The Primarch of Liberty

146  The Different Fronts
The battlefield trembled with the titanic clash of demigods. Each strike of Abaddon's daemon-clawed Talon of Horus against Denzel's twin hyper-phase blades resounded like a thunderstorm made manifest. Sparks erupted as their weapons collided, their impacts rippling with arcs of physical and metaphysical energy. The air between them shimmered with unrestrained power, a furious dance of discipline against raw malevolence.
And then came the moment that revealed the chasm between them. Denzel's hyper-phase blades blurred into motion, their arcs too swift for mortal eyes to follow. One blade slashed toward Abaddon's head, the other toward his waist, the deadly combination as elegant as it was unavoidable.
For the first time in ten millennia, the Despoiler was forced to abandon his pride. With a guttural roar, he rolled backward in a desperate bid for survival, his ancient Terminator plate groaning in protest. It was not grace that saved him but sheer, unyielding determination. Rising with murder burning in his eyes, Abaddon surveyed the battlefield.
The sight was grim. His Bringers of Despair—his elite Terminator Guard were broken, their shattered black armor strewn across the ground like scattered obsidian shards. Only three remained standing, each bloodied and battered, surrounded by the grim efficiency of the Liberty Guard.
A sudden transmission crackled in his helm, the binary cant of the Dark Mechanicum laced with something rare—panic. The reinforcements he'd counted on, the vaunted Titan Legions, would not arrive. The data-burst that followed revealed why.
The pict-feed showed the final moments of an Imperator-class Titan, a machine whose presence alone could shift the tide of war. Its death, however, defied comprehension. Towering before it was an impossibility: a Titan-class construct with a cyclopean eye that radiated predatory intelligence. The Imperator unleashed its city-destroying arsenal, but the enemy Titan moved with an unnatural grace, sidestepping apocalyptic barrages as though the gods themselves guided its every motion. In a single, brutal moment, the cyclopean construct crushed the Imperator's head like a fragile egg.
Worse still were the smaller humanoid war machines, Knight-class constructs that danced among the Dark Mechanicum forces with a blend of elegance and lethality. They wove through fire and flame, their weapons finding weak points in Titan armor with surgical precision. Warhounds were cleaved in two before they could lock their targeting systems. Reavers and Warlords crumbled as these spectral Knights pierced command chambers with unerring accuracy.
Abaddon's forces were faltering. The Liberty Eagles' Overwhelming Firepower, bolstered by their advanced war machines, was closing the net, grinding the Black Legion to their slow defeat. Then, like a cruel gift from the gods of chaos, the skies erupted with a roar that heralded doom:
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! KILL! MAIM! BURN!"
The World Eaters descended like a crimson avalanche, their Berserkers smashing into the Liberty Guard's lines. Chaos incarnate, they fought with no thought for tactics, only for slaughter. Chainaxes screamed and blood flowed freely as they shattered the encirclement forming around the Black Legion.
Abaddon seized the moment, his voice a booming warhorn over the vox. "FORWARD! PUSH THEM BACK! FOR THE DARK GODS!"
The Black Legion rallied, emboldened by the arrival of their frenzied allies. Despite their losses, they surged forward, meeting the Liberty Eagles with renewed ferocity. The World Eaters tore into their disciplined formations with savage glee, their berserker fury matched only by the grim resolve of the Liberty Guard. For every World Eater slain, three Liberty Guard fell—but they held the line, each death calculated, each sacrifice deliberate.
As chaos and order clashed across the battlefield, Denzel stepped back to reassess. The arrival of the World Eaters had forced a breach, but Denzel smiled grimly beneath his helm. That wall had never been meant to hold indefinitely. Its loss was already accounted for, a single piece in a larger gambit.
His smile vanished as Abaddon roared back into the fight. Their blades met again, the fury of their duel resuming with renewed intensity. But this time, Denzel fought with cold precision, his movements measured, his strikes calculated not to kill but to delay.
The end came in an instant. A sidestep, a gleam of light, and the Despoiler roared in pain as Denzel's blade sliced deep into his flank. Abaddon staggered, blood pouring from the wound, yet he refused to fall. Both warriors knew the truth—Denzel could have pressed the attack, but to do so would invite retaliation from the cornered beast that was Abaddon.
"Liberty Eagles, tactical withdrawal!" Denzel's voice rang out as he disengaged. "Pattern Alpha-Three!"
The Liberty Eagles began their retreat, their movements precise and deliberate. Abaddon growled through the pain, his voice lashing across the vox. "Hold position! Do not pursue!"
Not all heeded his command. Those who gave chase found themselves caught in the Eagles' retreat, annihilated by overlapping fields of fire. As the chaos forces consolidated their hold on the captured wall, Abaddon allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. Then he felt it—a vibration beneath his feet, faint but unmistakable.
The detonation that followed was apocalyptic. The wall didn't just collapse; it was obliterated in a calculated blast that turned it—and the majority of its occupiers—into molten slag. The Liberty Eagles had laid the perfect trap, their measured retreat keeping them well outside the kill zone.
As the dust settled, new transmissions flooded Abaddon's helm. More pict-captures of the cyclopean Titans and their Knight-class counterparts. They were closing in, their movements cutting off escape routes with chilling precision. The Liberty Eagles had drawn Abaddon into a killing ground, and now the true battle was about to begin.
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The Liberty Eagles owned the sky. That was simply a fact of warfare against them, as immutable as gravity. Director Samuel L. Jaxsen stood at the command center of his modified Arsenal Bird, watching the battle unfold through its array of holographic displays. The massive aerial fortress hung in the air like a metal thundercloud, its presence alone enough to make lesser aircraft flee.
"Sir," one of his operators called out, "thermal scans showing multiple signatures scaling the valley walls. Deathguard formation, approximately company strength. They're using some kind of... biological adhesive."
Jaxsen's face twisted in disgust. Everything about the Deathguard involved something biological and unpleasant. "Show me."
The main display shifted, revealing enhanced imagery of Plague Marines, Nurglings, Beasts of Nurgle, climbing the sheer rock face. Their corrupted armor leaked viscous fluids that seemed to eat into the stone, creating handholds where none existed before. Behind them, massive drilling machines – their surfaces covered in cancerous growth and rust – were attempting to bore through the valley walls.
"Those sneaky motherfuckers," Jaxsen muttered, though there was a hint of professional respect in his voice. It was a solid strategy – if you couldn't break through the killzone at the valley's entrance, go around it. Too bad for them, the Liberty Eagles had planned for exactly this contingency.
"Launch the A-30s," he ordered, his voice carrying the authority of thousands of successful operations. "Pattern Bravo-Nine. I want those climbers turned to dust."
The Arsenal Bird's launch bays opened with pneumatic precision. A-30 Thunderbolt IIIs – the great-great-grandchildren of the ancient A-10s – emerged into the sunlight. They were beautiful machines, their lines clean and predatory, every inch of them engineered for one purpose: the delivery of overwhelming firepower through Close Air Support.
The A-30s fell into attack formation with machine precision. Their pilots were handpicked veterans, each with hundreds of missions under their belts. They dove toward the valley walls, their targeting systems already acquiring the climbing Plague Marines.
The first pass was devastating. Hyper-velocity rounds strafed the rocky walls. Plague Marines, caught in the open with nowhere to dodge, were literally pulverized. Their corrupted armor, for all its resilience, might as well have been tissue paper.
But the Deathguard were nothing if not stubborn. Even as their comrades were being systematically erased from existence, more kept climbing. The drilling machines continued their work, though the A-30s were starting to focus their attention on them as well.
"Sir," another operator called out, "Emperor's Children signatures detected. They're using some kind of sonic equipment to create handholds in the rock."
Jaxsen nodded. The Emperor's Children would never be content to simply copy the Deathguard's method. They had to do it with style. "Time to bring in the heavy hitters. Get me the BUFF Squad."
High above the battlefield, a formation of B-52-X10 Freedom Bringers emerged from the clouds. These were not the relics of the past once nicknamed "BUFF"—Big Ugly Fat Fellow. Instead, they were their mighty successors: colossal war machines, carrying even more devastating payloads and capable of operating seamlessly in the void of space. Yet, despite their advanced design, they retained the indomitable spirit of their predecessors—the ability to unleash overwhelming firepower with pinpoint accuracy, striking fear into all who witnessed their approach, if they could witness it.
The bombers cast long, ominous shadows over the battlefield, their presence a harbinger of destruction. With a mechanical hiss, their bomb bay doors opened, unleashing devastation from above.
The first wave of bombs streaked toward the drilling machines—massive Heavy Bombs. When they struck, the resulting explosions were cataclysmic. Shockwaves rippled across the battlefield as corrupted machinery and Chaos Marines were obliterated, fragments of their twisted forms scattering like dust in a storm.
The second wave shifted its focus to the Chaos forces scaling the valley walls. This time, the payload was different—specialized Darkstar neutron pulse munitions. As they detonated, invisible waves of energy cascaded through the target area, erasing all biological matter in an instant. Emperor's Children and Death Guard alike dissolved into nothingness, their corrupted flesh obliterated while their armor and weapons clattered harmlessly to the ground. The valley walls stood untouched, silent witnesses to the precision of the bombardment.
But the Chaos forces hadn't come without air support of their own. Helltalons – daemon-possessed fighter aircraft – screamed out of the cloud cover, their weapons already blazing. They were aiming for the bombers, knowing that the large aircraft were more vulnerable than the agile A-30s.
 "Squadron 42, you're up. Show these heretics how the Liberty Eagles Fly"
Director Samuel L. Jaxsen stood in the gleaming command center of the Arsenal Bird, his expression a mixture of pride and exasperation as he watched the tactical holosphere, Beside him, Yamato Nakajima, Chief of Staff of the Air Force, watched with practiced calm as two particular markers moved with impossible speed through the enemy formations.
"Alright, listen up! Squadron 42's in the air, and if you're not watchin', you better be fightin' like your life depends on it—'cause it damn well does!" Jaxsen's tone was unmistakably biting, laced with the kind of authority that made even seasoned officers sit up straighter.
Behind him, Yamato Nakajima, Chief of Staff of the Air Force, stood with arms crossed, observing the air combat on the screens. Jaxsen jabbed a finger toward the display, where A Pair of F-66s had just executed a perfect dual roll to flank a squad of Tzeentch Doomwings.
"Tell me somethin', Nakajima. Are these pair of duos always this competitive? Or did they wake up this morning and decide to have a damn pissing contest in the middle of my airspace?"
Nakajima let out a quiet, almost amused chuckle. "Lieutenant Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell and Tom 'Iceman' Kazansky? They've been at each other's throats since they were in Top Gun together. One-upmanship is their favorite game. And, of course, they're good at it."
Jaxsen groaned, rubbing his temples. "Yeah, yeah. They're aces. Best of the best. Cream of the crop. I know all that. But God help me if they don't make my job harder every damn day."
"The rivalry has made them who they are," Nakajima continued with quiet pride. "Now, they are exactly what we need them to be - the best of the best. Squadron 42 accepts nothing less. Every Ace in this squadron has at least 100 confirmed kills using standard Imperial Lightning fighters or our sector's base models. No advanced technology, only skill. Only then do they even dream of approaching a F-66"
The tactical display above them blinked, showing the approaching wave of Chaos aircraft—Hell Talons and Doomwings, their daemon-engines leaving trails of warp-fire. The enemy formation was massive, nearly 200 aircraft strong. Against them, Squadron 42 had deployed just 24 F-66 Sky Sovereigns, split into two flights under Maverick and Iceman's command.
The F-66s dropped from their holding pattern around the Arsenal Bird, their sleek forms flickering in and out of existence as their stealth systems kicked in. Each Sky Sovereign was a masterpiece of Imperial engineering, its Inertialess Drives allowing it to ignore the normal laws of physics. Powered by Zero-Point Energy cores, the F-66s could maintain Mach 50 indefinitely, their only real limit being pilot endurance—though Nakajima often joked that boredom was more of a concern.
"Maverick here. Engaging," Maverick's voice came over the comms, unmistakable cockiness in every word. "Fox Three."
"Iceman engaging," came the icy reply, the usual coolness in Iceman's tone evident. "Fox Three."
Long-range missiles launched from concealed bays, streaking toward the Hell Talons, which immediately attempted evasive maneuvers. But their daemon-enhanced reflexes couldn't save them.
"Splash three," Maverick called out casually, like he was calling a play at the bar.
"Splash three," Iceman echoed, deadpan, as if they were having a regular conversation.
Jaxsen watched the kill counters climb. "They count every hit separately?"
"Always do," Nakajima confirmed. "Watch—this is where they start getting ridiculous."

The F-66s closed into dogfighting range with unmatched precision, their Inertialess Drives enabling them to decelerate to engagement speeds in the blink of an eye. Hull-mounted disintegration cannons unleashed their fury, reducing Chaos aircraft to nothing more than scattered atoms.
"Splash two more," Maverick reported with the same casual confidence. "Hey Ice, that puts me at five."
"Splash three," Iceman replied, his tone betraying no hint of humor. "Six total. Try to keep up, Mav."
The rest of Squadron 42 joined the fray, the F-66s weaving through the Chaos formation with surgical precision. The Hell Talons might have daemon-engine enhancements, but the Sky Sovereigns were built on the pinnacle of human engineering. Stealth systems made them invisible until the moment they struck, and their targeting systems ensured perfect accuracy—even at relativistic speeds.
Jaxsen rolled his eyes and growled into the command channel. "Will you two damn egos with wings stop showboatin' for five seconds? You think the heretics care who's got more kills? Just keep them off my backline and do your damn jobs!"
Despite the reprimand, there was no missing the faint note of pride in his voice. These pilots weren't just good—they were legends in the making. Still, Jaxsen had a battle to coordinate. He turned to the broader tactical view, where dozens of Independence Sector fighters were engaging Chaos aircraft.
"Phoenix Wing, cover the flanks! Keep those Hell Talons off our bombers! Valkyrie Squadron, I need a clean sweep of that sector. Now! Don't make me come down there and explain it myself!"
Nakajima, unflappable as ever, chuckled. "You enjoy this more than you let on, Director."
"Oh, don't start with me, Nakajima. I got 24 aces up there flying my F-66s, and somehow it still feels like babysitting. But you're damn right I enjoy it. Watching these maniacs turn heretics into stardust? That's what I live for."
Back on the display, Maverick and Goose had regrouped with Iceman and Slider. The four F-66s were now weaving through the enemy formations like sharks among minnows, their kills climbing with ruthless efficiency. In less than a minute, they'd cleared 30 hostiles, leaving a trail of burning debris and banished daemon engines.
"Alright, Squadron 42," Jaxsen barked into the comms, his voice a perfect blend of authority and adrenaline. "Maverick, Iceman—if either of you tries to outscore the other at the expense of my battle plan, I will personally strap you to a Lightning and send you into orbit. Are we clear?"
A chorus of affirmations came back, but not before Maverick quipped, "Crystal clear, General. By the way—Fox Three."
The comms erupted with the sound of another explosion as another Chaos fighter disintegrated. Iceman's quiet laugh followed. "Your kill count's still behind, Maverick."
Jaxsen pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered under his breath. "I swear, these guys are gonna give me a damn ulcer."
Nakajima laughed outright. "You wouldn't trade them for anyone."
"Hell no," Jaxsen admitted, his voice dropping an octave. "They're my aces. And if the galaxy's got a problem with that—well, the F-66s will clear it up."
His appreciation of the aerial display was interrupted by movement on another monitor. Four of the Deathguard's mining vehicles had somehow slipped through the bombardment. They were already boring into the valley wall, their corrupted drills making surprisingly quick progress through the rock.
"Well, shit," Jaxsen said, reaching for his command vox. He had to warn the ground forces. The channel crackled to life as he connected with John Ezra, Director of the Secret Service.
"John, we missed four miners," he reported, his tone professional despite his annoyance at the oversight. "Expect some Deathguard company in the western walls."
Ezra's response came back immediately, touched with his characteristic dry humor. "Getting rusty up there in your flying fortress, Sam? Need me to requisition some targeting solutions from the basic training programs?"
"Man, shut your ass up," Jaxsen shot back, though there was no heat in his words. "I just woke up. Besides, their air force is leaving a lot to be desired. Making me nostalgic for an actual challenge."
Ezra's chuckle came through the vox. "Copy that. Moving out." The channel closed with a click.
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Under the smoldering skies of Vigilarus, amidst the jagged embrace of the valley's rocky mountain walls, Director John Ezra of the Liberty Eagles' Secret Service prepared to hold the line against the encroaching tide of corruption. The valley's rugged terrain was both a natural fortress and a suffocating cage, every crevice whispering with the dark promise of war. High above, golden light fractured the heavens, the energies of the Emperor and Magnus intertwined in a ritual that could reshape the destiny of the Thousand Sons—if the defenders could buy enough time.
John's enhanced senses merged seamlessly with his neural interface, granting him a battlefield awareness beyond human comprehension. Through it, he felt the tremors in the mountains—vibrations that spoke of approaching enemies burrowing through the ancient stone. The Death Guard were coming, their daemon-infused tunneling machines violating the earth with unholy purpose. Beneath their advance, the bedrock of reality itself warped and twisted, the corruption of Nurgle spreading like a cancer.
"Echo-Pattern confirmed," John's augmented voice carried to every corner of the defensive line. "Signatures at three hundred meters depth and closing. Massacre Protocol authorized."
At once, the defenders sprang into action. Mastodon super-heavy transports locked into firing positions, their Melta weaponry glowing ominously in the dim light. Liberty Guard infantry, clad in exo-armor that gleamed with the Independence Sector's technological mastery, moved with mechanical precision. Each soldier, every weapon emplacement, and every piece of equipment was a thread in the intricate tapestry of destruction woven under John's command.
The tactical network surged with data, connecting every unit into a single, coordinated machine of war. This was the hallmark of the Liberty Eagles—an army not just of individuals, but of perfect integration for Maximum application of Overwhelming Firepower. John felt their readiness as if it were his own, a collective purpose pulsing through every neural link.
Failure was not an option.
In the festering darkness of the tunnels, Calas Typhon, Herald of Nurgle, felt something he had not known in ten millennia – doubt. Not in his god, never that, but in the very nature of reality around him. The binary walls that hemmed in their advance burned with a light that was wrong, that spoke of order and sterility and the death of beautiful decay.
His massive Terminator armor, swollen with the "gifts" of his patron, leaked pestilence with every movement. But where that holy corruption should have spread, should have taken root in metal and stone alike, it simply... vanished. The walls remained pristine, mockingly clean despite thousands of years of technological development devoted to the art of decay.
"Forward," he commanded, his voice thick with phlegm and purpose. "The Grandfather's blessing cannot be denied forever. We are his chosen."
The Death Guard responded with the inexorable advance that had broken worlds. Even as the first miners breached the surface and died in storms of phosphex and disintegration fire, more followed. Bodies piled up, flesh rendered to ash, but still they came. This was their strength – not speed or skill, but the simple inability to be stopped.
Typhon watched through a thousand eyes, through the shared consciousness of flies and maggots and things that had no names in human tongues. He saw the Liberty Eagles' defenses, recognized the technological sophistication that surpassed even the heights of the Great Crusade. But technology could be corrupted. Machine spirits could be infected. Everything, in time, would rot.
Yet as Typhon reached out with powers that had toppled titans, seeking to call down Nurgle's blessing, a searing agony lanced through his consciousness. It was unlike anything he had endured in ten thousand years—a pain that was pure, clean, and unrelenting.
"AAGH!" Typhon bellowed, his guttural roar reverberating through the festering tunnels. His massive form staggered, the pestilence clinging to his Terminator armor momentarily dimmed as if recoiling from the same agony that wracked its master.
The binary walls thrummed in response, their glow intensifying with an almost sentient defiance. Typhon's corrupted vision blurred, and for a fleeting moment, he saw something that struck terror into the depths of his rotted soul—patterns of mathematics so perfect they denied the very possibility of entropy. They burned into his mind like holy fire, their precision a blasphemy against the blessed chaos he served.
This was no mere technology. It was a weapon forged from the fundamental truths of the universe itself, a denial of decay and corruption so absolute that even Nurgle's gifts faltered before it. For the first time in centuries, Typhon felt the chill of uncertainty creep into his being.
John watched the battle unfold through multiple layers of reality. Physical sensors showed the Death Guard's advance in thermal signatures and mass displacement. Techno-seer auguries revealed the corrupt warp energies trying to seep through their defenses. And his own enhanced senses, products of the Independence Sector's mastery of transhuman development, told him the story of each explosion, each death, each small victory in their desperate holding action.
"Adjust firing solutions," he commanded, watching as another wave of Nurgle's forces died under concentrated fire. "Pattern Omega-Seven. They're learning our rhythms."
The Liberty Eagles responded instantly, their fire patterns shifting to create new killing grounds. This was the art of defense – not just overwhelming firepower, but the ability to adapt, to think ahead of your opponent. Each Death Guard that died was a data point, each failed attack a lesson in how to make the next defense even stronger.
In the tunnels below, Typhon felt the shift in the defenders' tactics. Ten thousand years of warfare had taught him to read battles like others read books, and what he read here was troubling. The Liberty Eagles fought with a precision that spoke of both technological superiority and tactical brilliance. Each position supported the others, each weapon system covered potential weaknesses.
More troubling still was the way his powers remained suppressed. The binary walls were more than mere technology – they were a form of mathematics turned into weapon, equation-engines that calculated plague out of existence. Typhon had never seen their like, not even in the greatest works of the Emperor's age.
Both commanders felt the pressure of time, though in vastly different ways. For John, each second was precious data, another moment to perfect their defense, another opportunity to prove worthy of his Primarch's trust. The ritual above needed time to complete, and every Plague Marine that died bought that time in blood and ash.
Through his neural link, he watched as another wave of Nurgle's forces breached the surface. Beasts of Nurgle, their bloated forms leaking impossible diseases, died under concentrated phosphex fire. Death Guard Terminators, their armor corroded and swollen with unholy life, were systematically torn apart by precision strikes to weak points that had taken centuries to identify.
For Typhon, time was an enemy in ways he had never expected. Each failed attack weakened the Death Guard's position, and he could feel other powers stirring above. The ritual was more than mere sorcery – it was something fundamental, something that threatened the very foundations of Chaos itself.
Yet he could not retreat. Pride and devotion warred in his rotted heart, driving him forward despite the mounting casualties. The Death Guard had weathered worse storms, endured greater fires. They would endure this too, would find a way to corrupt these perfect defenses, to bring beautiful decay to this sterile fortress.
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The golden pillar pierced the heavens like humanity's defiance made manifest, its light casting long shadows across the ritual grounds where Vladimir Mendelev, Chief Librarian of the Liberty Eagles, maintained his eternal vigil. Around him, five hundred Techno-seers wove patterns of impossible mathematics into reality itself, their augur staves inscribing equations that denied the very possibility of Chaos.
The Firewall was their masterwork – not mere technology, nor simple psychic power, but the perfect fusion of both. Binary code flowed like living lightning through the air, each digit a calculation that strengthened reality's foundations against the whispers of gods who would unmake it. It was beautiful, in its way – the poetry of pure logic turned to humanity's defense.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

Vladimir took another pull from his flask, the augmented liquid burning perfectly calibrated paths through his enhanced biology. Through eyes upgraded far beyond mere human limitations, he watched the Firewall's effects ripple across multiple layers of reality. In the material realm, it manifested as sheets of translucent energy, mathematical proofs made manifest. In the immaterium, it was a fortress of pure reason, its walls built from theorems that even daemons could not deny.
"Status report," he commanded, his voice carrying to every Techno-seer through both vox and neural link.
"Firewall integrity at optimal levels," came the response, delivered in perfect synchronization by hundreds of voices. "Chaos manifestation reduced to 0.0013% of baseline. Daemonic entities experiencing power reduction of 99.87%. The Emperor's burden is lightened."
Vladimir nodded, satisfaction warming him more than the flask's contents. This was their true purpose – not just to fight Chaos, but to deny it the very possibility of victory. While the Firewall stood, the whispers of the Dark Gods fell on deaf ears, their promises finding no purchase in minds protected by walls of pure reason.
"Firewall integrity at 98.7%," Koschei, his artificial intelligence companion, responded instantly. "Minor fluctuations in sectors 17 through 23, compensating through auxiliary power routing. Warning: significant warp disturbance detected approaching ritual site perimeter."
Vladimir nodded, taking another drink. He'd felt them coming long before the sensors picked them up – the distinctive taste of corrupted knowledge, of wisdom turned to ash in pursuit of power. The Thousand Sons were coming, and they'd brought one of their greatest champions.
The Techno-seers moved with practiced precision, spreading out in formations calculated to maximize both their defensive capabilities and their connection to the Binary Firewall. Each carried an Augur Staff, artifacts that were equal parts weapon and scientific instrument, capable of channeling both psychic energy and mathematical certainties.
Vladimir watched them deploy through multiple layers of perception. Their physical positions formed perfect geometric patterns, while their psychic presences wove together into a lattice of protective energy. But most importantly, their combined computational power fed directly into the Binary Firewall, strengthening its rejection of Chaos through pure mathematical proof.
He took a deep, slow breath, the scent of the cold steel around him mixing with the taste of vodka in his mouth. "Koschei, initiate Combat Protocol Seven," Vladimir commanded, his voice gruff and steady, like a hammer hitting an anvil. His augmented mind already running through probability calculations. "And pull everything we have on our incoming guests."
The AI complied instantly, flooding Vladimir's consciousness with data. Combat records, psychological profiles, tactical analyses – everything the Independence Sector's vast intelligence networks had gathered on the Thousand Sons from the future. But one file in particular caught his attention: Iskandar Khayon, the Kingbreaker, Abaddon's Knife, The One who made Magnus Kneel, wielder of an axe – a power axe decorated with a golden wolf's head and runes telling the saga of Eyarik Born-of-Fire called Saern.
"Vladimir took another drink, the burn of alcohol comforting in its simplicity. He leaned back, his gaze narrowing as he scanned the file. 'Интригующе,'(intriguishche) he murmured, his accent thick as iron, tinged with the cold determination of a man who had weathered a thousand battles."
"They send their best, da? Good. Let them come. Let us teach them why coming to our time is a bad idea, yes?"
Reality tore open with a sound like screaming mathematics. The Thousand Sons emerged from the Warp in a display of sorcerous might that would have broken lesser minds to witness. Ten warriors in baroque power armor, their forms twisted by mutations both subtle and gross, led by a figure whose very presence seemed to distort the fabric of space-time.
They attacked without hesitation or warning, unleashing a barrage of psychic power that would have leveled mountains. Warp lightning crackled across the sky, while waves of mutating energy sought to corrupt everything they touched. Each spell was a lethal sorcerous art, crafted by minds that had spent millennia perfecting their craft.
The Techno-seers responded with mechanical precision. Their Augur Staves came alive with streams of living binary code, each digit a rejection of Chaos's impossible mathematics. Support drones materialized from quantum storage, their fields interlocking to create barriers of pure probability.
Where sorcery met science, reality itself seemed uncertain which should prevail. Spells that could reshape continents were reduced to harmless light shows by equations that proved they could not exist. Attempts to summon daemons failed as the Binary Firewall calculated them out of possibility.
Vladimir watched it all with professional interest, but his attention remained fixed on Khayon. The infamous sorcerer stood apart from his brothers, his presence a void in reality itself. The axe in his hands sang with the memory of its original owner's death, while shadows that were not shadows writhed around him.
"Move aside or die," Khayon's voice echoed with the weight of millennia, each word a proclamation of inevitability, a threat that could crumble minds with ease.
Vladimir, nonchalantly sipping from his flask, let the enhanced liquid swirl in his systems, his demeanor as cold and unbothered as the frozen wastes of his homeland. "Ah, so dramatic," "Then you can die now." His words were blunt, unrefined, but they carried a force that matched Khayon's own. As Koschei analyzed their opponent, Vladimir's gaze remained steady, unshaken.
The fireball he conjured was almost too simple – a raw and blatant attack, easily deflected by a sorcerer of Khayon's skill. And, predictably, the The Sorcerer did exactly that, effortlessly swatting the fireball aside with a flick of his wrist. But this was the moment Vladimir had been waiting for.
With the flicker of distraction, Vladimir struck. This wasn't a punch, nor even a typical psychic assault. This was something more subtle, more precise – a mathematical equation, crafted to tear apart the very fabric of existence itself. The air seemed to hum with invisible force, as reality bent and broke under Vladimir's will.
Khayon's eyes widened in sheer disbelief as he felt the unthinkable happen. His soul, a force of untold power, was torn from its vessel. This was impossible—he was Iskandar Khayon, one of the greatest sorcerers the galaxy had ever known. He had bent the warp to his will, commanded daemons, and shattered the laws of reality itself. But here he was, standing outside his own body, helpless as it slumped to the ground.
His body hit the ground with a heavy thud, still breathing but lifeless, while his soul was left hanging in the air, confused and rattled. For a moment, Khayon couldn't comprehend it. This couldn't be happening. His mind raced, trying to grasp the impossible.
Vladimir chuckled, a low, guttural sound that carried both amusement and disdain. "Stay like this until everything is over, yes?" he said with a mocking tone, the Russian rolling off his tongue as if savoring every word.
Khayon's mind snapped into focus, briefly analyzing the rune-covered firewall now surrounding his body. His gaze shifted down to the intricate, glowing symbols...Eldar Symbols. The realization hit him like a hammer – the soul-separation wasn't some crude spell or simple psychic attack. It was far more sophisticated. This was a work of sealing runes, carefully crafted to bind the two halves of his existence apart.
Only the most skilled of psykers could pull off something like this not to mention one must be an adept in Eldar to use their runes, and Vladimir was no ordinary foe. Khayon's heart—if he still had one—burned with fury. He had underestimated this warrior, and now, trapped outside his own body, there was nothing he could do.
Vladimir stood tall, his broad shoulders like a stone wall, arms crossed over his chest as his piercing eyes glinted with cruel amusement. He let out a low, mocking chuckle. "Relax, sorcerer, watch your inevitable defeat" he said, each word dripping with cold disdain. "Made a Primarch kneel, huh? Kek." The finality of his words hung in the air like the frost of Siberia, cutting through the silence with an edge as sharp as a winter wind.