see every day. A human leading Aeldari? Must be one hell of a charisma roll.
But he couldn't afford to dwell on the strange sight. Be'lakor was pressing his advantage, each blow resonating with the dark blessing of the Chaos Gods. Franklin found himself being pushed back, inch by precious inch, towards the edge of the ritual circle.
Okay, this is getting a bit dicey, Franklin admitted to himself, his usual bravado slipping just a fraction. Time to change tactics.
With a thought, he willed the Deathsword to change form. The blade shimmered and morphed, becoming a massive war hammer that crackled with divine energy.
"Let's see how you like this, you overgrown shadow puppet," Franklin growled, swinging the hammer in a wide arc.
Be'lakor, caught off guard by the sudden change, failed to dodge in time. The hammer connected with a thunderous crash, sending the Daemon Prince flying across the chamber. For a moment, Franklin allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.
But his victory was short-lived. Be'lakor rose once more, his form knitting itself back together before Franklin's eyes. The Daemon Prince's laughter echoed through the chamber, a sound of pure, malevolent joy.
"Don't you see?" Be'lakor crowed. "The more you struggle, the more power I receive. Your every effort only hastens your doom!"
Franklin's mind raced, processing this new information. So, the harder I fight, the stronger he gets. Talk about a lose-lose situation. If this were a video game, I'd be demanding a refund.
Aloud, he quipped, "Well, that hardly seems fair. Did you bribe the referee when I wasn't looking?"
Be'lakor's only response was another devastating attack, his blade coming within a hair's breadth of breaching Franklin's defenses. The Primarch found himself on the back foot, desperately parrying and dodging, all while trying to maintain his position within the ritual circle.
As he fought, Franklin's mind whirled with possible solutions. Can't beat him by brute force. Can't outlast him. Can't let him win. Great. Just great. This is why I prefer straightforward problems, like how to fit more dakka onto a Titan.
The battle raged on, a stalemate of escalating power. With each passing moment, Be'lakor grew stronger, his attacks becoming increasingly difficult to counter. But Franklin held his ground, his determination as unyielding as his humor was relentless.
"You know," Franklin panted, deflecting another impossibly strong blow, "most people bring flowers or chocolates when they want attention this badly. Your courtship methods need work, Be'lakor."
The Daemon Prince's roar of frustration was music to Franklin's ears. Good, he thought. Angry opponents make mistakes. Now if only I could figure out how to capitalize on those mistakes without making him even stronger...
As they clashed again, Franklin caught another glimpse of the black-haired man and his Aeldari companions. They were fighting their way towards the ritual chamber, cutting through hordes of lesser daemons with surprising efficiency.
Curiouser and curiouser, Franklin mused, narrowly avoiding a shadow tendril aimed at his throat. If I didn't know better, I'd say that fellow looks an awful lot like...
His train of thought was abruptly derailed as Be'lakor launched a particularly vicious assault, forcing Franklin to focus all his attention on defense. The Daemon Prince was a whirlwind of shadow and malice, each attack carrying the weight of the Chaos Gods' blessing.
"Your struggle is futile, Liberator!" Be'lakor crowed, his voice dripping with dark triumph. "With each moment, I grow stronger. Soon, not even your vaunted willpower will be enough to stop me!"
Franklin gritted his teeth, feeling the strain of maintaining both the battle and the ritual. He's not wrong, he admitted to himself. This is getting dicey. Need to think of something fast, or this little escapade might have a very unhappy ending.
But even as the situation grew increasingly dire, Franklin couldn't help but find a spark of humor in the absurdity of it all. Here he was, a demigod of freedom, locked in an eternal struggle with a power-hungry daemon, all while trying to maintain his footing in a mystical circle.
If someone had told me this is how I'd be spending my Tuesday, Franklin mused, I'd have asked them what they were smoking and where I could get some.
Status de energia semanal
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