The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 154: Plans and Orks



The grand meeting chamber aboard the Sweet Liberty was a testament to Franklin Valorian's peculiar taste in interior design.

Franklin had transformed the one of the Command Rooms of Sweet Liberty into something that wouldn't have looked out of place in an ancient Terran gentleman's club. Rich mahogany panels lined the walls, their surfaces reflecting the warm glow of a crackling fireplace. The flames weren't strictly necessary in a temperature-controlled vessel, but Franklin insisted they added "ambiance."

Magnus the Red reclined in an oversized leather armchair, his crimson form somehow fitting perfectly despite his massive stature. His single eye gleamed with amusement as he watched Franklin's theatrical introduction of their newest arrival. The Crimson King's fingers absently traced patterns in the air, tiny sparks of psychic energy following his movements like afterimages.

"Welcome, brother, to our little ol' gathering of the Bickering Brotherhood!" Franklin's voice boomed through the room, his face split with that characteristic grin that seemed to dance on the edge between genuine warmth and ironic amusement.

Magnus's eye rolled so dramatically it might have completed a full circle. "I veto this immediately. We are learned individuals engaging in tactical discourse, not quarrelsome children."

"Actually," Rogal Dorn interjected with his characteristic bluntness, "we do not truly bicker. We engage in tactical discourse that typically results in the death of xenos or the submission of rebellious empires. Bickering implies unproductive argument. Our arguments are quite productive."

Roboute Guilliman, seated with perfect posture despite the comfortable sofa, pinched the bridge of his nose. "I second Magnus's veto. 'Bickering Brotherhood' sounds like a traveling circus troupe, not a gathering of military commanders."

Franklin's booming laugh filled the room as he watched Sanguinius take in each of his brothers' distinct personalities. The Angel's slight smile suggested he was already appreciating the dynamic of this particular group. "Well, if y'all don't like that one, how about the Justice Inclined League?"

"No," came the unanimous response, though Dorn felt compelled to add, "Justice is implicit in our actions. Stating it explicitly is redundant."

"The League of Primarchs, then?" Franklin offered, dropping into his favorite armchair and reaching for the humidor.

Magnus and Guilliman exchanged glances before nodding approval. "Simple, direct, and accurate," Dorn commented, which from him was high praise indeed.

"I second that," Sanguinius added, gracefully taking his seat while carefully accommodating his wings.

Magnus took an appreciative puff, examining the cigar. "Hmm, this batch is quite superior to the previous one. Where did you procure these, Franklin?"

Sanguinius chuckled, echoing the sentiment. With the name settled, the Primarchs made themselves comfortable in the lavish chamber - massive leather sofas, a crackling fireplace, and the soft sounds of jazz music in the background. Each Primarch took a cigar from the Humidor.

"Catachan," Franklin replied casually. "Barbed Vemongorse. We've found a way to make them into some mighty fine cigars."

Dorn nodded approvingly, taking a long draw. "Excellent. Initiate the production of five hundred more."

With a flash of light, a machine quickly produced the requested quantity, which Magnus promptly levitated towards himself. Roboute and Sanguinius each took one as well, joining in the relaxed indulgence.

Roboute chuckled, "You Liberty Eagles do love your cigars and liquor. Though I must admit, your tastes are far more refined than the Space Wolves'."n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

Sanguinius tried a cautious puff, only to dissolve into a coughing fit, eliciting chuckles from the assembled Primarchs. "Do not try to inhale it into your lungs, brother," Magnus advised. "Simply draw it into your cheeks."

As the Primarchs settled into their comfortable seats, Franklin stood in the center, projecting holographic displays. "Alright, gentlemen, time to get down to business. Our recent victories have culled their numbers, but I fear that a true Waaagh is on the horizon."

The Primarchs fell silent, their gazes fixed on the holographic display that Franklin had activated in the center of the room. Detailed battle reports and strategic projections flickered to life, painting a grim picture of the Ork menace.

Roboute nodded, pulling up his own holographic contingencies. "I've been coordinating defensive strategies with the Ultramarines. We're prepared for any resurgence from the greenskins."

Sanguinius studied the displays, offering his own tactical insights, which Roboute quickly incorporated into the plans. Dorn, in his usual no-nonsense manner, added, "Data suggests that should a 'Prime-Ork' emerge, it will likely make a beeline for Terra in an attempt to draw our attention."

Magnus hummed in agreement, the glow of the cigars casting shadows on his face. "A sound observation. We must be vigilant and ready to meet this threat head-on."

The room grew tenser as each Primarch defended his stance, their voices rising and clashing like swords in battle.

Franklin leaned against the table, his perpetual smirk framed by the golden glow of the strategium's hololith.

"I am telling you," Franklin began, gesturing confidently to the projections of battle fleets maneuvering in the void, "we can win this Void War in just a few solar weeks. The Orks lack the organization to counter a coordinated strike. It's a matter of outmaneuvering them."

Dorn folded his arms, his expression as rigid as his posture. "You are deluding yourself, Franklin. Winning one theater of war is not winning the war. Orks are not centralized; they are everywhere. Fortifications are the key. We hold the line, and you become our Rapid Response Force."

Franklin raised an eyebrow, his smirk unwavering. "Dorn, we don't have time to hunker down behind walls while the galaxy burns. Mobility is key. You can't just fortress your way to

victory."

"Correction," Dorn replied, his voice flat but cutting. "I absolutely can fortress my way to victory. Walls do not require refueling. Walls do not defect. Walls do not argue. Unlike some people I am forced to call brothers."

Before Franklin could retort, Roboute Guilliman chimed in, his tone measured but with an undercurrent of annoyance. "Both of you are missing the larger picture. We need to locate this so-called Prime-Ork and eliminate it. Decapitation strikes work. I have the data to prove it." Magnus, who had been observing with an expression of barely concealed exasperation, slammed his hand on the table. "By the unblinking eye, Roboute, that's the stupidest plan I've heard since Franklin suggested 'beach episodes' to improve morale. If this really is a Prime- Ork, sending in a strike force to kill it is tantamount to handing the Orks a free snack!"

Guilliman frowned, clearly affronted. "Magnus, with proper scouting-"

"Oh yes, scouting." Magnus leaned forward, rolling his single functional eye dramatically. "Because that always works against creatures that spawn more soldiers by sneezing. While you're out there playing Starfleet Captain, Franklin and I will be busy trying to salvage your

inevitable disaster."

Franklin tilted his head. "Nice to know I'm in your salvage plan, Magnus. Also, could you please not encourage Roboute to watch more 20th-century sci-fi? He already has too many

space fleet comparisons."

Magnus shrugged, looking entirely unbothered. "He likes it. Keeps him out of my library, so

it's a win for me."

Guilliman visibly bristled but held his tongue. Dorn, however, saw an opportunity and pounced. "At least Roboute attempts to plan. Unlike certain individuals who spend more time in their sanctum painting miniatures than commanding troops." Magnus threw up his hands in mock outrage. "Excuse me, Dorn, but miniature painting is a valid stress-relief method. Not that you'd know anything about stress relief, Mister 'I am the

wall.""

Dorn didn't even blink. "I relieve stress by winning wars. You should try it sometime."

Before Magnus could retort, the sound of a deep, hearty laugh echoed from the doorway. The Primarchs turned as Leman Russ strode into the room, wolf pelt billowing behind him and a massive barrel of Mjod slung over one shoulder. Sanguinius followed closely behind, his golden hair shimmering in the light, looking slightly bewildered by the spectacle.

Leman grinned as he approached the council table. "By the All Father's beard, are you lot at it again? The Eagle, the Wall, the Walking Spreadsheet, and the Shiny Cyclops, all bickering like

old women."

Magnus sighed audibly. "Lovely. The feral one has arrived. Go ahead, Leman, tell us how you'd solve the Ork crisis with more ale and headbutting."

Leman set the barrel down with a heavy thud and leaned against the table, his grin widening.

"Well, Magnus, it would work. But I'll leave the big brain stuff to you lot. I'm just here to crack

some Ork skulls and enjoy the show."

Leman Russ and Sanguinius's eyes met, and the Wolf King immediately approached Sanguinius. "Eh, you're new," Leman growled, his voice rough yet tinged with curiosity. Leman said gruffly, appraising the Angel of Baal.

Sanguinius inclined his head, his golden hair catching the dim light. "I am Sanguinius. It's a

pleasure to meet you, brother."

Leman grinned, stepping forward to clap Sanguinius on the shoulder with a force that made

the Angel of Baal take a half-step back. "Leman Russ, Wolf King of Fenris. Glad you've joined

the pack!"

Sanguinius, observing the scene with an air of regal curiosity, finally spoke up. "Is this...

normal?"

Leman let out a booming laugh. "Oh aye, this is the usual. But don't worry, Angel Boy. These four always figure it out eventually. Then we just follow Franklin's orders and look good while

doin' it."

Magnus groaned, rubbing his temple. "By the Emperor, can we please get back to the actual war? Before Roboute drafts another unnecessary flowchart?"

Guilliman's eyes narrowed. "My flowcharts are efficient, Magnus. Unlike your constant need to

veto every actionable plan with vague mysticism."

Franklin clapped his hands together, cutting through the noise. "Alright, enough! I propose a

Recess!"

The Primarchs nodded.

As the council dispersed, Leman clapped Sanguinius on the back, nearly sending him stumbling. "Welcome to the family, Angel. It only gets crazier from here."

The Segmentum Tempestus echoed with the thunderous roar of battle as Angron and Vulkan,

two of the mighty Primarchs, led their legions in the eradication of the ork menace. The World

Eaters and Salamanders had joined forces, their combined might raining destruction upon the greenskins.

Angron, his face etched with a savage grin, tore through the ork ranks with his chainaxe,

Widowmaker cleaving through armor and flesh with brutal efficiency. Beside him, Vulkan's hammer, Thunderhead, smashed orks into bloody pulp, the Primarch's stoic determination a stark contrast to Angron's gladiator persona.

As the last of the orks fell, Angron and Vulkan stood amidst the charred remains, surveying

the scene of their victory. Vulkan placed a hand on Angron's shoulder, his deep voice rumbling

with satisfaction.

"Another xenos exterminated, brother. Our deeds will endure."

Angron nodded, his features softening slightly. "Indeed, Brother."

But their moment of triumph was short-lived, for suddenly, Angron's comm-bead crackled

to life, carrying the urgent voice of his flag captain, Lotara Sarin. "Primarch Angron, we have a situation," Lotara's voice rang out, tinged with a hint of concern. "Our fleet has been attacked by an ork armada. They're swarming our position, and

we're struggling to intercept all their vessels. Some ork landing parties may have slipped

through our defenses."

Angron's brow furrowed, and he exchanged a grave look with Vulkan, who had clearly

received a similar report from his own command.

"Understood, Lotara," Angron replied, his tone hardening. "Gather our forces and establish a rendezvous point. We'll rally the World Eaters and reinforce your position." Turning to Vulkan, Angron spoke with a sense of urgency. "The orks have counterattacked, brother. We must move quickly to secure our lines and eliminate this threat before it spreads

further."

Vulkan nodded, his golden eyes burning with determination. "Then let us not waste another moment. The Imperium cannot afford to lose this system to the greenskins." With that, the two Primarchs descended from their vantage point, their legions rallying to

their sides. Angron barked orders to his first captain, Gheer, who immediately set about

coordinating the World Eaters' response.

"Gheer, establish rendezvous points for our forces. We must interdict the ork landing parties

before they can gain a foothold on the planet's surface."

Gheer, a seasoned veteran scarred by countless battles, saluted his Primarch. "It will be done,

Lord Angron. The World Eaters will not rest until every last ork is purged from this system."

In the smog-choked depths of the Ork Empire's capital, amidst the ceaseless din of war, two figures strode through the wreckage with an unshakable air of destiny. Fulgrim, the Phoenician, his gleaming armor unmarred by the filth of battle, moved like a masterful artist mid-performance. Each sweep of his blade, Fireblade, painted arcs of death through the air, severing Orks with a grace that bordered on the divine. Beside him, Ferrus Manus, the Gorgon of Medusa, waded through the carnage like a blacksmith in his forge, his silvered arms wielding the immense Forgebreaker with brutal, unrelenting efficiency. Where Fulgrim danced, Ferrus crushed; where the Phoenician carved poetry in motion, the Gorgon forged

blunt reality.

Ahead of them loomed the Warboss's inner sanctum, its iron doors marked with crude glyphs and splattered gore. With a nod to each other, they moved as one, kicking the heavy doors off their hinges with a thunderous crash. The chamber was lit by the sickly green glow of Ork machinery, and at its center stood the Warboss-a monstrous brute clad in jagged, scrap- metal armor, a massive power klaw flexing menacingly at its side.

The Warboss chuckled deeply, its tusks glinting in the flickering light. "Well, well. Two

humies think dey can take on me. Dis oughta be fun!"

Fulgrim rolled his eyes, wiping an imaginary speck of dirt from his pristine vambrace. "Delightful. Another cretin who thinks size and noise are substitutes for skill."

Ferrus growled, hefting Forgebreaker onto his shoulder. "Enough talk. Let's put it down and

move on."

As the Warboss lunged forward, its bellow shaking the room, Fulgrim turned to Ferrus with a sly grin. "Ferrus, a thought occurs: why not make this encounter more... interesting?" Ferrus scowled, already bracing himself to meet the Ork's charge. "Fulgrim, if this is another

one of your 'little games,' I swear-"

"Precisely!" Fulgrim interrupted, raising a hand theatrically. "A wager. Whoever lands the

killing blow on this grotesque beast, the other must... oh, let's say, acquire siege weapons from Franklin Valorian's vaults and deliver them to the victor."

Ferrus narrowed his eyes, the glow of molten silver in his veins brightening. "You're insufferable, Fulgrim. But fine. If only to shut you up when I win."

"Ha! Confidence suits you, Ferrus," Fulgrim quipped as he leapt to the side, dodging a

massive swing from the Warboss's klaw with an almost effortless pirouette. "Pity it will be misplaced."

Eldrad Ulthran sat in his chamber aboard Craftworld Ulthwé, massaging his temples with an

air of frustration so practiced it might as well have been an art form. The skeins of fate had been particularly chaotic as of late, which was unsurprising given the state of the galaxy. What was surprising-though not entirely unwelcome-was the fact that Khaine had manifested in reality. Not in his usual, frothing-at-the-mouth, "I-will-pulverize-everything-including- my-own-followers" way, but sober. With an annoyed sigh, Eldrad closed his once again eyes and delved into the skeins of the

Warp, his mind brushing against the infinite chaos of what could be. The threads of time and fate unraveled before him like the tangled cables of a Mon'keigh's data-slate-chaotic, unnecessarily convoluted, and dripping with inevitable doom. And there, amidst the multiverse of bad decisions waiting to happen, one thread stood out. One vision burned itself

into his ancient psyche like a Mon'keigh meme:

A Krork. Not an ork. A Krork. The kind of greenskin you'd find in an Eldar's worst nightmares, the primordial terror that makes even a Phoenix Lord clutch their infinity stone and scream

internally. This monstrosity was rising, its presence like a tidal wave of destruction and stupidity combined.

And because the universe hates me personally, I get to deal with it. Lovely.

And as if the universe wasn't already baffling enough, Khaine, the literal God of Murder, had

chosen a champion. A human. A Primarch. Franklin Valorian, the Hand of Khaine, Champion of the Eldar's War God, and an infuriatingly competent individual who made Eldrad feel simultaneously relieved and deeply suspicious.

Something about Franklin's very existence made Eldrad feel as if the galaxy had become a

cosmic joke. Not the kind of cruel irony that the Farseer was used to, but a bizarre, almost comedic twist of fate that reeked of a certain someone's meddling.

Yes, Cegorach was still alive. Eldrad could feel the Laughing God's presence, distant yet pervasive, like the echo of a particularly obnoxious joke told at the wrong time. Perhaps this was why Franklin and everything surrounding him felt so... funny. Not in the "haha" sense, but in the "I'm definitely being laughed at" way that made Eldrad's teeth grind. Eldrad couldn't deny it: ever since Franklin and Khaine had manifested, things felt different.

The threads of fate were less frayed, less on the verge of snapping entirely. It was as if the galaxy itself had paused to take a breath, albeit a shallow and wary one.

But that didn't mean Eldrad trusted Franklin. Oh no, trust was something he reserved for

exactly no one. However, he couldn't ignore the fact that Franklin had succeeded where so many others had failed. The Liberty Eagles, while human, were surprisingly tolerable. And Franklin's mere presence was like a flaming sword slicing through the knots of the Warp, undoing the schemes of Daemons and Malignant 4 alike.

The Hand of Khaine wasn't just a warrior; he was a force. One that Eldrad needed to understand

and, if possible, steer.

Sighing deeply, Eldrad activated the crystalline interface of his communications array. He crafted a message with all the eloquence and gravitas befitting a Farseer of his stature. "Franklin Valorian, Champion of Khaine, Hand of the War God, we must speak. The threads of fate have shifted since your ascension, and Ulthwé acknowledge what you have become. I extend an invitation to meet at the earliest opportunity. The Craftworld Ulthwé shall receive you with the respect due to the chosen of our god, be you Human or Eldar, we must discuss

the future in particular a Krork. Please Do not delay."

He paused, reading over the message. It was appropriately formal, yet carried the undertone

of urgency that Eldrad felt was warranted. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it, knowing that Franklin would receive it and-being Franklin-likely show up with a smirk on his face and some aggravatingly charming comment that would make Eldrad question the sanity of the

universe.

Eldrad leaned back in his chair, his mind already running through the countless potential outcomes of this meeting. He felt both cautious and oddly optimistic. Perhaps, just this once, fate had handed him an ally rather than another complication.

Still, the fact that the galaxy's salvation might hinge on a god-powered human with an ego to

match made him chuckle.

"Cegorach," Eldrad muttered, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "If this is your doing, I hope you're enjoying the show."