The Strategium radiated with a warm golden glow, its magnificent vaulted ceiling adorned with shimmering hololithic constellations. Below it, a table crafted from adamantium and crystal sprawled, each brilliant star representing a pivotal theatre of war. The Primarchs gathered in council—all towering titans bedecked in mighty armor, each embodying the raw power capable of reshaping worlds. Yet, amidst their collective might, an unsettling tension filled the air.
The warfront blazed across Segmentum Obscurus, where ominous green icons proliferated on the maps like relentless weeds: Krork incursions surged ominously from the northern reaches of the galaxy. Nearby, legion runes flickered like distant stars, signifying victories that had come at terrible costs—oceans of spilt blood.
Breaking the silence, The Lion's voice rang out, crisp and articulate. "Three Greatminds have fallen. Each required weeks of campaigning and vast Expeditionary Fleets. This cannot continue. We cannot emerge victorious through mere attrition."
Perturabo's lips twisted into a thoughtful grimace. "Inefficient, yes, but certainly not impossible. Every structure has its vulnerabilities. The Krorks… their Greatminds are intricately woven into their command nodes. Strike the keystone, and their entire structure will crumble."
With a fierce energy, Leman Russ leaned toward the table, his formidable mane bristling as he growled with intensity. "You're overthinking it, Perturabo. For every keystone we break, another one will emerge. My Wolves have slain their share—and yet, the tide continues to swell. Smash one skull, and thousands will roar back in fury!"
Ferrus Manus's silver fingers rhythmically tapped against the tabletop, a resolute glimmer in his eyes. "Then we shall crush them. We will turn them to ash beneath iron and fire. Humanity has never been short of weapons to wield!"
Frustration crackled in the air as voices rose, each expressing a mixture of anger and urgency.
Then Sanguinius spoke, and an instant calm washed over the room. His magnificent wings glistened in the radiant hololithic light, and his voice, though soft, carried a profound weight. "Brothers… have we heard from Franklin?"
The ensuing silence was more potent than any argument.
Guilliman lifted his weary gaze from his dataslate, his complexion pale and strained. "It has been three days. The Independence Sector has been silent for three days."
Angron pounded a gauntleted fist against the table, sending tremors through the chamber. "Three days? That's unimaginable. Franklin doesn't go quiet. If he bleeds, he roars!"
Magnus's singular eye burned with the energy of the warp. "Such silence is indeed possible. The Krork gestalt field is unlike anything we've encountered before. It disrupts even the Immaterium itself. Warp routes are collapsing, and astrotelepathy is disintegrating under the pressure of their will. But..." His voice grew dark and contemplative. "That does not explain why the Galactic Net has gone dark as well."
Creating a moment of gravity, Guilliman activated the hololith. A figure materialized with a brilliant glow: Franklin Valorian, his form radiating unwavering strength. The familiar smirk that usually adorned his face was absent now, replaced by eyes that burned with a fierce determination.
"My brothers," Franklin's voice resonated, weighed down by static yet filled with conviction. "The Gate of Liberty has fallen. The Krorks are not mere beasts. They are the perfected war-sons of the Old Ones, returning as an ancient hammer forged for battle. They fight with cunning, precision, and the might of gods. And they are here."
The image flickered, momentarily consumed by interference.
"The Liberty Net lies shattered. Until we rebuild it, this sector must stand alone. Do not seek us—we cannot be reached. We will fight here and hold our ground."
As the projection faded, an anguished silence descended.
Fulgrim exhaled, uncharacteristically solemn. "So, it is true—the Krorks are real. The monsters of the War in Heaven, not mere myths of old."
Mortarion scoffed, a cynical edge lacing his tone. "The Eldar defeated them once, didn't they? And what did that yield them? Arrogance, collapse, and ruin. Victory is inconsequential when time reaches its hand."
Magnus's eye narrowed thoughtfully. "The Aeldari battled gods themselves and emerged victorious. That Franklin now faces their foes reborn is enough to ignite fear in all our hearts."
Vulkan's voice rumbled like a furnace, steady and sure. "He will endure. Franklin has always endured."
Horus cast a hooded gaze, his words unrestricted yet gentle, like a finely honed blade. "Endure? Against eternity? Even he cannot keep roaring forever."
At the far side of the chamber, one Primarch remained silent.
Lorgar of Colchis, the youngest among them, listened intently, cradling a tome filled with Franklin's writings, scattered philosophies, and sharp wit. His eyes shifted from the pages to the faces of his brothers.
This Franklin… he mused. They regard him not just as a warrior but as a mentor, a jester, a beloved brother. The void he leaves behind feels heavier than his presence ever was.
With a soft touch, he closed the book, already feeling Franklin Valorian transform in his mind into a figure more grand than myth—a brother whose path he could have followed without question.
The chamber doors burst open with a commanding force. The Emperor strode in, radiating golden brilliance that enveloped the Strategium, pressing upon every soul within. Each Primarch rose in respect, even Russ, albeit with a reluctant edge.
"The Krorks are multiplying," the Emperor stated, His voice steady and commanding. "If left unchecked, they will consume Segmentum Obscurus and spread their destruction across the galaxy."
The hololith shifted, revealing green infestations spreading like a vile rot among the stars.
"There are too many. Their Greatminds are tenacious. You will contain them. You will bleed them. I will strike where the tide is strongest." His gaze swept across the room, a smoldering fire reflected in his eyes.
"And as for Franklin..." For the first time, the gravity in the Emperor's voice deepened, imbued with unsaid complexities. "He will not fall easily. He is unlike the rest of you. He commands the brilliance of mankind's Golden Age—unmatched weapons, machines, and intellects that outlast empires. That alone renders him formidable beyond measure."
A profound silence lingered in the air, before the Emperor's eyes sharpened, resolute.
------
The void above Kharon's Belt boiled with fire. Krork warships, titanic beasts of living iron and jagged steel, smashed against the Imperial blockade like hammerblows against a shield. The Auxilia's fleet held—barely. Where one vessel fell, two moved to take its place, but the strain was visible. Even the stalwart lines of the Imperial Navy groaned under the tide.
And then the real horror walked.
Three Greatminds, each a mountain of green flesh and swollen intellect, strode across the shattered plains below. Their skulls were grotesquely enlarged, pulsing with psychic runes that flared like storm-lights. Every step warped reality: bolter rounds crumpled to dust, missiles disassembled in mid-flight, explosions reversed themselves into silence.
The Auxilia fought with grim valor, but thousands died screaming, their minds snuffed out beneath the crushing weight of the gestalt. Super-heavy tanks spat fire, only to watch their shells stop dead in the air and fall harmlessly to the ground. Even the Titans lumbering across the field seemed like toys before such will.
The Krork horde roared in exultation, their confidence rising with every step their masters took toward the blockade. If the Greatminds reached the Imperial line, it would shatter like glass.
And then the Primarchs fell upon them.
Sanguinius descended first, wings radiant with dawnfire. His sword, a line of blinding light, cut through the impossible weight pressing upon him. The Greatmind froze, its massive eyes narrowing in disbelief. It had unmade Titans with a thought, imploded voidships with will alone. Yet this creature—this angel of flesh and blood—stood defiant against it.
The Greatmind pressed harder. Space twisted, trying to fold Sanguinius into nothing. But something resisted. A will not its own. A presence beyond calculation. For the first time in millennia, doubt entered the mind of a Krork.
Its hesitation cost it.
With a howl that split the air, Leman Russ struck. His charge shook the battlefield, twin blades hacking into alien flesh with thunderous force. The Wolf King's fury was unrelenting, each blow a storm of iron.
And then he roared.
The sound was no mere cry of war. It was a psychic thunderclap, a wolf's howl bound with Primarch will. For a heartbeat, the gestalt wavered. Orks dropped their weapons, howling in confusion, their connection severed by the raw defiance in Russ's voice. The Greatmind staggered, its control slipping.
That was when Horus arrived.
He crashed into the fray like a falling star, his mace World Breaker glowing with incandescent fury. One swing shattered the Krork's jaw, a second dented its swollen cranium, each impact detonating in shockwaves that flattened everything nearby.
The Greatmind reeled, but it did not yield. With a psychic bellow, it lashed out—not with claw, but with thought. Sanguinius was struck first, hurled across the plain. His wings crumpled, bones snapping as he smashed into the wreck of a fallen Titan. He rose, but his breath was ragged, blood bright against his armor.
Russ staggered as the beast's claws raked across his chest, splitting ceramite and spilling his lifeblood. He laughed through the pain, but his footing faltered.
And Horus—Horus nearly died. The Greatmind focused the gestalt into a single point, trying to implode him where he stood. For a moment, his vision went white, the world collapsing inward. Only Russ's broken howl and Sanguinius's return strike drew the Greatmind's focus away, buying Horus seconds enough to survive.
Together, battered and bleeding, the three struck as one—blade, claw, and mace. The swollen skull cracked, then split. A scream of green fire tore from the beast as its gestalt unraveled. The Ork horde nearest it convulsed, thousands dying instantly as their connection to the gestalt was severed.
Elsewhere on the battlefield, another Greatmind bellowed, its power collapsing battle tanks into twisted metal. Auxilia screamed as they died in droves. Knights stalked through the carnage, thermal lances blazing, cutting down the Krorks that swarmed to protect their master. Shadow Swords fired in unison, their volcano cannons tearing through ranks of green giants.
And then the second wave of Primarchs struck.
Ferrus Manus led the charge, his hammer glowing white-hot, each strike cracking bone and iron alike. Fulgrim was beside him, the Phoenician's blade singing with elegance even in the heart of madness, his every cut severing tendons and arteries. Angron came last, roaring, his chain-axes biting deep, carving swathes of gore through the beast's hide.
They fought as brothers, but even they paid in blood. Ferrus was hurled aside, ribs shattered by a single psychic backhand. Fulgrim was caught, impaled through the shoulder, his perfect form marred by alien steel. Angron nearly disappeared beneath a tide of Krork bodyguards, his axes slowing until Ferrus dragged him free with a hammer blow that split the ground.
Together, they were relentless. Ferrus's strength pinned, Fulgrim's grace cut, and Angron's fury tore. The Greatmind bellowed, blasting Auxilia into dust with a wave of thought—but even it faltered. The three demigods carved its swollen skull open, and with a final scream the monster collapsed, its body thrashing before going still.
The third Greatmind pressed on, its swollen skull pulsing with blinding green light. Reality screamed with every step, space twisting in agony. Auxilia tanks fired until their barrels melted. Shadow Swords poured annihilation into its hide. Knights died screaming beneath its claws. Titans staggered and fell, their god-engines silenced beneath the crushing will of the gestalt.
The breach was seconds away.
And then the sky itself ignited.
A light descended, brighter than a star, heavier than worlds. Every Ork died in an instant. Their brains boiled, their hearts burst, their souls extinguished as though they had never been. Krorks staggered like blind beasts, their titanic forms thrashing against the sudden collapse of their gestalt field. Even the Primarchs felt it—an impossible, suffocating pressure that pressed against their bones and thoughts alike.
The Emperor had come.
He did not descend like a warrior. He did not roar like His sons. He simply was—an absolute, undeniable presence that bent all reality around Him. His every step made the warp recoil.
The Greatmind turned, its swollen intellect lashing outward, clawing at the threads of reality. It had crushed armies with a thought, leveled cities with will alone. Now it tried to fold this golden being into nothingness.
And the Emperor raised His sword.
There was no clash. No drawn-out struggle. No thunderous exchange.
The blade moved once.
The Greatmind's skull burst into fire. Not ordinary fire, but holy conflagration that ate not just flesh but the very idea of it. Its scream was cut short as thought, matter, and soul were all severed in a single stroke. There was no corpse, no ruin. Only absence, a silence so vast it deafened.
The gestalt itself recoiled in terror. Across the plain, millions of Orks died shrieking as their psychic bond collapsed. Krork bodyguards detonated where they stood, their immense forms atomized before they could even cry out. Titans and Knights watched in silence as the tide dissolved into ash.
In that moment, every being on the battlefield knew—not believed, knew—that the Emperor was no mere man, no mere warlord. He was a god made flesh, an incarnation of dominion itself.
The Primarchs staggered to Him, broken and bloodied, their armor rent and their weapons slick with ichor. They had bled to kill two. He had erased one with a gesture.
"Three fallen," the Emperor said, His voice calm, resonant, carrying across the battlefield not as sound but as absolute truth. "But this war has only begun. Hold the line. Buy time."
His gaze swept across the galaxy, as though He could see beyond the veil of stars. "The storm has not yet reached its height."
And with that, silence fell again.
-----------------
The strategium of the Sweet Liberty pulsed with light, a thousand green flares expanding across the hololithic map. Each one was a Krork splinter, a tide of annihilation surging inward from the shattered Gate of Liberty.
Franklin Valorian stood at the head of the table, his Primeborn gathered around him. His smirk was gone; his face was stone, eyes locked on the largest swarm vectoring straight for the heart of the Independence System.
"Glorblasta," he muttered.
The name hung in the air like a curse.
Vladimir, ever the dour psyker, tapped the map with a gauntleted finger. His voice was steady, iron beneath frost."Warp is useless, Father. The Krork gestalt—howls louder than any storm. Routes collapse, astrotelepathy strangles in the throat. Even the Choirs choke on it."
Franklin's eyes flicked to him. "Good thing Battlefleet Liberty doesn't need Warp travel. We have the inertialess drives."
The Primeborn nodded — though uneasily.
Armstrong growled first, fist on the table. "Then we strike fast. Outer colonies burn if they must, but we hold the core. Liberty means nothing if Nova Libertas falls."
Ezra, shadows clinging to his voice, sneered. "So we become tyrants? Strip away freedom in the name of survival? That is not what you taught us, Father."
Denzel, calm as the void, answered him. "Liberty without survival is ash. Order must be imposed, or the chaos of fear will undo us faster than any Krork."
Mendelev, eyes shining with psychic flame, interjected coldly. "Nyet. You are both wrong. The people will fight, da, but not for liberty, not for order. They fight because there is no other way. They bleed because reality gives no choice."
Cavill leaned back, his tone sharp, forward-looking. "Then let them bleed with purpose. Every colony must be armed, every ship pressed to war. Not because we command it, but because liberty survives only when all defend it."
Jaxsen, ever the pragmatist, folded his arms. "That is sentiment. The Krorks care nothing for ideals. We must think like them: find the heads, sever them, scatter the body. Anything else is wasted blood."
The chamber thickened with argument, each son embodying a fragment of the creed Franklin had planted in them.
And Franklin — silent until now — finally spoke.
"What is liberty, if it dies at the first drum of war? What is survival, if it costs our soul? Our people will fight, not because we order them, but because they know freedom is worth bleeding for. If this is truly our darkest hour, then it is time to pull out every stop we have. I must reach Nova Libertas."
As the words settled, Vladimir's comms pinged with a shrill red light. A priority channel. He read the lines once, twice, then swore under his breath.
"Blyat."
The others turned. Franklin's smirk returned, thin and dangerous.
The holograph flickered to life, stamped with PRIORITY OMEGA.
[DATA SUBJECT: LUCIAN VUE BAPTISTE][CLASSIFICATION: HERALD OF THE FOUR][STATUS: ESCAPED. DELETION FAILED.]
Armstrong's hands clenched around the table's edge until the metal groaned. "The bastard lives."
Franklin's eyes narrowed. "It seems the Four also have their hand in this game."
He turned to Armstrong and Vladimir. "Hunt him. Hunt the Vue Baptiste heir to the ends of the stars. When this war is done, there will be no remnants left — no Vue Baptistes, no carrion nobles, no losers of the Civil War. We purge them all. That is a promise."
For a moment, no one spoke. The declaration was iron, final. Even the sons who prized liberty most did not argue — because they had seen what rot could do when left to fester.
Then the holomap shifted again. A fresh branch of green spread outward, but not toward the Sector. It angled away, vectoring across the stars.
Vladimir's face hardened. "Father… one splinter does not come here. It turns. It arcs for Sol."
The Fleet Commander glyph pulsed like a heartbeat.
Denzel stiffened. "Terra. If Terra falls, the Imperium collapses."Armstrong snarled. "Let them choke. This is our war. Not theirs."Mendelev's voice was cold certainty. "It is no feint. The gestalt shifts. It truly seeks Terra."
The Primeborn argued, voices sharp with tension — until Franklin raised a hand and silenced them.
"If the Fleet Commander wants Terra, then Terra will see a lightshow unlike any it has ever known. And if it doesn't burn itself into a living lightbulb, Pops will. You know Him — He'll light it up with psychic might."
The smirk returned, but it was a mask over steel.
"Our war is here. Glorblasta comes for Nova Libertas. And I mean to meet him."
The sons bowed their heads, the arguments stilled — not because they all agreed, but because their father had spoken.
The holomap burned green, and the war began.
-----------
The chamber emptied slowly, his Primeborn leaving with bowed heads, their arguments still echoing faintly in the strategium's vaulted dome. The map still burned green, a thousand splinters crawling across the void, but Franklin did not watch them. He stood silent, one hand braced against the great hololithic table, his eyes unfocused.
It was then that another voice filled the silence. Not from comms, not from any mortal tongue, but from Anaris.
"You feel it, don't you?"
The words were edged in molten iron, the resonance of a war-god who had outlived empires. Khaela Mensha Khaine spoke not with comfort, but with certainty.
Franklin did not lift his head. "I feel the weight. The pressure. My people's belief gathering like a storm. You said it before — faith feeds the Immaterium. Now it presses on me."
"Not presses. Condenses." Khaine's voice was a forge-hammer striking the soul. "The faith of Liberty is sharpening, focusing. And when it reaches its peak, your Godsoul will coalesce. It will rise — and it will not bow to you."
At that, Franklin's gaze hardened. "Then I end this war quickly, before it builds to that point. Glorblasta falls, the Krorks are broken, the Sector breathes again. Simple math."
Khaine laughed, a cruel and bitter sound. "Simple? No, Primarch. You misunderstand. This is not merely human faith you carry. You are more dangerous than even you realize."
The hololith flickered, stars dancing across Franklin's armor. He said nothing, but his silence demanded an answer.
"I see what slumbers inside you," Khaine continued. "It wears the mask of an Eldar, but its face… your face. Its wings are not of flesh, nor fire, but of the cosmos itself. Its eyes are gravity wells, its voice the law of inevitability. Cold. Cruel. A tyrant given divine form. Do you not wonder why?"
Franklin frowned. "You've never spoken of this."
"Because now it awakens."
The war-god's tone lowered, almost reverent. "Your Godsoul is not born of one people, but of three. The humans of your Sector cry your name in every forge, every trench, every council hall. The Craftworld Aeldari whisper it with dread and awe, for they believe you are my champion. And the Drukhari—ah, the Drukhari—curse you with every lash, every scream, every rite in Commorragh. Their hatred, their fear, their twisted reverence is still belief. And belief from Eldar souls carries power greater than a thousand human prayers."
The words struck Franklin like steel. His jaw clenched. "The Drukhari call me the Dark Eagle."
"And they have made it real."
A pause followed, vast and suffocating.
Franklin's voice was iron. "If this… thing… rises, can you fight it?"
Khaine's laughter returned, but softer now, mocking. "I can fight. But I will lose."
"Lose?"
"Because I am bound to you, Franklin Valorian. To the man, the mortal, the flawed vessel who has bled and fought his way across the stars. Not to the god rising within you. When the Dark Eagle emerges, I will not be its ally. I will be its prey."
The Primarch's smirk flickered back, thin but unshaken. "I've wrestled gods before. If it comes to a battle of wills, I'll break it like any other opponent."
The war-god chuckled, sharp and cold. "Perhaps. You are stubborn enough. Strong enough, even. But answer me this — what if you lose?"
Franklin said nothing.
"If you lose, the Immaterium will rupture. A second Eye of Terror will blossom at the heart of your Sector, born of all that faith and fear turned inward. The Dark Eagle will not merely rule — it will unmake. Humanity will burn, yes, but Chaos will be the least of its concerns. They will be children compared to what rises in your place."
Khaine's tone became grave, almost solemn. "You do not understand what you are, Franklin. Every Primarch was forged with a spark — a nascent god-soul waiting for belief. Your brothers' sparks smolder in silence. But yours burns brighter, fed by not one race but three. You are not the warden of liberty you believe yourself to be. You are a prison. And the Dark Eagle is the prisoner, waiting for the bars to bend."
Franklin's eyes narrowed. His voice was a growl. "Then I'll keep the cage locked. No matter the cost."
Khaine's laughter echoed one last time, distant and chilling. "We will see, Primarch. We will see. For when a god coalesces, it is at its strongest… and even you may not be enough."
The hololith burned green. The Krorks advanced. And behind Franklin's smirk, for the first time, there lingered doubt.