The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 156: Orkz and Nephews



The reinforced adamantium walls of the Beast's chamber shuddered as two demigods crashed through its ceiling, their impact leaving twin craters in the metal-plated floor. Debris rained down around them as they rose to their feet, the dust settling to reveal a sea of green-skinned warriors surrounding them on all sides. The chamber, vast as a cathedral's nave, echoed with the war cries of countless Orks, their crude weapons raised high.

Sanguinius's wings flexed as he took in their situation, his perfect features showing a hint of chagrin. "Perhaps our landing was slightly off course, brother?"

Franklin's response was a laugh that would have sent chills down a mortal spine - not from malice, but from the pure joy of impending violence. "Target rich environment, Sangy. That's all I see." His arsenal of weapons hummed to life.

What unfolded next was nothing short of devastation orchestrated with precision. Shoulder- mounted smart missiles launched in synchronized volleys, each missile tracking its target with mechanical clarity. They curved and twisted through the air, weaving impossibly between ranks of Orks before detonating with ruthless efficiency. Explosions tore through the mob, the acrid smell of ozone and charred flesh filling the chamber.

But the missile barrage was only the prelude. The main event began when Franklin's quad rotary cannons spun to life, their roar deafening as they spat streams of munitions at unimaginable speed. Thousands of rounds per second cascaded from the barrels, their trajectories calculated with surgical accuracy to maximize destruction. Orks dissolved into crimson vapor, their war machines reduced to scrap. The chamber's once-imposing walls became riddled with countless perforations, forming patterns that seemed like constellations drawn by devastation.

More Orks continued to flood into the chamber through massive doorways, but they might as well have been trying to stem a tide with their bare hands. Franklin's arsenal simply adjusted its firing solutions, incorporating the new targets into its killing equations without missing a beat.

Sanguinius, his sword ready, was about to surge forward through the path his brother had cleared when his transhuman senses detected a shift in the air. A massive plasma discharge, powerful enough to vaporize a Titan, streaked toward them from the chamber's far end. But it never reached them.

Meters from their position, the plasma blast collided with an invisible barrier. The energy dispersed across a quantum shield, its blue flickering revealing the advanced protection system's presence for a brief moment. The technology was far beyond anything the Imperium commonly fielded, a testament to the Independence System's technological supremacy over reverse-engineered Necron Tech.

Through the dissipating energy of the blocked shot, they finally got a clear view of their quarry. The Prime-Ork, Thrakar Beast, stood like a mountain of muscle and crude cybernetics, his massive frame dwarfing even the largest of his subordinates. In his hands, he held what appeared to be a salvaged plasma cannon from a Titan, modified and enhanced with typical Orkish disregard for safety or subtlety.

The Beast's face split in a fanged grin as he locked eyes with Franklin. There was intelligence in those red orbs, a cunning that set him apart from his lesser brethren. "Come and get me, Dakka Bringer!" he roared, his voice carrying even over the din of battle.

The title was oddly appropriate, Sanguinius thought. The Orks, with their simple but profound understanding of warfare, had recognized something fundamental about his brother. Franklin didn't just bring death - he brought dakka, that indefinable Orkish concept of the perfect amount of firepower. The fact that they had named him for it was perhaps the highest compliment the greenskins could offer.

Franklin's response was to adjust his weapon loadout, the mechanisms of his armor whirring as they reconfigured for what promised to be an even more intense engagement. "Sangy," he said, his voice filled with that familiar mix of humor and battle-lust, "I do believe the green gentleman is issuing a challenge."

"Indeed," Sanguinius replied, his wings spreading wide as his sword began to glow with psychic energy. "Shall we teach him the error of his ways?"

As the Angel of Baal surged forward beneath the covering fire of his brother's arsenal, his form seemed to swell with divine purpose, transhuman muscle and bone growing to match the titanic scale of his adversary. The Beast met Sanguinius's charge with savage glee, their clash sending tremors through the chamber's foundations. The Spear of Telesto found its mark, piercing the Prime-Ork's massive frame, but even this grievous wound failed to end the monster. A retaliatory strike sent the winged Primarch reeling backward, though his superhuman grace prevented a full fall.

It was then that Franklin's methodical slaughter of the Ork hordes was interrupted by perhaps the most peculiar sight he'd witnessed in his long centuries of warfare. Through the smoke and chaos emerged a creature that defied conventional classification - a Krot the ancestors of the now diminutive grots.

The being stood as tall as a small hab-block, yet retained the characteristic scragginess of its diminutive predecessor. Its form was wrapped in power armor that bore signs of technological sophistication that should have been well beyond any greenskin's capability to manufacture. The creature's eyes gleamed with an intelligence that seemed almost painful in its intensity.

"BEHOLD!" The Krot's voice was a screech that somehow managed to be both grating and grandiose. "I AM STABBER, DAKKA BRINGER! I STAND BEFORE YOU AS A KROT ASCENDED! WITNESS MY TRANSFORMATION INTO THE FORM OF MY ANCESTORS - A KUNNING KROT!" Franklin's response was beautifully simple - he opened fire with every weapon system at his disposal.

The rounds passed harmlessly through the creature's form, causing Stabber to stamp his foot in what could only be described as a tantrum of cosmic proportions. "I WASN'T DONE TALKING!" he shrieked, his voice rising to a pitch that threatened to crack the chamber's armored windows. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LONG I'VE WAITED TO GIVE THIS

SPEECH?"

"You talk too damn much," Franklin replied, unleashing another devastating barrage that achieved exactly the same result as the first.

This only seemed to encourage Stabber's verbose tendencies. "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THIS MOMENT!" The Krot began pacing, gesturing wildly with arms that seemed too long for its frame. "I AM THE HARBINGER OF A NEW ERA! THE FIRST TO UNLOCK THE GENETIC MEMORY OF THE KROT SPECIES! WE WERE ONCE THE EQUALS OF THE KRORK, YOU KNOW! SUPERIOR, EVEN! WHILE THEY FOCUSED ON BRUTE FORCE, WE CULTIVATED CUNNING! THAT LUMBERING FOOL YOU CALL THE BEAST IS NOTHING COMPARED TO MY INTELLECTUAL PROWESS!"

As Stabber continued his monologue, he phased in and out of reality, attempting to flank Franklin with his superior size. The Primarch's thrusters responded instantly, carrying him across the battlefield like a mobile artillery platform, but each volley of firepower simply passed through the Krot's phasing form.

"MY ASCENSION WAS INEVITABLE!" Stabber continued, somehow managing to maintain his speech even while engaged in dimensional combat. "THE CALCULATIONS ALONE TOOK SEVENTEEN YEARS, THREE MONTHS, AND FOUR DAYS! DID YOU KNOW I HAD TO INVENT THREE NEW FORMS OF MATHEMATICS JUST TO UNDERSTAND THE BASIC PRINCIPLES? OF COURSE YOU DIDN'T! NO ONE APPRECIATES TRUE GENIUS!"

The Krot's ranting continued as he pressed his attack. "AND DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON HOW THE DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW DIFFICULT IT IS TO MAINTAIN PHASE COHERENCE WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY MANAGING A RECURSIVE PROBABILITY LOOP? I HAD TO REWRITE THE LAWS OF PHYSICS! TWICE!"

Franklin, having calculated the precise moment to strike, waited for Stabber to phase through another barrage. In that split second of dimensional transition, he positioned Anaris directly in the Krot's materialization path. When Stabber phased back into reality, he found himself impaled upon the legendary blade.

"Not so smart are you, Stabber?" Franklin's chuckle was cut short by the Krot's attempt at one

final speech.

"ACTUALLY, THIS PROVES MY SUPERIOR INTELLECT BECAUSE,"

Whatever grand revelation Stabber was about to share was permanently interrupted as his head parted company with his shoulders, bringing blessed silence to the chamber. Standing over the Krot's remains, Franklin made a mental note about his armor's bulk. The heavy weapons platforms, while devastating against hordes, had proven somewhat cumbersome against more agile opponents. Perhaps it was time to consider a new mechsuit design – something that balanced firepower with mobility.

Still, he couldn't help but appreciate the irony of the situation. The self-proclaimed intellectual giant of the Krot species had literally talked himself to death, too busy announcing his own brilliance to notice the trap being laid. It was a reminder that sometimes the oldest wisdom was the best: those who speak the loudest often think the least. "Your head will be a trophy" Franklin chuckled as he held stored Stabber's head in his dimensional storage.

In the void's unending expanse, Astronomical Units above the battle-scarred surface of Ullanor, Battlefleet Liberty maintained its stalwart vigil. Like celestial sentinels, the fleet's vessels held the line against the unrelenting green tide, their formation a barrier. At the heart of the fleet, the flagship Sweet Liberty loomed-a leviathan of steel and faith, its ten- thousand-kilometer frame a monument to the ingenuity and martial might of humanity. Fleet Admiral Koshka stood upon the command bridge, her form silhouetted against the tactical hololith's ethereal glow. The display showed the aftermath of their latest victory - the scattered remains of an Ork battlefleet drifting like cosmic debris across the star-speckled void. But there was no time for satisfaction, no moment to savor the triumph.

"New signatures detected, Admiral!" The sensor officer's voice cut through the ambient hum of the bridge. "Attack Moons about to translate into real space!" Koshka's eyes narrowed as she studied the tactical overlay. The Attack Moons - those perverse monuments to Orkish ingenuity - were more than mere weapons of war. Each was a hollowed-out planetoid, transformed by xenos technology into both fortress and gateway. They were the anchors of reality itself, the terminus points of the Orks' crude but effective method of faster-than-light travel. Through these subspace tunnels, dubbed "Waaagh! Gates" by the greenskins, endless waves of reinforcements could pour into the system. "Targeting solutions acquired," announced the gunnery officer, his augmented voice laden with machine-like precision. "Nova Cannon batteries prepared to fire upon command." Koshka's response was deliberate, her tone resolute. "Initiate primary engagement protocols.

For the Eagle!"

The moment her words rang out, Sweet Liberty's central AI, Sovereign, activated. Its voice filled the bridge, a calculated blend of authority and assurance.

"Zero-point power core at 100%. Nova Cannon batteries aligned. Energy signatures optimal. Firing solutions locked. Standing by for confirmation."

"Confirm and engage," Koshka commanded, her voice cutting through the mechanical hum.

Sweet Liberty's Nova Cannon Batteries stirred to life. The Nova Cannons, each the size of a hive city, aligned their barrels with mechanical precision. When the weapons fired, it was as if new suns had been born in the void, Projectiles fired at the speed of light hammered against

The Attack Moon's energy shields.

The initial volley struck the Attack Moons' Energy shields with the force of stellar phenomena. Energy cascaded across the protective barriers in waves of impossible color, the clash of technologies creating auroras visible from systems away. Where a lesser vessel's attack might have been absorbed, Sweet Liberty's firepower was beyond mortal comprehension. The energy shields of the Attack Moons, strained beyond their limits, collapsed in a spectacular display of electromagnetic backlash.

"Energy shields neutralized. Disintegration batteries primed. Awaiting orders."

Koshka's voice was calm, commanding. "Execute secondary barrage."

The Disintegration batteries, unleashed their fury. Where the Nova Cannons had been an overwhelming display of force, these weapons wielded precision beyond comprehension. Beams of concentrated entropy sliced through the Attack Moons, unraveling molecular bonds and reducing reinforced alloys to fine powder.

The destructive cascade was unstoppable. The moons' massive forms began to crumble, their grotesque superstructures dissolving into shimmering clouds of particulate matter. As the beams reached their cores, catastrophic chain reactions ignited within the moons' reactors.

Silence reigned in the void, but the visuals were deafening. Gigantic explosions consumed the Attack Moons, their destruction illuminating the battle with silent, apocalyptic beauty. The debris fields expanded, shimmering remnants of Ork ambition now drifting aimlessly.

Sovereign's voice punctuated the aftermath.

"Target integrity compromised. All Attack Moons neutralized. No anomalous activity detected within Waaagh! Gates."

"Kill confirmations logged," Koshka affirmed. "Maintain tactical readiness."

Around her, the crew resumed their work, methodically scanning for any signs of renewed Ork aggression. Despite the immediate victory, none allowed complacency. Experience had taught them that in the void, danger was ever-present, and the Orks' insatiable hunger for

battle would not wane.

The dying hours of the Battle of Ullanor painted the sky in shades of amber and crimson, as countless flamers purged the remaining pockets of Ork resistance. The systematic cleansing had begun, with Liberty Guard and Astartes working in perfect synchronization to ensure no spore would survive to threaten future generations.

In the midst of this apocalyptic scenery, Franklin Valorian found himself in what might have been a precarious situation for any other warrior. His quad-mounted rotary cannons clicked empty after hours of continuous fire, their barrels still glowing with residual heat. The Orks,

displaying their characteristic inability to recognize hopeless situations, saw this as their chance.

A particularly massive Ork Nob, its crude armor decorated with the teeth of fallen enemies, charged forward with a roar of triumph. "Got ya now, Dakka-bringer! Your shooty bits is

empty!"

Franklin, whose armor was practically a mobile fortress of weaponry, merely smiled beneath

his helm. The Ork's charge brought it within perfect range of a weapons system that had, until now, remained dormant during the battle. The weapon ports embedded in his breastplate began to hum with awakening power.n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

Time seemed to slow as the Nob realized, too late, that something was about to happen. The look of dawning comprehension on its brutish face was almost comical.

The chest-mounted cannons roared to life, and Franklin's voice boomed across the battlefield with perfect theatrical timing: "TITTY BOLTERS!"

As his quad cannons finished their reload cycle with a satisfying chunk, Franklin surveyed the

carnage around him. "And that, my sons," he announced to no one in particular, "is why switching to titty guns is faster than reloading."

A young Liberty Eagle, relatively new to the Legion, turned to his veteran sergeant. "Is our

Primarch always like this?"

The sergeant's response carried the weight of centuries of experience: "Son, you haven't even

seen him when he gets his hands on the really big guns."

Franklin spotted his brother Sanguinius approaching, dragging something massive behind him. The Angel's armor bore the marks of his titanic struggle-Auramite cracked, golden surfaces scarred but his bearing remained regal as ever.

Behind him, leaving a furrow in the bloodstained earth, was the severed head of Thrakar Beast. The Prime-Ork's features were frozen in a final expression of defiant rage, its massive jaw still set in a challenging snarl even in death.

"A trophy?" Franklin asked, his tone carrying a note of concern beneath its usual levity. "You

know that's a bad idea, right? Spores and all that" His eyes tracked over his brother's form, noting the damage but relieved to see no serious wounds beneath the battered armor. Sanguinius paused, his perfect features momentarily clouded with doubt as he looked at the monstrous head. The act felt... strange. Unconventional. He had rarely kept physical trophies of victory. Such gestures often struck him as crude, more fitting for Angron or Russ. Yet, this

was no ordinary feat.

"A trophy," he echoed softly, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic mixture of pride and hesitation. "According to that temporal data you shared with me, not many could claim to have killed a Prime-Ork in solo combat." He straightened, wings flexing unconsciously as he added with a faint smile, "Only you, me, and Father are recorded to have accomplished such a feat."

He glanced at the bloodied head again, his expression softening. "It feels... strange to keep such a thing, brother. It's not in my nature to revel in the death of another, even a xenos monstrosity like this." A flicker of vulnerability crossed his face, the rare moment when he allowed himself to share his inner conflict. "But this is special. Few in all of existence can

claim such a victory. This trophy isn't just for me. It's for our brothers. For the Imperium." Franklin gave him a knowing look, his smirk tinged with warmth. "I get it. This isn't about showing off. It's about reminding the galaxy-and yourself-of what's possible." Sanguinius nodded, a measure of his usual confidence returning. "I can't always be living in

your shadow, can I?" he teased, his smile warming. "But this will be the only one. One trophy. Nothing more. I don't wish to make a habit of this."

Franklin's response was characteristically practical and surprisingly thoughtful. With a casual motion that belied the technological wonder of the act, he produced a Tesseract Vault-a marvel of engineering that could preserve matter indefinitely while projecting a perfect holographic representation.

"Store it in there," he explained, tossing the device to his brother with the casual ease of someone sharing a canteen rather than an artifact of incredible technological sophistication. "It'll display the trophy through a projection, and it's compact enough to fit in any reasonable

display space. No need to worry about decay or," he wrinkled his nose, "the smell" Franklin then tracked the ground, "And well Ork Spores too"

Sanguinius chuckled, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. "Thanks, Franklin." His gratitude was more than for the vault-it was for his brother's understanding, for the acceptance of this momentary indulgence, and for the care in how it would be preserved. As Sanguinius carefully stored his trophy in the vault, Franklin watched with the indulgent expression of an older brother humoring a younger sibling's enthusiasm.

Franklin draped his arm across his brother's shoulders, the gesture casual despite their towering statures. The contrast between them was striking - Franklin's tech-enhanced bulk against Sanguinius's angelic grace, yet the familial comfort between them was undeniable. "Come now, brother," Franklin said, his usual humor tempered by seriousness. "After the cleanup, we need to address your Legion's situation. I think we should get Magnus involved as well - his insight into the more esoteric aspects could be valuable." The Angel's smile carried a hint of melancholy as he nodded. "I've read the reports about my

Legion, Franklin. The Revenant Legion..." he paused, considering his words carefully. "I believe I need to address their fundamental issues first."

Franklin nodded, and then did something rare - he sighed. It was a sound weighted with centuries of experience and concern. "Most of the Imperium refused to arm them, you know. I

couldn't stand for that - they're my nephews, after all. But..." he shook his head, "by the Throne, when I did arm them, they just became extremely well-equipped cannibals. Not exactly the outcome I was hoping for."

Sanguinius couldn't help but chuckle at his brother's exasperation. It was a rare sight to see Franklin sighing about anything - the Liberator usually met challenges with unstoppable optimism and firepower. But there was something endearing about his brother's frustration with the Revenants' particular interpretation of military doctrine.

The Angel felt a deep warmth of gratitude toward his brother. Where the wider Imperium had turned its back on his sons, seeing them as dangerous and uncontrollable, Franklin had reached out with practical support and concern. Even if the end result was a Legion of well- armed cannibals, at least they were well-armed. It spoke volumes about Franklin's character

- his willingness to help family despite the risks and complications. "At least they listen when I point them at something," Franklin added, finding some humor in the situation. "They're remarkably effective at exterminating hostile empires. Armstrong's actually proud of them - keeps going on about 'freedom to act' and such."

The mention of Franklin's Second Captain, the notorious Armstrong, brought a thoughtful expression to Sanguinius's face. The Angel had heard many stories about Franklin's left hand, the Executioner of the Liberty Eagles. It made a certain kind of sense that Armstrong would approve of the Revenants' extreme nature - the man's own reputation for decisive and often devastating action was well known throughout the Imperium.

They stood together, watching the cleanup operations continue across the battlefield, each

lost in thoughts about the challenges that lay ahead. But they would face those challenges together, as brothers should. Their conversation had touched on something fundamental about their relationship - the way Franklin's practical support and Sanguinius's optimistic acceptance of his sons' nature complemented each other. Where others saw only flaws and dangers, they saw family, albeit family that needed careful guidance and occasional redirection toward appropriate targets.