The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 148: Magnus the Reds?



The barren surface of Vigilarus bore witness to a clash of titanic proportions. Beneath a sky turned crimson by Magnus's ritual, three demigods engaged in a battle that would echo through the ages. Franklin Valorian, the Liberator, faced his fallen brothers-Fulgrim, the daemon-possessed Phoenician, and Angron, the eternally rage-consumed Red Angel.

The battlefield vibrated with the psychic resonance of the Emperor holding back the Chaos Gods in the distance. Magnus chanted incantations to save his Thousand Sons from the flesh- change, his efforts casting arcs of power into the sky. But here, on Vigilarus's broken plains, Franklin fought his own war.

"Try harder, Fulgrim!" Franklin's voice carried above the din of battle as he parried a flurry of slashes from the serpentine primarch. Anaris, burned with divine hatred as it met each of Fulgrim's Lethal graceful strikes. "For someone obsessed with perfection, you're really dropping the ball today. Did you skip arm day or something?"

Fulgrim hissed, his once-glorious visage now a mask of fury, corrupted by the influence of Slaanesh. "You dare mock me, you insipid mongrel?!" His four arms lashed out, each wielding a blade forged in the crucible of damnation.

"Yeah, I dare," Franklin replied with a smirk, sidestepping another lightning-fast strike. "It's sort of my thing. What's yours? Losing your temper? No wonder you're everyone's least favorite."

Behind Franklin, the ground quaked with the furious charge of Angron. The Red Angel's chain-axe screamed with murderous glee, sparks flying as it's teeth made trails across the ground. Franklin heard him coming without looking, his combat instincts processing every threat simultaneously.

Fulgrim, sensing Angron's approach, smirked. "Angron, crush this insolent fool beneath your heel!"

But coordination was never Angron's strong suit. With a bellow of rage, he ignored Fulgrim's elegant strategy and barreled toward Franklin like a living battering ram.

Franklin acted instantly. Pivoting on his heel, he caught Fulgrim's blades in a dazzling series of parries before locking them with Anaris. In the same motion, he reached out and grabbed Fulgrim's serpentine tail.

"What are you doing, you cretin-" Fulgrim began, only to have his words cut off as Franklin hurled him with a mighty heave straight into the oncoming Angron.

The collision was apocalyptic. Fulgrim's elongated body wrapped around Angron like a constricting python as the two were sent sprawling through a jagged crystal formation. The impact shattered the structure, sending shards of crystal flying across the battlefield like razor-edged hail.

As the dust settled, Angron roared in frustration, his chain-axes lost in the debris. Fulgrim snarled in a mix of languages-Eldar, Daemonic, and unfiltered profanity-as he attempted to untangle his serpentine body from Angron's armored form.

"You absolute imbecile!" Fulgrim screeched, his voice oscillating between a silken tenor and a guttural growl. "Watch where you're charging, you brainless brute!"

Angron responded with a furious swing of his remaining arm, smacking Fulgrim across his already battered face. "Shut up, you perfumed worm!" he bellowed. "I was killing him before you got in the way!"

Fulgrim hissed, glaring at his brother while trying to wrench free from their entangled forms. "Killing him? You couldn't kill a drunken grox, you red-faced simpleton!"

Franklin watched the exchange with a bemused expression, casually resting Anaris on his shoulder. "Wow. Family reunions with you two must be a real hoot. Do you always play nice, or is this just a special occasion?"

Both daemon primarchs turned their attention back to Franklin, their rage momentarily redirected. Fulgrim's once-golden armor was now tarnished with burns and crystalline shards embedded in his flesh. Angron, his Butcher's Nails sparking wildly, loomed like a mountain of seething hatred.

The ritual circle faded, its crimson glow dispersing like smoke in the wind. Magnus stood amidst the stillness, his eye surveying the Thousand Sons. Their forms were stable, their flesh no longer betraying them. For the first time since their creation, his sons were whole.

Magnus flexed his hand, feeling the lingering psychic energies. "Right then," he muttered to himself, "crisis averted. Now for the existential dread." Reaching out through the Warp, he connected to the Emperor's mind.

"Father. It is done." His voice was laced with triumph, though it faltered as doubt crept in. "But what now?"

The Emperor's response came swiftly, resonating with the weight of the Immaterium itself. Through their connection, Magnus glimpsed his father's current state-a radiant figure of pure golden energy standing as an unyielding bulwark against an endless tide of writhing darkness.

"Well done, Magnus. But don't start patting yourself on the back just yet," the Emperor replied, his tone both weary and wry. "The Ruinous Powers have noticed. And they are... let's say, extremely displeased."

Magnus frowned, his single eye narrowing. His gaze flicked toward the battlefield, where Franklin Valorian's laughter rang out over the clamor of war. The Liberator clashed with Fulgrim and Angron, his weapon blazing with golden fire as he danced through the chaos with almost insulting ease.

"Franklin? Surely not," Magnus replied, incredulous. "He's not even... I mean, he helped, but why would they-?"

The Emperor's voice carried a rare note of amusement, like a cosmic parent suppressing a chuckle at a particularly naive child.

"Your brother is unique, Magnus," the Emperor explained. "Across the infinite permutations of existence, he alone remains impervious to Chaos. No temptation, no scheme, no power can sway him. He is, for lack of a better term, an absolute irritant."

Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose. "So, let me get this straight. Franklin's very presence is unraveling their plans, and their solution is to dogpile him like disgruntled fans at a

convention?"

"Precisely," the Emperor confirmed, his tone tinged with amusement. "Warn him, Magnus. Chaos is mustering its full strength. They'll throw everything at him before reality reasserts

itself."

Through their connection, Magnus could sense the immense strain his father was enduring. The Emperor's psychic might remained unshakable, a radiant pillar of golden power standing resolute against four distinct cosmic forces. This was not a battle of raw strength; the Emperor's power could outlast the Chaos Gods' relentless attempts. He stood unwavering, like an unyielding wall of light in the face of infinite darkness. Yet, the enormity of the task was undeniable. The mental image was vivid: his father stood like Atlas-not holding up the world, but holding back four universe-shattering abominations, each one striving to pry open the fabric of reality like a gate, sending their champions to inject their influence into the

world.

"The Chaos Gods are expending tremendous energy, pushing their influence far beyond the Eye of Terror and the Cadian Gate," Magnus remarked, his mind analyzing the situation with cold precision. "It's not that you lack the power to contain them, Father. You're not facing them directly. Instead, you're intercepting their attempts to channel their strength into their champions, halting the assassins before they can strike."

The Emperor's psychic presence flared, a burst of golden light in the immaterium. Yet, there was no anger, only an unwavering focus, a determination that pulsed through the very air. "Correct," he affirmed. "They are trying to slip their power through the cracks, seeking to empower their chosen and tip the scales in their favor"

Magnus felt the weight of his father's words, the sheer strain beneath them. The Emperor's psychic might was vast, yet stretched thin, as he defended multiple points of entry. "A dangerous game they play," Magnus mused, his voice tinged with awe. "But they are squandering their strength. They cannot maintain this assault for much longer, can they?"

"No," the Emperor replied, his psychic barriers reinforcing themselves in perfect synchronization, "But for now, it is not about endurance. It is a matter of timing. I must intercept their efforts at the right moment. This is not a battle of attrition, Magnus, but a delicate operation. The closer their champions come to their end, the more desperate their attempts to pour power into them will become."

Magnus sighed, glancing toward Franklin's distant figure. "He's going to make a joke about this, isn't he? Something along the lines of, 'Oh no, the big scary gods are mad at me. Whatever shall I do?""

The Emperor smirked at the thought "You know your brother well. Go to him. Quickly."

"Fine," Magnus relented. "But if he starts laughing mid-battle, I'm blaming you for enabling him."

Magnus turned to his legion. "Ahzek!" he called, his voice echoing like thunder. "Lead the Thousand Sons into the fray! Show the galaxy what it means to stand as one!" Ahriman saluted sharply. "By your will, father!" he replied, rallying the warriors. "Thousand

Sons, to battle!"

As his legion advanced, Magnus spread his psychic wings, preparing to take flight. He paused briefly, sending one last thought to the Emperor. "Father... thank you. For everything."

The Emperor's response was warm, yet resolute. "Thank your brother, too. He is the lynchpin of this victory. Now go, Magnus. The storm approaches." Magnus took to the skies, his single eye locked on the battlefield where Franklin continued to duel two daemon primarchs. The Liberator's voice carried through the air.

"Well, Angron," Franklin said with a wink, "I always heard you were a bit... one-sided in your approach, but I didn't think you'd take it that literally."

He chuckled, the sound booming, echoing across the battlefield. Angron's eyes flared with rage, but Franklin just shrugged, unfazed.

"Come on," he added with a casual flick of his wrist. "If you're looking for a hand, just ask. I'm sure someone around here can spare one... though you might have to settle for a right one instead, and Fulgrim, that sword's compensating for something, isn't it?"

Magnus groaned aloud as he flew. "Chaos is about to throw the entire Warp at him, and he's heckling them like a court jester. This timeline is going to give me an ulcer."

The crimson sky above darkened, the Warp's pressure growing. Magnus increased his speed, muttering to himself as he neared the battle. "At least Franklin's ridiculous antics make him

easy to find."

The skies of Vigilarus trembled as Franklin in his transcendent Warp God form, wielded

Fulgrim's serpentine body like an improvised weapon against Angron. The impact sent both Daemon Primarchs sprawling, but Franklin's enhanced senses detected another threat - a miasma of decay and pestilence approaching from behind.

Without hesitation, Franklin dropped from his position, his steel wings flaring as he spiraled around his would-be ambusher. The stench hit him first - a nauseating wave of rot and corruption that would have felled a lesser being. Mortarion, the Death Lord, stood before

him, transformed by Nurgle's "blessings" into a towering monstrosity of decay and resilience.

"By the Throne," Franklin quipped, his avian skull-helm casting divine flames into the

corrupted air, "do all Nurgle's chosen smell this bad, or are you just trying extra hard to

impress me?" Mortarion's response came through a vox-grille corroded by centuries of toxic exposure. "You will die and embrace Grandfather's gifts, brother. All things rot. All things decay." The Death Lord's presence alone caused the ground beneath him to blacken and wither.

But where Mortarion's aura of decay spread outward, Franklin's own divine radiance blazed

like a newborn sun. Where the two auras met, Franklin's flames of purity burned away the corruption, causing Mortarion to take an involuntary step backward. The sight of his brother's pestilent powers being countered so easily caused the first flicker of uncertainty in

Mortarion's toxic-green eyes.

"Funny thing about decay," Franklin responded, Anaris blazing in his grip, "it tends to burn

away pretty quick under the right circumstances."

Before he could press his advantage, Franklin's combat instincts screamed a warning. The

space around him began to fold and twist, reality itself attempting to crush him in its

distorted grip. Lesser beings would have been trapped, crushed into nothing by the spatial manipulation.

Franklin wasn't a lesser being.

With nonchalant poise he clenched his right fist and struck the folding space itself. The impact

created a sound like reality screaming, as cracks appeared in the very air. A massive shockwave of counter-force exploded outward, racing toward its source - another corrupted brother, the Daemon Primarch version of Magnus the Red.

This Magnus was a far cry from the noble being who even now raced to warn his brother of coming danger. Twisted by Tzeentch's influence, the daemon version of Magnus floated above the battlefield, his single eye blazing with warp-fire, his crimson form wreathed in

impossible geometries.

Franklin's laughter echoed across the battlefield as he took in the tableau before him. Angron and Fulgrim were extracting themselves from their tangled collision, Mortarion stood wreathed in his failing miasma of decay, and daemon Magnus hovered with arrays of

sorcerous energy already forming around him.

"Well, well," Franklin called out, his voice carrying both amusement and deadly intent,

"looks like we've got the whole color spectrum of corruption here! Red for Khorne," he nodded to Angron, who answered with an incoherent roar of rage, "Purple for Slaanesh," Fulgrim hissed in response, his serpentine form coiling in preparation to strike, "Green for Nurgle," Mortarion's only response was a wet, choking sound, "and Blue for Tzeentch." The

daemon Magnus's eye narrowed at being so casually categorized.

Franklin's steel wings spread wide, their edges gleaming with the same divine fire that wreathed his avian skull-helm. "Did your patrons tell you what happened to their last batch of champions? No?" His voice took on a mock-sympathetic tone. "That's awkward. You'd think they'd want you to learn from their predecessors' mistakes."

The four Daemon Primarchs moved to surround him, each radiating their patron's corrupt

power. Angron's rage manifested as visible waves of blood-red energy, Fulgrim's presence distorted reality with impossible pleasures and pains, Mortarion's decay sought to corrupt everything it touched, and Magnus's sorceries twisted the very fabric of space-time. Franklin stood in their midst, Anaris held casually at his side, his divine form a beacon of

defiance against their corruption. Anaris pulsed with Khaine's power, eager to taste daemon flesh once more.

"Four against one," Franklin mused aloud, his tone suggesting he was discussing weather rather than facing four of the most powerful beings in existence. "Hardly seems fair." He paused for dramatic effect. "For you, I mean. Maybe you should call for backup?" Angron snarled he will not charge first this time. Fulgrim's blades whispered through the air from multiple angles while Mortarion's scythe carved a path of decay through reality itself. Above, daemon Magnus began weaving a spell that would have unmade a lesser being.

Franklin's response was to laugh - a sound of pure, genuine amusement that seemed to physically pain his corrupted brothers. His wings flared brighter, and Anaris blazed with renewed fury as he prepared to meet their assault.

The crimson sky of Vigilarus seemed to darken further as Magnus the Red materialized beside

his brother Franklin, whose avian skull-helm still blazed with divine fire. The Crimson King's singular eye immediately locked onto his corrupted counterpart, and the rage that filled him was almost palpable in the air.

Franklin, still maintaining his combat stance against the four Daemon Primarchs, glanced at

his brother. "Magnus! What brings you to this lovely party? How did the ritual go? Don't tell me you're just here for the ambiance."

Magnus couldn't tear his gaze from his fallen self. The daemon version of him floated there, wrapped in impossible geometries and emanating raw Tzeentchian power. Every twist of corrupt sorcery around his counterpart's form was like a personal insult, a mockery of everything Magnus had believed about himself.

"The ritual is complete," Magnus said, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Father sent me

to warn you. He said they would try to kill you with everything they have, but..." He gestured at the assembled Daemon Primarchs. "It seems they're already here." Franklin's response was a laugh that echoed across the battlefield, causing Fulgrim to hiss in annoyance and Angron to growl deeper. "Oh no," Franklin's voice dripped with theatrical fear, "the big scary gods are mad at me. Whatever shall I do?" He placed a hand against his

helm in an exaggerated gesture of distress.

Magnus sighed, shaking his head. "I knew you'd say something like that." Despite the gravityn/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

of the situation, a slight smile tugged at his lips. This was exactly the kind of response he'd

expected from his irrepressible brother.

Looking at the assembled threats, Magnus made a tactical decision. "Franklin, I'll take my... other self out of the equation. You deal with the other three."

Franklin turned his burning gaze toward Magnus, the flames of his divine form casting dancing shadows across the battlefield. "Sure thing, brother. Just try not to get too caught up in self-reflection. Though I have to say," he gestured toward daemon Magnus, "your evil

twin really needs fashion advice. The whole 'Feathery wings with eyes' look is so last

millennium."

Before Magnus could respond, his daemon counterpart's voice boomed across the battlefield, a sound that contained both his original voice and the echoes of countless whispers. "You think you can stand against me?" Daemon Magnus sneered, his single eye blazing with warp- fire. "I have had ten thousand years to perfect my craft. Ten thousand years to learn the

deepest secrets of the warp. What hope do you have, you who are but a child in comparison?" Magnus straightened to his full height, his own psychic power flaring around him like a crimson aurora. "Oh yeah?" His voice carried both challenge and determination. "We'll see about that! At least I still have enough sense not to accessorize with daemon parts!" The daemon version of himself seemed taken aback by the casual dismissal. "You dare mock

what I have become? I am power incarnate! I have transcended the limitations of mortality!" "Transcended right into bad fashion choices, apparently," Magnus retorted, channeling a bit of his brother's wit. "Tell me, did Tzeentch's gift package come with those extra eyes, or did

you have to apply for them separately?"

Franklin's laughter rang out again. "Oh, I am loving this! It's like watching the universe's most violent family therapy session." He raised Anaris, the sword blazing with divine fire. "Should we give them some privacy? I'm sure they have a lot to talk about." Magnus nodded, his psychic power continuing to build. "Try not to have too much fun with

the others. And Franklin?" He paused, looking at his brother. "Thank you. For helping me save my sons."

"Anytime, brother," Franklin replied, his tone momentarily serious before returning to its usual levity. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to teach these three the importance of proper personal hygiene, anger management, and not being murderous snakes."

As the two brothers prepared to engage their respective opponents, daemon Magnus began weaving impossible geometries in the air, his corrupted power reaching out to challenge his loyal self. The original Magnus met the power with his own, creating a psychic display that

rivaled the Emperor's own battles.

"Let's see what ten thousand years of bad life choices has taught you," Magnus called out to his daemon self, his power forming intricate patterns that countered his counterpart's corrupted sorcery. "I'm particularly interested in learning what not to do!" The battlefield split into two distinct conflicts - Magnus versus his fallen self in a duel of

supreme sorcerous might, and Franklin facing down three daemon primarchs with his characteristic mix of deadly skill and irreverent humor. The fate of Vigilarus, and perhaps

much more, hung in the balance.

But as the battles commenced in earnest, one thing became clear - the bonds between loyal brothers, forged in trust and strengthened by sacrifice, stood in stark contrast to the corrupted mockeries that Chaos had created. And in that difference lay their greatest strength.