The Primarch of Liberty

The gilded halls of the Imperial Palace stretched like arteries of gold and marble, their vaulted ceilings disappearing into shadows where ancient mechanisms clicked and whirred with patient vigilance. Through these halls strode two figures whose very presence seemed to bend reality – one, a giant in ceremonial exo armor bearing the heraldry of the Liberty Eagles, his easy grin at odds with the gravity of his station; the other, an ancient being whose staff clicked against the floor with each measured step, his hood drawn close as if to contain the raw psychic might that radiated from his form.

Malcador the Sigillite, First Lord of Terra, deftly sidestepped what would have been a bone-crushing embrace from the Primarch Franklin Valorian. The movement was graceful, practiced – suggesting this was not the first time he had avoided such displays of fraternal affection. His eyes, ancient and sharp as obsidian shards, studied the towering demigod before him with careful scrutiny.

"Your machinations on Mars," Malcador began, his voice carrying the weight of millennia, "they walk a dangerous path, Lord Valorian." The formal address was deliberate, a reminder of station and responsibility. "Should Kelbor-Hal break through to the Martian Parliament..."

Franklin's response was a smile that seemed to carry echoes of ancient Terra's long-lost horizons. "Careful, Mal. Your skepticism is showing." The giant's armor's baroque surfaces reflecting the warm light of phosphor strips that lined the corridor. "Though I'll grant you've earned every ounce of it."

"If Kelbor-Hal breaks through the defenses of the Martian Parliament. The Treaty of Olympus binds even the Emperor's hands in matters of Martian internal affairs. We would be forced to watch as he purges the opposition."

A knowing smirk played across Franklin's features. "Your skepticism has merit, Mal," he acknowledged, using the diminutive that never failed to make the Regent's eye twitch. "But Belisarius Cawl and the Radicals will not lose. This, I guarantee."

Malcador's eyes narrowed, decades of political intrigue condensed into a single, penetrating gaze. "Why?"

Franklin's chuckle echoed through the corridor, a sound that seemed to make the very crystals in the illumination panels vibrate in sympathy. "Because Cawl is one of my Eggheads," he revealed, gesturing expansively. "Brilliant mind, ego the size of a Gloriana-class battleship – but then again, which of my scientists doesn't have that particular quirk? They're all masters of their craft."

"The connection, Franklin," Malcador pressed, patience wearing thin.

"Let's just say," Franklin's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that still managed to fill the entire hallway, "that Cawl has been given state-of-the-art equipment and... support." He emphasized the last word with another chuckle. "Yeah, let's call the new ones 'support.'"

The mysterious emphasis on 'support' caused Malcador's psychic senses to prickle, but he recognized the futility of pressing further. Franklin Valorian, for all his apparent openness, could be as inscrutable as the Emperor when he chose to be. Besides, the Primarch had never acted against the greater Imperial design, his methods unorthodox but his loyalty unquestionable.

The Sigillite fell silent for a moment, weighing his next words carefully. Franklin had proven himself trustworthy thus far, never truly jeopardizing the Emperor's grand design. Perhaps it was time to test the waters regarding the future – a future that, by design, would have no place for Primarchs at its helm.

"Tell me, Franklin," Malcador began, his voice carefully neutral, "what are your plans after the Great Crusade? What are your thoughts on allowing common citizens to rule themselves?"

The answer that came shook the foundations of Malcador's carefully constructed understanding of the Primarchs' nature. Franklin laughed, the sound bouncing off the ancient stones like a challenge to fate itself.

"Farming," he declared with a grin that could have lit the depths of the Palace. "Or maybe I'll push the borders out a bit further. Either way, you'll find me in the background, Mal, with a Libertan beer in one hand and tending to the galaxy's finest barbecue with the other." His eyes took on a distant look, as if seeing through the Palace walls to some future only he could envision. "Just as the Founding Fathers intended. Just as Washington did."

The reference to ancient Terra's leaders might have seemed presumptuous from any other, but from Franklin, it carried the weight of genuine conviction.

Malcador stopped dead in his tracks, his ancient eyes widening with disbelief. In all his centuries of existence, in all his careful studies of power and those who wielded it, he had never encountered this – a demigod who genuinely desired to step aside.

Seeing Malcador's stunned expression, Franklin laughed heartily. "Look, Mal, I've got talent for ruling – we both know that. But I don't particularly enjoy it. If this galaxy needs the Liberator, I'll wear that mantle until they don't need one anymore." His voice took on a more contemplative tone. "The galaxy's vast, and we've barely scratched its surface. I might push those borders out just for the fun of it, but I won't be taking any leadership roles unless absolutely necessary."

He gestured expansively. "The Liberty Eagles, the Independence Sector, My Industrial Heart , the Military Arm – sure, they're mine. But even those will be ruled by mortals. I'll keep the Megacorporations and the 11th Legion for border expansion and conquest when needed, but we won't meddle in Imperial affairs unless absolutely necessary." His grin returned. "I've got 99 problems, but being a king isn't one of them. Let the Imperium be ruled by whoever and whatever works best."

Standing there in the ancient corridor, Malcador the Sigillite, First Lord of Terra, greatest of the Emperor's servants, found himself reevaluating everything he thought he knew about the nature of power and those destined to wield it. Before him stood a Primarch who viewed immortality not as an endless burden of rule, but as an opportunity for endless discovery. Who saw power not as a right to be claimed, but as a responsibility to be set aside when no longer needed.

The echoes of their conversation faded into the depths of the Palace, but the impact of Franklin's words would resonate through the corridors of power for millennia to come. In the end, perhaps the greatest victory was not in the eternal grip of power, but in the strength to open one's hand and let it go

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In the heart of the Imperial Palace, before the towering edifice of the Golden Throne, Franklin Valorian stood in contemplative silence. The chamber thrummed with power both seen and unseen, each pulse of energy from the Astronomican sending ripples through reality itself. The Emperor sat motionless upon His ancient seat, His physical form a mere anchor while His consciousness soared through the infinite depths of the Empyrean.

The radiance emanating from the Akashic Reader cast strange shadows across the vast chamber, its light interweaving with the golden luminescence of the Astronomican in an ethereal dance. Franklin observed the phenomenon with the eyes of both a warrior and a son, understanding that each shimmer represented untold depths of knowledge and power being sifted through by humanity's Master.

As he waited, Franklin's consciousness began to drift through the layers of memory that clung to this sacred space like cosmic cobwebs. The recollection of his first encounter with the God Emperor surfaced unbidden – not the being who now sat before him, but the entity of power that would exist ten millennia hence. The revelation still sent shivers through his transhuman frame: his father, as he existed now, already possessed the full might of that future self, a power so vast it could shake the foundations of reality.

The strategic brilliance of it all dawned on him anew. The Emperor had orchestrated events to force Chaos' hand, to make them initiate their End Times. It was a gambit of such magnificent scope that even attempting to comprehend its full implications made Franklin's enhanced mind reel.

As his thoughts probed deeper into these memories, they encountered an unyielding barrier – a psychic lock crafted by the God Emperor Himself. Franklin could sense the immense power sealed behind it, knowledge meant for eyes that had weathered ten thousand years of grimdark future. The lock was not impenetrable; with his abilities, he could potentially force his way through. But wisdom stayed his hand. Some doors were meant to remain closed, some knowledge meant to remain veiled until its appointed time.

Besides, he had already witnessed enough to understand why his father could accomplish feats that defied comprehension. The memory of the Emperor facing down the Tyranid Hivemind in the Helican Sector Crusade flashed through his mind – a confrontation that had ended with the vast alien consciousness reeling in defeat. It explained why Khaine, the shattered god of war, believed that only Franklin and the Emperor could truly stand against a Krork, those terrifying ancient weapons of the Old Ones.

The sudden silence snapped Franklin back to the present moment. The Akashic Reader's hum diminished to a whisper, then ceased entirely. The change in the chamber's atmosphere was palpable, like the quiet before a thunderstorm. The Emperor's consciousness was returning to His mortal form, reality reshaping itself around His presence.

Franklin straightened, his massive frame casting long shadows in the golden light. The weight of future knowledge pressed against his thoughts, but he pushed it aside. The present moment demanded his full attention, for few beings in the galaxy could claim to stand before the Master of Mankind and truly know the depths of power they witnessed.

The chamber held its breath, waiting for the Emperor to open His eyes and address His son. In that suspended moment, Franklin couldn't help but marvel at the intricate web of time and circumstance that had brought him here. He was one of the few beings in existence who knew both versions of his father – the Emperor of the present and the God Emperor of the future – and understood that they were one and the same, merely separated by the veil of time.

The Emperor's return to corporeal awareness rippled through the chamber like a tide of molten gold, each wave of consciousness bringing with it fragments of infinite knowledge gleaned from the Empyrean's depths. The ancient being's eyes focused on His son's massive form, noting the familiar irreverent grin that played across Franklin's features despite the crushing weight of power that filled the chamber.

Franklin snapped a crisp salute, though he couldn't resist adding, "Hey there, Pops! How was surfing the Empyrean web?" The words should have been blasphemous in their casualness, yet they carried an underlying warmth that few beings in the galaxy could dare express toward the Master of Mankind.

"What requires my immediate attention?" The Emperor's voice resonated with undertones that could shake worlds or whisper secrets to dying stars. Yet there was patience there, an acknowledgment of His son's unique position among His gene-forged champions.

Franklin's grin widened, though a shadow of cosmic understanding darkened his eyes. "Read my mind, Father. There's something you need to see about your future self." A pause, heavy with the weight of temporal paradox. "Spoiler alert: you become the God-Emperor and the Golden Throne becomes a fancy golden toilet"

The attempt at humor masked the gravity of the moment as the Emperor's consciousness reached out, an act as natural as breathing yet containing power enough to unmake reality. He delved into Franklin's memories with surgical precision, excavating knowledge of futures yet unlived, of destinies yet unwoven.

The revelation struck like a thunderbolt from beyond time itself – the Emperor saw Himself as He would be, as He already was, a being of such transcendent power that galaxy trembled in His wake. The perfect loop of causality revealed itself: He had not merely been born powerful, He had been born with the accumulated might of ten millennia of worship, sacrifice, and struggle. His future self had reached across the vast epochs of time, seeding His own beginning with the power of His end.

Contemplation fell over the Emperor like a mantle of stars. The gambit He had played – would play – stretched across timelines like a web of crystalline perfection. The power He had claimed from the Four at Molech was merely another thread in this tapestry, along with the knowledge of the Primarchs' creation. The Webway Project, that grand dream of human advancement, was but the first step on a path He had already walked.

"The loop closes," the Emperor spoke, His words carrying the weight of ages. "What I am now is what I will become, and what I will become has shaped what I am." His gaze fell upon Franklin, seeing His son with new understanding. "You carry this knowledge well, bearing its weight without breaking under its truth."

"Well, when you've got a sense of humor as good as mine, cosmic revelations are just another Tuesday," Franklin replied, though his levity couldn't entirely mask the profound respect in his eyes. "Though I've got to say, the whole 'future you empowering past you' thing? That's some next-level planning, even for you, Father."

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The ancient Martian winds howled across the scarred battlefield, carrying with them the acrid stench of burning promethium and molten adamantium. Princeps Darius stood at the helm of his Acastus Knight Porphyrion, its massive frame trembling with barely contained power as his mind merged with the war machine's spirit through the Throne Mechanicum. Around him, the pantheon of his knightly household moved with practiced precision, their footfalls sending tremors through the rust-red earth.

The explosions that rocked the frontlines painted the crimson sky with artificial auroras, the screech of god-machines dying echoing across the plains like the death throes of ancient dragons. Through his neural link, Darius could taste the metallic tang of war in the air, his augmented senses processing battlefield data with cold efficiency.

"Thirty kills," he broadcast across the squadron's vox-net, pride suffusing his augmented voice. "The True Omnissiah blesses our crusade against these hereteks" The words carried the weight of conviction, even as his enhanced eyes scanned the suspiciously poorly defended sector before them.

Sir Meridius, piloting one of the Cerastus Knights, voiced what they all felt through their shared battlenet. "Lord Princeps, this approach to the shield generators... it's too easy. Where are the defense batteries? The Skitarii battalions? Many of our allies had lost contact here as well even a Titan"

Darius acknowledged the concern with a burst of binary cant, but pressed forward nonetheless. Their mission was clear - disable the generators protecting the Martian Parliament, where Belisarius Cawl and his Heretek dogs clung to their false interpretations of the Omnissiah's will and investigate the disappearance of their Allies.

The first line of defensive turrets fell easily beneath their coordinated assault. Too easily. Warning runes flickered across Darius's consciousness, his machine spirit growling with unease. Something was wrong. The patterns were off, like a corrupted data-sequence that refused to resolve properly.

Then came the first report, cutting through the cacophony of battle.

"Lord Princeps! Contact at bearing three-three-zero!" The voice belonged to Sir Cassius, one of their most experienced pilots. "Single Knight-class signature... configuration unknown. Colors red and black,It's just... standing there."

Through shared visual feeds, Darius observed the stranger. The unknown Knight was sleeker than any pattern he had encountered in his centuries of service. Its armor bore none of the traditional markings of Mars' knight houses. Instead, its surfaces were smooth, almost predatory in their simplicity.

"Hold position," Darius commanded, suppressing the surge of unease that rippled through his neural links. "Maintain targeting solutions. Wait for full lance assembly."

The minutes it took for their full complement to assemble felt like hours, each moment weighted with mounting dread. The strange knight remained motionless, its presence an implicit challenge that made their previous victories feel hollow.

"Weapons lock established," Cassius reported, his voice carrying an edge of uncertainty that Darius had never heard before. "Configuration matches no known Knight or Titan pattern. Moderate scale but readings suggest extreme power density."

Darius opened his mouth to give the order to fire, to unleash the combined fury of their squadron upon this lone adversary. But before he could speak, data began flooding across his command screens. Binary code cascaded through his neural interface, resolving into a single message that burned itself into his augmented retinas:

TARGET VERIFIED.

COMMENCING HOSTILITIES!

What happened next defied everything Darius knew about Knight warfare. The unknown machine moved with lightning speed, its energy blade describing an arc of pure light through the air. Before anyone could react, two of his squadron's Knights were bisected, their reactor cores barely having time to begin their death sequences before their upper halves slid free from their legs.

"By the Machine God!" someone screamed across the vox. "It's not possible-"

A volley of grenades streaked through the air. Sir Meridius raised his ion shields, the defensive barrier flaring bright enough to overwhelm optical sensors. But in that microsecond of blindness, the red and black Knight simply... appeared... on their flank.

Darius had fought in hundreds of battles. He had faced down Titan-class enemies and emerged victorious. But nothing in his extensive combat logarithms could account for what he was witnessing. The unknown Knight moved like liquid mercury, weaving through weapons fire with ease,each motion precise yet utterly alien. It wasn't fighting like a Knight should - it was fighting like something else entirely, something that had merely adopted a Knight's form.

"Break formation!" he ordered, bringing his own weapons to bear. "Spread out and-"

Three more Knights fell in the time it took him to give the command, their destruction so swift and precise it seemed almost merciful. Darius fired, his Knight's massive weapons lighting up the battlefield with enough firepower to level a hab-block. The stranger's machine simply wasn't there when the shots landed.

For a brief moment, Darius thought he saw something emblazoned on its carapace - a number that seemed to burn itself into his mind.

Nine.

The last thing Princeps Darius saw was a flash of energy moving faster than his augmented eyes could track. His final thought, before his consciousness was severed from his Knight's dying machine spirit, was a prayer to the Machine God- not for salvation, but for understanding of what they had faced.

The Martian wind continued its eternal passage across the battlefield, gradually revealing what lay beneath the disturbed red sands - dozens of Knights and even Titans, their mighty frames torn apart with surgical precision, all bearing the same marks of destruction.

The shield generators remained protected, and deep within the Martian Parliament, Belisarius Cawl allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. The support is performing exactly as expected, though even he had not expected quite such devastating efficiency. In his most heavily encrypted data-logs, he made a note: "Armored Core: Nine Ball, exceeds all projected parameters"