The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 147: A Mismatch

 n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

The hololithic projection of Rogal Dorn materialized with characteristic Imperial precision, his stern features cast in the golden light of ancient technology. Behind him, the sounds of siege warfare provided a constant backdrop - the thunder of artillery, the clash of armies, all muted by distance and technology into something almost musical.

Denzel Washington and Steven Armstrong stood at parade rest, their perfectly maintained armor reflecting the artificial light of the command center. Through the reinforced viewport behind them, the sky rumbled with ongoing aerial combat, flashes of weapons fire illuminating the clouds like artificial lightning.

"Report," Dorn said without preamble, his voice as unyielding as the fortifications he was renowned for building.

Armstrong stepped forward slightly. "Lord Dorn, the modifications to the wall systems you suggested have been implemented. The additional void shield generators are operating at 97% efficiency, and the automated defense turrets have been calibrated according to your specifications."

"Good." Dorn's eyes moved across the tactical displays visible in his projection. "The positioning of the moats is tactically sound. Though I note you've added energy field generators within them. Unusual. Expensive. Effective."

"Thank you, Lord Dorn," Denzel said smoothly. "Your expertise has been invaluable in preparing these defenses."

"Naturally." Dorn's matter-of-fact tone carried no hint of pride, merely stating what he considered an obvious truth. "However, I find myself questioning the necessity of such extensive fortifications. Franklin's Legion is not known for defensive warfare. What manner of enemy requires such measures?"

Armstrong and Denzel exchanged a microsecond glance, their enhanced reflexes allowing for an entire conversation in that brief moment.

"A particularly formidable xenos empire, Lord," Armstrong offered carefully. "Their technology level is... concerning."

Dorn's expression, if possible, became even more stoic. "Impossible."

"Sir?" Denzel managed to keep his voice steady.

"Franklin's combat record against xenos threats is extensively documented. Analysis indicates that any conventional xenos empire would be eliminated within approximately three solar months, given your Legion's' standard operational parameters." Dorn's eyes narrowed slightly. "You are attempting to deceive me. You are doing it poorly."

"Lord Dorn, I assure you-" Armstrong began.

"Your assurances are unnecessary. And incorrect." Dorn's tactical mind was visibly working through the problem. "The defensive requirements suggest an enemy capable of both conventional and unconventional warfare. The psychic dampeners integrated into the walls indicate warp-capable threats. The purification systems suggest biological or corruption- based weapons. This combination of factors..."

He was interrupted by a tremendous crash from outside the viewport. A serpentine form wreathed in purple energy slammed into the ground, its four arms flailing as it tried to right itself. Above it, a figure wrapped in divine fire drove it further down, wings of steel flashing as they nearly bisected another massive form - this one red with rage and brass with corruption.

Franklin, still locked in combat with his fallen brothers, managed to give the viewport a thumbs up as he hurled Fulgrim back into Angron's descending form.

Dorn watched this display with his characteristic lack of expression. "That was Franklin."

"Yes, Lord Dorn," both captains answered simultaneously.

"He was fighting a four-armed serpentine entity displaying distinctive purple coloration." Dorn's eyes narrowed fractionally. "That shade of purple is familiar. I have seen it before..."

Through the hololith, they could hear Sigismund's voice calling out: "Lord Dorn! The non- compliant empire's forces are in full retreat! Victory is assured!"

"Acknowledged, First Captain." Dorn turned back to the Liberty Eagles. "I must attend to this matter. However, inform Franklin that I require a full briefing on this... xenos empire. Their capabilities are clearly worthy of study, and my fortification designs must be optimized accordingly."

The hololith flickered out, leaving Denzel and Armstrong in momentary silence.

"Well," Armstrong said finally, "that could have gone worse."

Denzel nodded, allowing himself to relax slightly. "Trying to deceive Rogal Dorn is like trying to lie to a living lie detector that also happens to be a tactical genius and your uncle."

"At least Franklin's timing was..." Armstrong was cut off by another tremendous crash from outside.

Through the viewport, they could see their Primarch locked in aerial combat with his corrupted brothers, the sky itself seeming to burn around them. Franklin had Fulgrim in a headlock while using him as a makeshift club against Angron, all while maintaining perfect flight stability.

Both Captains watched as their Primarch executed a perfect aerial maneuver that sent both Angron and Fulgrim crashing into each other again. "At least he didn't ask about the giant golden pillar of light."

"Don't remind me," Armstrong groaned. "Next time Father wants to 'consult' with one of his brothers while fighting Daemon Primarchs, he can do the explaining himself."

Above them, Franklin's voice rang out clear and cheerful: "Hey boys! How'd the call with Rogal go?"

Both captains exchanged looks that spoke volumes about the unique challenges of serving in the Liberty Eagles.

"Just fine, Lord," Denzel called back. "Though we might want to revisit our definition of 'selective truth' in future briefings."

The horizon burned with unnatural fire, casting shadows that moved in ways shadows should not. Through enhanced optical systems and centuries of battlefield experience, First Captain Denzel Washington and Second Captain Steven Armstrong watched the approaching storm of corruption and hatred given form.

Daemon Engines prowled forward like predatory mountains, their forms a mockery of both machine and flesh. Brass and blood mixed with steel and smoke, while the screams of their tortured machine spirits echoed across the valley. Behind them came the endless ranks of the damned - traitor legions, World Eaters and the Black Legion, who had turned their backs on everything they once held sacred.

From their position atop the wall, both captains could see the full scope of what approached. The defensive systems they'd helped design, each weapon and void shield generator a testament to the fusion of Rogal Dorn's expertise and Liberty Eagle innovation.

"So," Armstrong said, his voice carrying the weight of inevitable justice, "Abby finally commits fully to the attack."

Denzel nodded, his twin hyper-phase blades humming softly at his sides. "He's run out of options. The ritual continues above, and his forces are being systematically destroyed on every other front. This is his last chance to change the course of destiny itself."

"Even if he breaks through here," Armstrong's massive form shifted slightly as he checked the status of the defenders through his neural interface, "he'll face three more walls, each stronger than the last. The Liberty Guard are in position, the artillery is ranged, and our brothers stand ready."

"He'll die here," Denzel's voice carried absolute certainty. "Like the traitor he is."

Both captains fell silent for a moment, watching the approaching apocalypse. The sound of daemon horns carried across the battlefield, their notes promising death and corruption. But neither warrior showed any sign of fear.

"It's almost poetic," Armstrong mused. "The traitor, who helped tear down humanity's dream ten thousand years ago, making his final stand against those who kept that dream

alive."

Denzel's response was interrupted by a priority alert from their tactical systems. New

signatures were appearing among the chaos forces - massive forms that radiated power that set off every warning rune in their enhanced senses.

"Daemon Primarchs," Armstrong confirmed grimly. "They're committing everything to this

assault."

"Good." Denzel smirked. "Let them come. The walls will hold. And even if they don't..." He gestured upward, where flashes of intense flames still pierced the corrupted sky. "Franklin's keeping their heaviest hitters occupied. These walls aren't just fortifications - they're a statement of defiance against everything the traitors represent."

"For the Emperor," Armstrong said softly, "and for the dream that never died."

"For Liberty," Denzel agreed, "and for a future worth fighting for." Above them, the sky continued to burn with the battle of demigods. Below, the forces of

Chaos advanced like a tide of nightmare made manifest. But the walls stood ready, their defenses primed, waiting to prove that even the gods themselves could be denied by human ingenuity and courage.

The time for words was ending. Soon, there would only be the thunder of guns and the clash of armies. But in this last moment of relative quiet, two of humanity's greatest warriors stood together, ready to show the forces of Chaos exactly why the Liberty Eagles had the finest combat record of any legion in history.

They would hold the line. They would keep faith. And Abaddon, along with his armies of the damned, would learn exactly what price betrayal ultimately demanded.

The horns sounded closer now. The end was beginning.

Within the binary lattice of the Firewall, Slaanesh's malice coiled like a serpent, threading her

influence into reality. A rift loomed-a wound in creation from which her favored sons sought

to emerge.

The Emperor, locked in his eternal struggle, turned to Constantin Valdor, his voice calm and precise. "A Traitor Legion breaches at the Eastern Wall."

No further words were needed. Valdor, the Captain-General of the Legio Custodes, nodded and left with the silent purpose of one who had never failed his master. Within minutes, a thousand Custodians-the Emperor's chosen-prepared for war, accompanied by the Sisters of Silence, their null auras anathema to the warp-touched. Like

golden specters of judgment, they advanced, their mere presence a proclamation of death. At the Eastern Wall, reality convulsed as the Emperor's Children clawed their way into existence. Purple lightning split the skies, their sonic corruption twisting the air into a cacophony of agony. Lord Commander Eidolon emerged first, his armor once a monument to pride now warped into a grotesque parody of its former grandeur. Behind him, Lucius the Eternal followed, his features a canvas of scarred arrogance. The Traitor Legion poured forth, a tidal wave of madness and excess.

Eidolon's expectation of resistance-some loyal Astartes or mortal regiments-crumbled into ash the moment he saw them. His enhanced senses recognized the golden warplate, the towering figures, and the unyielding discipline that no Astartes could match. The Custodians. Dread settled in his hearts. He had witnessed their power during the Great Crusade. Now, they were here not as wardens of the palace but as executioners, sent to cleanse.

For the first time in centuries, Eidolon felt it-a cold, gnawing dread. "For the Emperor," Valdor said simply, and the Custodians moved. What followed was not a battle in any conventional sense. It was an exhibition of why the

Custodians were considered the finest warriors humanity had ever produced. Each one moved with precision that made even space marines seem clumsy by comparison, their weapons finding weak points in armor that shouldn't have existed.

The Sisters of Silence wove through their ranks like deadly shadows, their null auras disrupting the warp-enhanced abilities of their corrupted foes. Where they passed, the screams of sonic weapons fell silent, and the unnatural strength granted by Slaanesh flickered

and failed.

Lucius the Eternal saw him immediately. The champion of the Third Legion grinned, his

scarred face twisting into a grotesque mask of ecstasy. Here was a worthy foe, one who radiated an aura of perfection that rivaled even his own.

Lucius approached with an almost casual stride, the blades at his side singing softly as if eager for blood. "Captain-General," he drawled, his voice carrying over the din. "Your Emperor sends you to die, I see. A shame. You'd make a fine addition to my collection."

Valdor did not answer. His Apollonian Spear rested lightly in his hands, its haft glowing faintly with a hum of restrained power. His helm concealed his expression, but the silence spoke volumes. To Lucius, it was infuriating.

"You've nothing to say?" Lucius chuckled, stepping into the killing circle. "No grand

pronouncements? No demands for my surrender?"

The Captain-General tilted his head slightly, his stance shifting. It was not a defensive gesture-it was one of absolute certainty. "You will fall in three exchanges," he said simply. Lucius laughed outright, his warped voice echoing unnaturally. "Three exchanges? Captain- General, I could toy with you for hours." His blades came up, The Laer Blade and Nineteen. Valdor's only response was to raise his spear into the en garde position.

With a roar that echoed with maddened ecstasy, Lucius struck. His opening move was a triple

strike meant to overwhelm any defense-a feint high, a thrust low, and a lightning-fast slash aimed at the throat. It was a maneuver that had claimed the lives of countless warriors, including champions of other Legions. But as Lucius' blade descended, Valdor moved. It was not a flourish or a grand display; it was efficiency distilled to its purest form. His spear tilted with the slightest adjustment, intercepting Lucius' thrust mid-motion and deflecting it upward, sending the corrupted swordsman off balance. The golden haft of the spear extended in the same breath, its butt slamming into Lucius' chestplate with concussive force. The blow was not intended to kill-it was a statement. Valdor was not playing the game Lucius thought

he was playing.

Lucius staggered back, his exhilaration momentarily giving way to frustration. The Captain- General hadn't countered him in the way he expected. He hadn't met Lucius' attack with equal

flair or attempted to outshine his artistry. Instead, Valdor had simply undone him, unraveling the sequence of his movements as though the famed swordsman were an overconfident apprentice. Lucius' grin widened, his scarred lips curling into a snarl of delight. "Good," he

hissed, his voice dripping with sadistic anticipation. "Finally, someone worthy of my blade." Valdor's expression remained impassive, his amber eyes fixed on Lucius with the detached scrutiny of a predator observing prey. He neither replied nor shifted his stance. For Valdor,

this was not a duel or a contest of skill. This was execution, and he would perform it with the same precision he applied to every duty.

Lucius surged forward again, his blade now a blur of motion. He danced around Valdor, his

strikes coming from every conceivable angle, each one a calculated assault designed to probe for weakness. The air between them shimmered with the speed of his attacks, the sheer force

of his blows creating sonic cracks. To the untrained eye, it was as though Lucius were fighting a statue, for Valdor barely moved. His spear flicked left, then right, each motion perfectly timed to meet Lucius' blade. Sparks flew as daemonic steel met the Corinthine Warplate. The Captain-General's movements were so economical that they seemed to anticipate Lucius' strikes before they even began.

Lucius snarled in frustration, leaping back to reassess. He had never faced such precision, such unyielding mastery. His opponents had always been goaded into mistakes, their rage or pride exploited to his advantage. But Valdor offered him no such luxury. His strikes found no

gaps, no hesitation to exploit. If Valdor was perturbed, he gave no sign. He stood as he always had: calm, poised, and entirely unshaken.

The third exchange began with Lucius abandoning finesse for raw, unbridled aggression. He

charged, his blade sweeping in a wide arc intended to shear through Valdor's spear and cleave the Captain-General in two. But Valdor stepped inside the arc with inhuman speed, his spear pivoting in a precise rotation that deflected the blade just enough to alter its trajectory. The

daemonic weapon screamed as it bit into the air inches from the Corinthine Warplate. Lucius stumbled, momentarily off-balance, and Valdor struck.

"No," Lucius rasped, his voice a broken whisper. "Slaanesh, help me. Save me." His hands

gripped at the spear once more, but the cold of Valdor's gaze froze him where he knelt, his breath shallow and panicked. "Please..." he begged, his voice cracking, a shadow of the arrogant and proud warrior he had been. "I am yours... Save me, Glorious One..." The words died on his lips as the Captain-General twisted his spear, pulling it free with a sharp scream of torn flesh and ruptured organ. Lucius fell forward, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud. The last breath he drew was a shallow gasp, one final, desperate plea for his

patron to show mercy. But there was no mercy in Valdor's eyes. There was no room for mercy in the face of duty.

Valdor stood over him, motionless, as Lucius's lifeblood pooled around him. There was no

satisfaction in the kill, no exhilaration. The Captain-General had only done what needed to be done-an enemy of the Emperor, no matter how twisted, was to be eradicated, and with a mere flick of his wrist, Lucius's death was assured. Lucius's body twitched once, a final, futile

attempt at survival, but Valdor's resolve had been unshakable. The champion of Slaanesh, the arrogant and self-absorbed being who had prided himself on his immortality, had been reduced to little more than a corpse at the Captain-General's feet. And as Lucius's eyes dulled,

Valdor finally spoke, his voice quiet and cold: "Your god cannot save you now, traitor." In the space of three exchanges, the Eternal had fallen.

Eidolon watched in mounting horror as his Legion faltered. For every excess they embraced, the Custodians countered with purpose. Where the Emperor's Children sought chaos, the Custodians imposed order. Every sound, every strike, every death was a judgment rendered. He waded into battle wielding Glory Aeterna, his thunder hammer roaring with destructive power. Traitor though he was, Eidolon was no coward. He swung with desperate fury, shattering shields and battering armor. But even as he fought, he could feel the tide turning.

Then he saw Valdor.

The Captain-General strode through the battlefield like a specter of doom. No flourish, no

wasted movement-only the cold, unyielding purpose of a warrior who had never known

defeat. Eidolon charged, hammer raised high, bellowing a war cry that echoed across the battlefield. The thrill of combat surged through him, feeding his corrupted soul. But beneath it lay

something unfamiliar, something alien to a son of Slaanesh: fear.

Valdor met his charge with a single motion, the Apollonian Spear descending like the wrath of

the Emperor himself. Eidolon's hammer crashed into Valdor's guard, and for a moment, the battlefield froze. Then the spear struck, shattering Glory Aeterna and tearing through

Eidolon's armor.

Eidolon fell to his knees, the weight of failure crushing him. Around him, his Legion was

annihilated. The Sisters of Silence stripped them of their warp-gifted strength, leaving them as fragile as broken glass before the Custodians' might.

There was no retreat. The warp portal that had brought them here had collapsed, severing

their escape.

Eidolon looked up at Valdor, his vision blurring as life drained from him. "We sought perfection," he rasped, blood bubbling from his lips.

Valdor's voice was cold, his tone devoid of malice. "You found it. In death." With a final thrust, the Captain-General ended Eidolon's life. The battlefield fell silent as the last Emperor's Children died. The Custodians stood amidst

the corpses of the Third Legion, their golden armor unblemished by the blood of traitors. For

them, it was not a victory-it was simply another duty fulfilled.

The Emperor's Children had sought to break through reality itself, to corrupt and conquer.

Instead, they found judgment.

In the end, there was no glory, no sensation, no triumph. Only the Emperor's Justice.