The Primarch of Liberty

Reality twisted like a knife in flesh. One moment, John Ezra stood on the crystalline surface of the Crone World; the next, he found himself thrust into Nurgle's domain. The transition was seamless, professional – much like John himself. He didn't waste time wondering how or why. In his line of work, adaptation meant survival.

The realm of decay spread before him like a diseased canvas. The ground pulsed beneath his feet, a living carpet of rot and regeneration. The air itself felt thick with spores and pestilence, though his mechsuit's filtration systems whirred efficiently, protecting him from the worst of it. Bloated beasts shambled through the putrescent fog, their laughter a cacophony of gurgling mirth that echoed across the diseased landscape.

John's response was immediate and methodical. The Phosphex Incinerator Cannon hummed to life, its targeting systems painting the approaching horde in sharp relief. Green fire erupted from the weapon's maw, painting lines of eternal flame across the battlefield. Where it touched, it stayed, burning with an intensity that even Nurgle's endless cycle of decay and rebirth struggled to overcome.

"Predictable patterns. Manageable threats," John muttered to himself, his voice as level as if he were filing a routine report. His Smart Missile Launchers acquired multiple targets, they launched in precise arcs, breaking up the larger concentrations of enemies.

The daemons' laughter turned to shrieks as the missiles found their marks, but John knew better than to celebrate early. In this realm, death was merely an inconvenience. His HUD flashed warning signals as something massive approached – a presence that made the very reality around him shudder with corrupt anticipation.

A booming, gurgling laugh echoed across the battlefield. The sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, resonating with the corrupt ground itself. Through the curtain of burning Phosphex emerged a mountainous form – a Greater Daemon of Nurgle, its massive body a cathedral of decay. Rolls of necrotic flesh hung from its frame, each fold housing countless diseases. Its single eye, surprisingly clear and intelligent, fixed upon John with grandfatherly amusement.

"John" it spoke, its voice a wet, affectionate wheeze. "Such dedication. Such persistence. Grandfather Nurgle has watched you with great interest." The daemon's massive form shifted, releasing clouds of spores that died against John's shields. "Your service never ends, does it? Your duty weighs heavily, a chain that binds you to endless toil."

John's response was another burst of Phosphex fire, which the daemon barely noticed itself on fire. It continued speaking, its tone almost gentle. "Accept my gifts, little one. I offer you freedom from death itself. Your warriors would serve you with undying loyalty – literally." It chuckled at its own joke, the sound like bubbling pus. "No more fear of failure, no more worry about losing those under your command. In my garden, everything grows back."

"No." John's reply was flat, absolute. He maintained his firing pattern while analyzing the daemon's movement patterns. The Smart Missile Launchers continued their work, keeping the lesser daemons at bay.

"Think carefully," the daemon persisted. "Your burden is too heavy for any mortal. Let me take it from you. In my realm, there is only acceptance, only peace."

"Peace through slavery isn't peace." John's mechsuit's systems warned of increasing contamination levels. The environment itself was turning against him, pustules erupting from the ground in expanding circles. "Liberty doesn't bargain with slavery."

The daemon's affable demeanor cracked slightly. "Then die, little one. Die and feed my garden with your corpse."

The battle intensified. John's Phosphex created a maze of eternal fire, but the Greater Daemon pushed through it, its regenerative powers matching the weapon's destructive potential. The Smart Missile Launchers found their marks but seemed to cause only superficial damage to the massive entity. Slowly but surely, John found himself being cornered, the tactical space around him shrinking with each passing moment.

Lesser daemons pressed in from all sides, their diseased forms blocking every avenue of escape. The Greater Daemon loomed above him, triumphant. "Your defiance ends here, little one. Accept Grandfather's embrace."

The daemon's grandfather-like demeanor cracked, revealing the ancient malevolence beneath. It lurched forward with surprising speed, its bulk sending waves through the corrupted ground. Plagues poured from its maw, and the very air became a weapon, thick with diseases that could rot a man's soul.

John's mechsuit systems began flashing warnings. The environment was becoming too toxic even for its advanced filtration. He found himself being forced back, step by step, his weapons seemingly useless against the daemon's advance. The surrounding forces of Nurgle pressed in, their laughter now triumphant as they sensed victory approaching.

Cornered against a wall of pulsing flesh, John reached for his final option. The Tachyon Arrow powered up on his gauntlet, Its compact form concealed its immense power, crackling with untapped energy, primed to unleash devastation at nearly the speed of light.

With deliberate calm, John reached for his gauntlet's hidden compartment. The Tachyon Arrow system powered up with a high-pitched whine, its targeting systems interfacing with his neural links.

"There's a saying Father always used to say," John stated, his voice carrying no hint of fear or doubt. "Delete That Way."

The Tachyon Arrow launched with a crack of displaced air, the projectile accelerating to light speed in microseconds. It struck the Greater Daemon dead center, the kinetic energy transferring through its corrupt form like a thunderbolt of judgment. For a moment, reality seemed to bend around the impact point.

Then the daemon exploded, its physical form unable to contain the devastating energy. The explosion rippled outward, taking its lesser servants with it in a chain reaction of banishment. The pocket dimension, anchored to its master's presence, began to collapse.

John found himself back on the Crone World, standing exactly where he had been before the transition. The only evidence of his ordeal was the lingering smell of ozone from the Tachyon Arrow's discharge and the slight scoring on his armor from acidic demon blood.

He checked his weapon systems – Phosphex reserves at 64%, missile ammunition at 58%, all systems nominal. Without a word, he moved to rejoin his brothers in battle. There would be time for reports later. Right now, there was work to be done, and freedom to defend.

In the distance, the sounds of battle continued, punctuated by the war cries of the Liberty Eagles. "LIBERTY OR DEATH!" they shouted, and John Ezra, man of few words, silently agreed.

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The clash between Franklin and the Warshard transformed the battlefield into an infernal forge. Each strike of their weapons released waves of heat that melted the ancient ground beneath them, turning millennium-old stone into bubbling slag. The air itself seemed to burn, creating a dome of shimmering heat that distorted the very fabric of reality around their combat.

Franklin moved with calculated precision, his divine form a blur of burning metal and righteous fury. His wing-blades sang through the air as he pressed his advantage, forcing the Warshard to give ground. In a movement too fast for mortal eyes to follow, he feinted left before executing a devastating slash that nearly separated the Warshard's head from its shoulders.

"Excellent form!" Khaine's voice rang with genuine approval in Franklin's mind. "Though I must say, watching oneself nearly get decapitated is a peculiar experience."

"Just trying to give you a closer look at yourself," Franklin quipped back, transforming one of his wing-blades into a shield to deflect the Warshard's counterattack. The impact sent tremors through the air, creating sonic booms that shattered what remained of the nearby ruins.

The Warshard, showing why it had earned its reputation, used the momentum of its deflected strike to spin into a savage thrust. Franklin caught the blade with his metallic wings, the screech of god-forged metal against metal echoing across the battlefield. In a fluid motion, he transformed Anaris from sword to spear, attempting to impale his opponent through its core. The Warshard's dodge was perfect, leaning just enough to avoid the killing blow while maintaining its defensive posture.

"You see what I mean?" Khaine commented, a note of pride evident in his psychic voice. "That level of skill? That's all me. Well, a fragment of me, but still impressive, wouldn't you say?"

Franklin rolled his burning eyes as he redirected the spear into a sweeping strike. "Are you actually bragging about how hard you're making this for me? That's peak god behavior right there."

"Of course I am!" Khaine's laughter resonated through Franklin's consciousness. "I'm the God of War and Murder! False modesty would be an insult to us both. Besides, look at how well you're handling it. Most beings would have been reduced to atoms by now."

Their banter paused as Franklin executed a complex series of strikes, forcing the Warshard onto the defensive. The air around them had become so hot that it was turning to plasma, creating a corona of destruction that would have instantly vaporized any mortal who dared approach. The Warshard fought with the pure, unrestrained violence of its nature, while Franklin combined his transhuman abilities with Khaine's divine power, creating a fighting style unlike anything seen since the War in Heaven.

During a brief moment of respite as both combatants reset their positions, Khaine's attention shifted to the broader battlefield. Their battle carried them higher into the air, twin forms of divine power leaving contrails of fire across the sky. Below, the battle raged on, and Khaine's attention shifted to the Primarch's sons.

"Watch your Primeborn, young one," Khaine commented as John Ezra, last of the enhanced captains to face his trial, finally broke through his opponent's defense. "They prove themselves worth their lineage with each passing moment. To best Greater Daemons in single combat... do you know how rare such skill is? Perhaps one in a million warriors across all of history could claim such a feat."

Franklin executed a complex series of strikes, forcing the Warshard back several steps. "They've earned every bit of power they've gained," he replied proudly, though his attention never wavered from his opponent.

True enough, Khaine agreed, then added with knowing amusement, Though I'd bet my remaining shards that if any of them showed even a moment's weakness, you'd break off this fight in an instant to save them. Probably throw whatever daemon was threatening them right at my Warshard too.

Franklin's laughter rang out across the battlefield as he parried another earth-shattering blow. "What can I say?" he responded, transitioning smoothly into a counterattack. "That's fatherhood for you, oh bloody-handed one. We tend to be a bit protective."

The casual nature of their exchange suddenly struck Khaine, causing a moment of profound realization. When had he, the God of War and Murder, become so... comfortable with casual banter? The deity who had once demanded blood sacrifice and absolute reverence now found himself trading jokes with a transhuman demigod in the midst of combat.

How peculiar, Khaine mused, his presence in Franklin's mind taking on a thoughtful quality even as they continued their lethal combat with the Warshard. When did this begin, I wonder? This... familiarity?

"Having an existential crisis mid-battle?" Franklin teased, spinning Anaris in a complex pattern that sent cascading waves of force radiating outward. "That's not very god of war-like of you."

Says the transhuman demigod currently wielding my power while making quips, Khaine retorted, but there was warmth in his mental voice. Perhaps... perhaps this change isn't entirely unwelcome.

The battle raged on, god and demigod working in perfect synchronization against the mindless fury of the Warshard. Yet something had shifted, some fundamental understanding between them deepening. The God of War and Murder had indeed changed, transformed not by violence or sacrifice, but by something as simple as friendship.

Below them, the Liberty Eagles continued their own battles, their war cries of "FREEDOM OR NOTHING!" echoing across the battlefield. The Primeborn captains led their forces with precision and power, living up to their father's example. And above it all, Franklin and Khaine – both the one in his mind and the shard he fought – danced their dance of destruction, each strike bringing them closer to their goal of reunification.

The ground continued to melt, the air continued to burn, and two aspects of war itself continued their deadly ballet. But now there was something more than just violence in their exchange – there was understanding, respect, and perhaps most surprisingly of all, genuine camaraderie.

"Ready to become whole again?" Franklin asked both Khaine and the Warshard, his wings spreading wide in preparation for his next assault.

Indeed, Khaine responded, his presence burning with anticipation. Though I must admit, this conversation has been... enlightening.

"We can psychoanalyze your personal growth later," Franklin said, readying Anaris for what he hoped would be a decisive strike. "Right now, let's focus on the family reunion."

In that singular moment, reality bent beneath the weight of divine convergence. Franklin's form, wreathed in burning divinity, struck with the precision of an eagle taking its prey. The Warshard's attempt at interception came too late, its blade carving empty air as Franklin banked left with impossible grace. Anaris, responding to its wielder's will, transformed from sword to glaive, its edge singing with the accumulated violence of ages.

Steel met steel in a cascade of sparks that illuminated the battlefield like a newborn star. Yet it was not the clash of weapons that would decide this battle, but the power of a word spoken with divine authority.

"Power Word: STUN!"

The command tore through reality itself, freezing the Warshard in place for the briefest moment - a mere half-second in mortal time, an eternity in the dance of gods. It was enough. Anaris, guided by Franklin's unwavering hand, found its mark in the Warshard's heart.

The implosion began slowly, a gathering of forces beyond mortal comprehension. Then, in a flash that seared itself into the memory of all who witnessed it, Khaine manifested. His voice, the sound of armies clashing and cities falling, erupted across dimensions:

"I LIVE!"

Franklin watched with hidden amusement as his divine friend reveled in his partial restoration as he felt Khaine's blessing gave him stronger buffs. For a being of Khaine's stature, even reclaiming a fragment of himself was a moment of sacred significance. The power radiating from the God of War and Murder sent ripples through both materium and immaterium, touching all who bore his mark across the galaxy.

On Craftworld Ulthwé, Eldrad Ulthran's meditation was shattered by a vision of such intensity that it cracked the wraithbone walls around him. The Farseer's eyes snapped open, blazing with psychic fire as the message burned itself into his consciousness: Khaine was growing stronger.

"The Hand moves," Eldrad whispered, his voice carrying both awe and trepidation. "The mon-keigh prince proves himself worthy yet again."

The runes scattered before him arranged themselves into patterns unseen for millennia, speaking of possibilities that even his ancient mind struggled to comprehend. In the swirling futures that danced before his inner eye, he saw the shadow of avian wings stretching across stars, and beneath them, the bloody hand of Khaine reaching toward completion.

In the Shrine of Dire Avengers, the Phoenix Lord Asurmen stood motionless as the wave of power washed over him. The first of his kind, he who had walked the Path of the Warrior before any other, felt Khaine's growing strength like a physical force.

"So," he spoke to the empty shrine, his voice carrying the weight of ages, "the cycle turns again. The god grows stronger, and with a fellow brother, our hope."

Across the galaxy, in hidden places and ancient temples, the Phoenix Lords felt the surge of divine power. Maugan Ra's grip tightened on the Maugetar as he felt his patron's strength grow. Jain Zar's blade danced faster as new energy flowed through her form. Baharroth's wings caught fire with renewed purpose.

Each of them, in their own way, acknowledged the significance of the moment. The Hand of Khaine had found another shard, and not just any shard - one of immense power. The balance of divine power was shifting, and with it, the fate of galaxies.

In the Warp, reality rippled with the aftermath. The daemons that had poured through reality's tears in the Croneworld found themselves facing true death - not the mere banishment they had known before, but complete annihilation. Their screams of terror caught the attention of their dark masters, and for the first time in millennia, the Ruinous Powers knew fear.

Khorne's brass throne shook with barely contained rage as he felt his lesser daemons being erased from existence. Tzeentch's countless plans shifted and writhed, trying to account for this new variable. Nurgle's garden withered slightly at the edges, decay itself recoiling from Khaine's restored might. And in her palace of excess, Slaanesh felt something she had not known since her birth - uncertainty.

The four great powers of Chaos did what they had not done since the birth of Slaanesh - they retreated. Portals slammed shut across the battlefield, cutting off their daemonic legions. Better to sacrifice these pawns than risk true death touching their greater servants. The calculus was simple: even fragments of their power were too precious to waste against a resurgent god of war.

As the battlefield cleared of warp entities, Khaine turned to Franklin, his form simultaneously more solid and more terrible than before. The god of war and murder had changed, yes, but in this moment his aspect was purely martial - a being of blade and blood and terrible purpose.

"My champion," he spoke, his voice carrying both affection and ancient power, "we draw closer to completion. The Ruinous Powers flee before us, and my strength grows. Yet this is but a step on our path."

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Time coiled around Franklin like an ancient serpent, freezing the battlefield in a tableau of ambered stasis. The lingering presence of Khaine's wrath dissipated into embers, but something similar seeped into the space, carrying the gravity of eons. The warrior's instinct gripped Franklin as he turned, sensing the shift in reality.

Franklin turned, his post-battle satisfaction giving way to warrior's instinct. There, standing amid the frozen tableau of victory, was his father - yet not quite the father he knew. The Emperor's presence was both diminished and magnified, like a star in its dying moments, burning all the brighter for its approaching end. Lines of care and exhaustion marked a face that should have been eternally young, and his eyes... his eyes carried the weight of futures that should never have been.

"Well, Dad," Franklin quipped, masking unease with bravado. "What's this? A bad Titsnitch knockoff? Or is the aged sage look trending in the Warp?"

Yet even as he spoke, Franklin knew this was no illusion. The power emanating from the Emperor was not just immense—it was different. This was not the father who wore invincibility like armor but a being shaped by unimaginable loss. His smile, faint and bittersweet, told stories too vast for words.

"It's good to see you again, my son." The words carried epochs of meaning, each syllable weighted with unspoken loss. "Though I suppose for you, we have never been parted."

A/N: Next time on Primarch of Liberty: —Franklin faces the Emperor's plan! Can the Primarch withstand the crushing weight of destiny? Or will Chaos break him before the truth is revealed? Find out... next time!