The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 143: Why do I hear Boss Music?



The fabric of reality split apart like wounded flesh as Abaddon's armada tore its way into realspace. A million ships strong, the fleet emerged in a display of martial might that would have made the gods themselves pause. For a brief moment, there was silence-a stillness before the storm of Chaos was unleashed. Vessels of every size and configuration filled the void, their hulls warped by the touch of the Dark Gods. At the fleet's heart, the Abyss-class vessels-the Furious Abyss, Blessed Lady, and Trisagion-loomed like leviathans, their destructive potential a testament to the malice of Chaos Undivided.

On the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit, Abaddon stood resplendent in his newfound power, his enhanced form radiating an authority that made even the daemon-engines in his fleet quiver. Pride swelled in his chest as he beheld the assembled might of Chaos Undivided - a force sufficient to crush worlds, to rewrite history itself.

That pride lasted exactly fifteen seconds.

The first flash came without warning - a lance of pure white energy that crossed the vast distances of space faster than human minds could process. In its wake, a hundred ships simply ceased to exist, their atomic bonds severed with surgical precision. Before anyone could react, another flash followed, and another, and another.

A blinding beam of energy, as brilliant as a newborn star, tore across the void, obliterating an entire Chaos battle group in a single strike. Ships that had served since the Heresy-some blessed by daemonic pacts, others reinforced with millennia of warp-forged steel-vanished in an instant. Then another flash came, and another. Each was a surgeon's strike, precise and devastating, leaving no survivors.

Abaddon's triumph turned to confusion as the reports flooded in: 100,000 ships lost in the first 15 seconds. Entire wings of his armada were gone, their wreckage tumbling silently into the abyss.

"Where is it coming from?!" Abaddon roared, his voice reverberating across the Vengeful Spirit.

The Dark Mechanicum tech-priests scrambled to respond, their mechanical forms twitching in panic. "My lord! The energy readings... they defy categorization! Weapons of the Dark Age of Technology! There-there is no source within visual range!"

Desperation forced Abaddon to send out reconnaissance vessels, each braving the void's dangers to locate the enemy. After the sacrifice of three hundred escort ships, the source of the devastation was finally revealed: two continent-sized vessels, each unlike anything the galaxy had seen since the Dark Age of Technology.

The Sweet Liberty resembled a massive continent, with it's superstructure as a cathedral, its spires piercing the void with sanctified menace. An Incalculable number of Macro Cannons jutted from its surface, each one larger than an entire city block. Across the Solar system drifted its sister ship, the Imperator Somnium, a floating palace that rivaled even the glories of Terra itself. Its towers glimmered with refracted starlight, and its prow bore the visage of an angelic figure, arms outstretched in judgment.

Together, the twin behemoths flanked the system like ancient guardians, their weapons capable of annihilating entire armadas.

The Sweet Liberty opened fire again, its nova cannons spitting beams of light that crossed the system in seconds. The Imperator Somnium followed, unleashing kinetic projectiles the size of city blocks. Chaos ships shattered like glass under their fury, their shields and armor unable to withstand the onslaught.

Abaddon, his fury uncontained, ordered the deployment of the Abyss-class vessels. These ancient dreadnoughts, once thought lost during the Horus Heresy, had been restored by the Dark Gods themselves for this campaign. The Furious Abyss, Blessed Lady, and Trisagion advanced in a spearhead formation, their void shields glowing with daemonic power. "For the Gods, destroy them!" Abaddon bellowed as the Abyss-class ships engaged.

The three massive battleships - each one a legend in its own right - moved to engage. The Trisagion, Lorgar's own flagship granted to this endeavor by the Dark Gods themselves, led the charge. They were magnificent, terrible to behold, their weapon batteries capable of destroying entire systems, their size dwarfing even Abaddon's Vengeful Spirit.

They never got close.

The golden behemoths responded with ruthless efficiency. Lances of Disintegration energy ripped apart the Furious Abyss, its warp-core detonating in a cataclysmic explosion. The Blessed Lady suffered a similar fate, its proud form splintering into debris under a barrage of relativistic projectiles.

"Pull back to the planet!" Abaddon bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Let those monstrosities come close. They won't dare fire on us near it."

The remnants of his fleet scrambled to obey, taking refuge in low orbit. The massive vessels, unable to fire without risking the planet, ceased their bombardment and held their position, their silence as threatening as their assault.

The Trisagion, bloodied but not broken, managed to retreat into low orbit around Vigilarus. Its survival was a testament to its construction-but even it bore wounds too severe for long- term combat.

"Status report!" Abaddon demanded, watching as his million-strong armada was reduced to a mere ten thousand ships in 30 minutes.

"My lord," an officer spoke, his voice trembling, "we've identified the defending Imperial fleet - the golden vessels match historical records from the Great Crusade it is the false Emperor's Battlefleet. But the other Battlefleet, the blue, Red and white fleet... they're unknown. Their configurations don't match anything in our databases, even from our own time!"

Abaddon's enhanced muscles tensed as realization dawned. The Dark Gods had indeed granted him the power to match a Primarch, had restored his fleet to heigher strength. But they had failed to mention that the "fledgling" Imperium he was meant to crush had teeth of its own - teeth that seemed suspiciously well-prepared for his arrival. Abaddon knew the void battle was lost. With his fleet crippled and the twin behemoths bracketing the system, he turned his attention to the surface. Vigilarus was a bleak, barren world, but within its depths lay a ritual site shielded by quantum barriers that prevented orbital bombardment. The Dark Gods demanded the site's destruction.

"Deploy the drop pods," Abaddon commanded, his voice a cold growl. "We take the ground." Pods rained down like fire upon the planet, crashing into the valley that housed the ritual site. The entrance was a natural chokepoint, surrounded by towering cliffs and riddled with defensive fortifications. Trenches lined the valley, a testament to the defenders'

preparations.

But these were no ordinary trenches. As the Chaos forces advanced, the trenches erupted in a series of violent explosions. Mines, not defenders, had filled them. Entire squads of traitor marines were vaporized in seconds.

Abaddon, undeterred, changed his strategy. He unleashed the daemonic hordes-countless Khornate berserkers, Slaaneshi fiends, Nurgle plaguespawn, and Tzeentchian horrors surged forward in a tide of corruption. They were expendable, and their numbers were limitless. The defenders answered with an unrelenting storm of advanced weaponry. Plasma, railguns, disintegration beams, and explosive ordnance turned the valley into a slaughterhouse. Each daemon incursion was met with precision fire, their corporeal forms disintegrating under the withering barrage.

For every step Chaos advanced, they left behind mountains of their own dead. The defenders showed no signs of relenting, their firepower seemingly limitless.

Blood-slick ceramite crunched beneath Abaddon's thundering advance through the Valley. Fifteen hours of unrelenting combat had painted the landscape in viscera and void-scorched metal, yet still the Imperial lines held with maddening resilience. The Warmaster of Chaos, newly ascended to near-Primarch status, surveyed the battlefield through eyes that had witnessed ten millennia of warfare.

The numbers told a story that gnawed at his tactical sensibilities. Millions of his forces lay broken across the valley floor, their corpses forming new geography in death. Yet the Imperial defenders, though bloodied and forced to yield ground, maintained their cohesion with a discipline that spoke of preparation for precisely this kind of onslaught.

Through the swirling mists ahead, Abaddon finally glimpsed his prize - the ritual site that

the Four demanded he destroy. But what drew his tactical eye was not the objective itself, but rather the curious nature of its defenders.

"What manner of mockery is this?" he growled, Drach'nyen howling in sympathetic rage as he bisected another of the strange warriors before him.

They wore powered armor, these defenders, but they were not Astartes. Nearly as tall as firstborn Space Marines, they moved with trained fluidity that spoke of extensive augmentation much like Space Marines, yet they remained undeniably mortal. Their armor bore none of the bulk of power armor, instead featuring sleek lines and integrated systems that seemed to draw from a thousand different technological traditions.

A squad of these warriors - Liberty Guards, he had heard them called in intercepted vox transmissions - brought their weapons to bear. Abaddon's enhanced senses cataloged the impossible nature of their arms: combination weapons that should not exist, Could fire three distinct types of munitions. Volkite beams, the forgotten technology of Mars, wound through the air alongside mass-reactive shells and plasma bursts that somehow maintained coherence far beyond normal tolerances.

"Inferior products," Abaddon snarled, crushing the skull of a Liberty Guard who had nearly

succeeded in a suicidal attack with a vortex grenade. Yet even as the words left his lips, he counted the cost of this "inferiority" among his own forces.

His Justaerin, the pride of the Black Legion, had entered this push one hundred strong. Now, barely thirty remained, their Terminator plate proven insufficient against weapons that seemed to draw inspiration from multiple technological paradigms. He recognized elements of Tau pulse weapon technology, but refined and enhanced beyond anything the young species had achieved in his timeline if the species even existed at this time, Abaddon knew this was timeline was in the Great Crusade but he does not know the exact date.

"Multiple targeting solutions detected," warned his armor's machine spirit as another volley of tri-part fire approached. Abaddon moved with supernatural speed, avoiding a plasma bolt that would have taken his head - only to watch it claim another of his Justaerin instead.

The weapons were not the only curiosity. These Liberty Guards fought with a coordination that spoke of extensive neural augmentation, yet they retained individual initiative that pure cybernetic networking could not explain. Their tactics adapted in real-time, each squad seemingly aware of the others' movements without visible communication.

As Abaddon carved through another squad, Drach'nyen drinking deep of their enhanced

blood, his tactical mind pieced together a disturbing possibility. This was not an Imperium that had abandoned the Astartes project - this was an Imperium that had found a different path to transhuman warfare. Rather than create limited numbers of posthuman demigods, they had raised the baseline of their common soldiers through careful application of multiple technological traditions.

"Clever," he admitted, watching a Liberty Guard squad execute a fighting retreat that would have done credit to veteran Astartes. "But ultimately futile."

The very air seemed to burn around him as he pressed forward, his enhanced form radiating the raw power of Chaos Undivided. Yet with each step, with each kill, the portrait of this alternative Imperium became clearer. They had somehow avoided the technological stagnation that had plagued his timeline, incorporating and improving upon multiple scientific traditions rather than fetishizing the preservation of any single approach. Their equipment displayed innovation that should have been impossible: Unknown power cells that showed marks of Human genius, targeting systems that merged human intuition with machine precision in ways the Tau might envy, and armor that combined Imperial durability with Eldar elegance. Each piece spoke of an Imperium that had somehow escaped

the trap of technological dogma.

"This is why the Gods fear them," Abaddon realized, his tactical mind cutting through the fog of battle. "Not just their strength now, but what they might become." Another wave of Liberty Guards moved to intercept him, their weapons spitting death in three-part harmony. But now Abaddon saw them with new eyes - not as inferior substitutes for Astartes, but as evidence of a fundamental shift in human evolution. This Imperium had not chosen between quality and quantity; they had somehow found a way to pursue both. Yet even this realization would not stay his hand. If anything, it reinforced the necessity of his mission. An Imperium that could mass-produce warriors of this caliber, that could innovate and adapt rather than stagnate, represented a threat beyond calculation. Give them time, and they might produce armies that could rival the Legions themselves.

"All the more reason," Abaddon growled as he cut down three more Liberty Guards with a single sweep of Drach'nyen, "to ensure that this timeline never comes to pass." The mists before him began to thin, revealing glimpses of the ritual site beyond. Whatever sorcery was being worked there had to be stopped, not just for the sake of his dark masters,

but for the very nature of reality itself. An Imperium like this, unfettered by the constraints

that had shaped his own timeline, represented a fundamental threat to everything the Long War had built.

Abaddon raised Drach'nyen high, its blade drinking in what little light penetrated the valley's

gloom. "Forward!" he bellowed to his remaining Justaerin. "Let none survive to see their precious future dawn!"

The fog rolled thick and heavy across the valley floor, clinging to the ground like a shroud of the dead. It wasn't mist in any natural sense - this was a barrier, an unnatural manifestation that defied even Abaddon's warp-enhanced senses. Tendrils of the fog seemed to drink in both light and sound, creating an oppressive silence that swallowed even the clamor of his advancing war host.

And yet, from within this void of perception, there emerged something... unexpected: music.

At first, it was barely a whisper, a low, resonant hum that seemed to seep up from the ground

itself. Abaddon halted, his hulking form outlined in the glow of the warp energies swirling about him. The Warmaster of Chaos, destroyer of Cadia, scourge of the Imperium, frowned. This was no random phenomenon, no trick of the environment-it was deliberate. A message. The hum grew stronger with each step he took, its deep vibrations harmonizing with the rhythmic thud of his boots against the ashen soil. Soon, a choir joined the eerie drone, their voices vast and solemn, rising and falling in a melody that seemed carved from the bones of a long-dead galaxy. It was reminiscent of the hymns of ancient Terra's cathedrals, yet it bore a dissonance that suggested the triumph of ruin over sanctity.

Drach'nyen trembled in Abaddon's grip, the daemon blade's malevolent essence responding to the growing crescendo. The Echo of the First Murder hissed, whispering warnings to its wielder in tongues even the Warmaster did not fully understand. The weapon, forged from malice and carnage, recognized the meaning behind these notes: a challenge, a promise of violence not bound by the limitations of mortals or gods.

"What is this?" Abaddon growled, his voice like a landslide, more to himself than his retinue.

Behind him, the hulking forms of the Justaerin formed up, their terminator armor shifting uneasily as though the machine spirits within could sense the discordant power of the music.

The fog grew denser, and the music louder, now joined by brass instruments that pierced through the mist like the blaring of warhorns.

Each note carried weight, an oppressive pressure that resonated deep within Abaddon's

frame, as though the music itself sought to strip away his confidence. The percussion matched the rhythm of countless hearts-human, transhuman, and something far worse- beating in unison, heralding the coming slaughter.

The fog shifted, briefly revealing glimpses of the battlefield beyond. Monolithic shapes

loomed like statues carved by mad gods: blackstone spires, jagged and unyielding, their very presence a defiance against the warp. Shadowed figures moved within the mist, a phalanx of warriors whose precision and discipline were unnatural even for the Astartes.

For the first time in millennia, Abaddon hesitated. Not out of fear-he was far beyond such

mortal concerns-but out of a cautious anticipation. The music wasn't just a prelude to battle; it was a weapon in itself, one designed to unnerve even the greatest of warlords.

"This is no ordinary foe," he muttered, though his voice was swallowed by the fog and the swelling orchestra.

As if in response to his thoughts, the music surged, its crescendo splitting the mist like the parting of a veil. What lay beyond was nothing short of breathtaking.

The mists parted before Abaddon like a veil, revealing not salvation but his reckoning. He stepped forward, the jagged edges of his Warplate scraping against the very fabric of reality as the Warp portal sealed behind him. The air was thick with tension, the kind that spoke not just of impending doom but of a cosmic joke about to be delivered at his expense. The battlefield was eerily still, save for the figure waiting at its heart. Franklin Valorian stood alone, the Eleventh, illuminated by an impossible light that seemed both eternal and fleeting. His armor, a masterpiece of navy blue, crimson and pure white it shimmered as though it had been forged from the concept of victory itself. Behind him, the horizon danced with unnatural hues-a golden sun clashing with storms of color, as if the universe itself had chosen to war

in his shadow.

Before him, Anaris stood planted in the ground, its ever-shifting form humming with latent

power. Flames of iridescent color wreathed the blade, singing silent songs of battles yet to come. Around them, an orchestra swelled-a melody that transcended mortal comprehension. This was no simple tune; it was the dirge of an empire, a hymn of inevitability, a prophecy set to a soundtrack.

Abaddon, Warmaster of Chaos, the Despoiler, should have felt invincible. He had been reforged by the Dark Gods, filled with powers meant to rival the very Primarchs themselves. But as his eyes locked onto Franklin's ever-present smirk, he felt the first pang of doubt creep into his soul. For the first time in centuries, he felt small.

"Abaddon," Franklin called, his voice effortlessly carrying over the battlefield. It was warm, almost amused, as though addressing an old acquaintance. His tone struck like a hammer, each word disarming. "You've finally arrived. Took you long enough. I was beginning to think the Chaos Gods got cold feet."

Abaddon scowled, gripping Drach'nyen tighter. The daemon blade screamed in his hand, but there was something unsettling about its cry. It wasn't rage-it was fear, it feared the being in Anaris. The weapon seemed to laugh at Drach'nyen's presence, as though the Echo of the

First Murder was but a child's toy in comparison.

Franklin chuckled, a low, resonant sound that made the air itself ripple. He gestured to the

horizon, where the sky was a war of four conflicting colors, the Chaos Gods' influence fracturing the heavens.

"I even put up boss music. Would've been so embarrassing if you no-showed." Abaddon's lip curled in a snarl, but Franklin was already continuing, his tone conversational,

as though he were catching up over drinks.

"You know, nephew, many champions of Chaos have sought me out over the Centuries. They came

with swords, daemons, warfleets, and promises of godhood. They all had one thing in common."

The smirk sharpened, and for the first time, Franklin lifted Anaris, resting it across his

shoulder.

"They all fell. Beneath my blade, my bullets, or occasionally, my boot when I grew bored." Abaddon's patience snapped.

"Enough!" he roared, Drach'nyen flaring with dark light. The sheer force of his rage made the

ground beneath him crack and groan. "You mock me as though I am some lowly servant! I am

Abaddon the Despoiler, chosen of the Dark Gods! I am the End of Empires! WHO ARE YOU? STATE YOUR NAME, PRIMARCH" Franklin raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"End of Empires? Cute." He raised his left hand, and The Last Word, his sidearm, materialized in

a flash of blue light, its barrel glinting with malice. He aimed it casually at Abaddon's chest.

"Listen closely, nephew, because I'm only going to say this once: Turn around. Go home. It's the least I can offer Horus' wayward son."

Abaddon snarled, raising Drach'nyen high, the daemon's cries echoing in harmony with his own rage.

"I AM THE WARMASTER! I WILL NOT BE DENIED!"

Franklin chuckled-a deep, resonant sound that made the Warp itself tremble. The music

swelled, an orchestra of doom reaching impossible heights. His smirk vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating gaze of a predator.

"Then heed my words," Franklin said, lifting Anaris, now wreathed in flames of every conceivable hue. The ground beneath him cracked and burned with each movement. "I am

Franklin Valorian. The Hand of Khaine. The 11th Primarch And I..." His grin returned, sharper now, more dangerous. "I have never known defeat."

The mist finally dissipated, revealing a sight that froze even Abaddon in place. Then it

appeared - a health bar stretching across reality itself, its end lost in the cosmic distance. Franklin Valorian: The Ever-Victorious Warsaint.

Somewhere, the sound of an eagle screeching tore through the air, punctuating the momentn/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

with divine finality.

Abaddon stared, his fury momentarily replaced by the cold realization of what he was up

against. He uttered the only words that felt appropriate:

"By the Gods"

Reality itself seemed to shift as the music transitioned into something ancient and primal.

The melody spoke of galaxies collapsing, of gods kneeling, of wars won before they began. Franklin began to advance slowly, his armor shimmering with patterns that spoke of War and and Victory. Anaris shifted in his grip, now a halberd, now a greatsword, now something beyond description.

"You know," Franklin called out, his voice carrying effortlessly over the cacophony of battle

preparations, "in another timeline, you actually gave my brothers some trouble. Thirteen Black

Crusades, was it?" He sighed, shaking his head. "But you see, nephew, that was a timeline where I wasn't around to do this."

With a flourish, Franklin pointed Anaris at Abaddon, the blade now burning with the fury of a dying universe. The Warmaster braced himself, feeling the Dark Gods' power surge within him. Yet even as he prepared for battle, a terrible truth settled into his soul: this wasn't a

fight. This was a foregone conclusion.

Franklin's grin widened as the orchestra reached its crescendo. "Let me tell you a secret, Abaddon." He raised Anaris high, the flames around it forming a radiant crown. "Your power? Mine? Earned. And nephew..." He lunged forward, faster than thought, Anaris

Borrowed.

screaming through the air. "I've earned quite a lot." The Strongest Nephew of Today vs. The Strongest Uncle in History

A/N: So Apparently Franklin decided to Style on Abaddon today.