The battlefield trembled as two colossal figures engaged in a dance of death. Franklin Valorian, the Liberator, stood tall and proud, wielding the 5th Crone Sword with practiced ease. Opposite him, a twisted mirror image snarled with rage - Chaos Franklin, corrupted by the dark powers of the Warp.
As their blades t for the first ti, a shockwave rippled across the war-torn landscape. Lightning crackled in the sky, illuminating the combatants in harsh flashes. It was as if reality itself strained under the weight of their conflict - a true God of War facing off against a Daemon Prince of unimaginable power.
Franklin's movents were a blur, his attacks flowing with a grace that belied his massive fra. Each strike of the Crone Sword sang with barely contained energy, leaving trails of ethereal light in its wake. In contrast, Chaos Franklin's corrupted blade pulsed with
malevolent intent, dripping with a miasma of Warp energy.
"You're no longer the eagle that soars high," Franklin taunted, his voice carrying over the din of battle. "What replaced that noble bird is nothing but a chira - an amalgamation of beasts, each more twisted than the last!"
Their weapons clashed again and again, each impact sending tremors through the ground. Franklin's expertise was evident; every movent was calculated, every stance perfect. Chaos Franklin, for all his unholy might, found himself struggling to keep pace.
In a blindingly fast exchange, Franklin saw an opening. The Crone Sword flashed horizontally, finding a gap in his opponent's defense. The blade bit deep into Chaos Franklin's corrupted power armor, drawing a howl of pain and disbelief from the Daemon Prince.
Chaos Franklin staggered back, his hand flying to the wound on his torso. Shock and rage warred on his twisted features. "How?!" he bellowed, his voice a cacophony of inhuman tones. "WHY? I AM SUPPOSED TO BE THE ORIGINAL!"
As they circled each other, Chaos Franklin's eyes narrowed. Through the blessings of Tzeentch, he began to analyze his opponent's fighting style. It was familiar, yet alien - a perfect fusion of Primarch might and sothing far, far older. The shadow of an ancient god seed to overlay Franklin's form, and realization dawned.
"Khaine..." Chaos Franklin hissed, his gaze fixed on the Crone Sword. "That damned blade. You've made a pact with the Eldar God of War and Murder!"
Franklin grinned, twirling the Deathsword with casual grace. "What's wrong?" he called out mockingly. "Any Primarch should be able to dodge my strikes. They can be heard or felt through destiny, after all." His smile turned cruel. "Oh, wait. You're no longer a Primarch, are you?"
As they bantered, a voice resonated within Franklin's mind - the essence of Khaine, bound within the Crone Sword.
"The corrupted blade houses a Greater Daemon," Khaine's voice echoed. "Each ti our weapons et, I engage it in combat on the spiritual plane."
Franklin's ntal voice carried a hint of amusent. "Are you losing, old friend? Should I be worried?"
A scoff from the God of War. "Look closely at your opponent's weapon."
Focusing his enhanced senses, Franklin observed the corrupted blade. With each clash, hairline fractures appeared along its length, only to heal monts later in a disturbing display of unnatural regeneration.
"The daemon within struggles," Khaine explained. "It cannot long withstand my assaults. Press your advantage in the physical realm, and victory shall be ours."
Franklin's grin widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Well then," he said aloud, readying his stance once more. "Shall we continue this dance, my corrupted self? I'm eager to see just how far the gifts of Chaos can take you."
Chaos Franklin snarled, the blessings of the four great powers surging through his twisted form. "I am might incarnate!" he roared. "Khorne's strength flows through my veins. Tzeentch's wisdom guides my blade. Nurgle's endurance makes unbreakable. And Slaanesh... Slaanesh has gifted with the drive for absolute perfection!"
"Perfection?" Franklin laughed, the sound rich with genuine mirth. "Oh, my poor, deluded twin. You've confused corruption with advancent. Let show you what true perfection looks like!"
Their duel had raged for what felt like hours, but only a few minutes had passed, each combatant pushing themselves to the very limits of their superhuman abilities.
Franklin's Crone Sword, imbued with the essence of Khaine, t his counterpart's corrupted blade in a shower of sparks. The impact sent tremors through both warriors' arms, a testant to the raw power behind each strike. For a mont, they stood there, weapons crossed, faces re inches apart.
"Feeling the strain, brother?" Chaos Franklin sneered, his voice a horrific blend of Franklin's familiar tones and sothing utterly alien. "The gifts of the Dark Gods flow through . I grow stronger with each passing mont!"
Franklin said nothing, his jaw clenched in concentration. He could feel the truth in his corrupted self's words. Each clash seed to invigorate Chaos Franklin, the Ruinous Powers channeling their unholy might into their champion. If this continued, Franklin knew he would eventually be overwheld by sheer brute force.
With a grunt of effort, Franklin disengaged, leaping back to create distance. His mind raced, analyzing the situation with the cold logic of a warrior. Direct confrontation was no longer viable. He needed to adapt.
Chaos Franklin laughed, a sound that sent chills down the spines of mortal soldiers nearby. "Running away? I expected more from the vaunted Liberator!"
"Oh, I'm just getting started," Franklin replied, a hint of his characteristic humor creeping into his voice. He shifted his stance, the Crone Sword held at an angle across his body. "Let's see how you handle this, shall we?"
Chaos Franklin charged, his corrupted blade leaving trails of sickly green energy in its wake. He brought the weapon down in a mighty overhead strike, intending to cleave Franklin in two. But the Liberator was ready.
Instead of eting the blow head-on, Franklin sidestepped at the last possible mont. The Crone Sword flashed out, not to strike, but to redirect Chaos Franklin's montum. The corrupted Primarch stumbled, thrown off balance by the unexpected maneuver.
Franklin pressed his advantage, landing a quick series of cuts along his opponent's flank. Each wound glowed with the purifying fire of Khaine, eliciting howls of pain and rage from Chaos
Franklin.
"Stand still and fight !" Chaos Franklin roared, spinning to face his loyalist counterpart. Franklin smirked. "Now why would I do that when this is working so well?"
The dance continued. Chaos Franklin, fueled by the raw power of Chaos, launched attack after devastating attack. Each blow carried enough force to shatter mountains, but Franklin refused to et them directly. Instead, he weaved and dodged, parrying when necessary and striking in the brief windows between his opponent's assaults.
A horizontal slash from Chaos Franklin whistled through the air where Franklin's head had been a split second before. The Liberator ducked under the strike, retaliating with a precise thrust that found a gap in his foe's corrupted armor. Chaos Franklin bellowed in pain and fury, lashing out with a backhand that caught Franklin across the jaw.
The loyalist Primarch tasted blood but grinned through it. "Not bad," he quipped, spitting out a tooth. "But you're still telegraphing your moves. Slaanesh's gift of perfection seems a
bit overrated."
Enraged, Chaos Franklin pressed his attack with renewed vigor. His corrupted blade beca a blur of motion, raining down blows from every angle. But for every strike that landed, Franklin avoided or deflected three more. The Crone Sword sang in his hands, Khaine's essence guiding his movents with preternatural grace.
As the duel wore on, a change ca over Chaos Franklin. His attacks, once precise and calculated, beca increasingly wild and uncontrolled. The blessings of the Dark Gods, rather than empowering him, seed to be consuming him from within.
Franklin noticed the shift and pressed his advantage. He increased the tempo of his own attacks, each strike precisely aid to exploit the growing gaps in his opponent's defense. The Crone Sword left burning furrows across Chaos Franklin's corrupted form, each wound
searing it's skin.
The clash of titans had reached a fever pitch, the very air crackling with tension and residual warp energy. Chaos Franklin, battered but far from beaten, sought to create distance between himself and his loyalist counterpart. He needed ti, space to analyze, to formulate a strategy against this unexpectedly formidable foe.
"Running out of steam, are we?" Franklin's voice carried across the battlefield, a hint of
amusent coloring his tone. "I thought the 'gifts' of your new patrons were supposed to be
limitless."
Chaos Franklin snarled, his once-noble features twisted into a mask of hatred. "Silence! I simply need a mont to--"
His words were cut short by a peculiar sound that cut through the cacophony of battle - a whistle, clear and sharp, like the call of so great predatory bird. Chaos Franklin's head snapped up, his enhanced senses zeroing in on the source of the sound. What he saw made his
corrupted blood run cold.
There, silhouetted against the smoke-filled sky, stood Franklin Valorian. But this was not the close-quarters combatant of monts ago. The Primarch's form bristled with weaponry, an arsenal that would make even a Titan princeps pause.
Franklin's laughter echoed across the ruined plains. "Oh brother, how quickly you forget!" he called out, a predatory grin spreading across his face. "First and foremost, the Eagle was always a gunslinger. And you, my corrupted reflection, just made the cardinal mistake of
giving range."
Chaos Franklin's eyes widened in horrified realization. In his arrogance, in his reliance on the raw power gifted by the Dark Gods, he had forgotten a fundantal truth about his loyalist self. Franklin Valorian, the Eagle of Liberty, was a master of combined arms warfare. And now, with this distance between them, he had inadvertently placed himself squarely in the crosshairs of one of the deadliest marksn the galaxy had ever known.
Before Chaos Franklin could react, the air itself seed to ignite. The rotary cannons on Franklin's arms roared to life, their report a deafening, continuous thunder that shook the very ground. Thousands of rounds, each large enough to punch through the armor of a battle tank, erupted from the spinning barrels in a relentless stream of destruction.
The first volley caught Chaos Franklin squarely in the chest, the impacts sending shockwaves through his corrupted form. His warp-enhanced physiology and daemonic gifts struggled to keep pace with the onslaught, flesh and armor alike being torn asunder only to knit back together in grotesque patterns.
As if the hail of high-caliber rounds wasn't enough, the smart missile pods on Franklin's shoulders unleashed their payload. Dozens of missiles streaked through the air, leaving trails of white smoke in their wake. Unlike simple rockets, these were guided munitions of the highest order, each one packed with enough explosives to level a hab-block.
The missiles found their mark with unerring accuracy, detonating against Chaos Franklin in a series of earth-shattering explosions. The corrupted Primarch was engulfed in a maelstrom of fire and shrapnel, his roars of pain and rage lost in the cacophony of destruction. Yet still, it wasn't over. The plasma cannons, their coils glowing with barely contained stellar fury, added their voice to the symphony of devastation. Bolts of superheated matter, each as bright as a newborn star, lanced out to strike Chaos Franklin. Where they hit, ceramite and flesh alike simply ceased to be, vaporized in an instant. Through it all, Chaos Franklin endured. The blessings of the Dark Gods, the very corruption
that had twisted him from his original purpose, now served as his lifeline. Flesh knitted back together, armor reford, and bones reset themselves even as they were pulverized. He was a monunt to the unnatural resilience granted by Chaos, a demonstration to the horrific
power of the Warp.
Gritting teeth that continuously regrew, Chaos Franklin began to advance. Each step was an
act of defiance against the laws of physics and biology. The barrage of firepower should have reduced him to nothing more than scattered atoms, yet still he ca on, driven by hatred and the dark will of his patrons.
As the smoke began to clear, Chaos Franklin erged, a nightmarish vision of regeneration
and corruption. His armor was in tatters, flesh exposed and reforming in patterns that defied sanity. In his eyes burned the baleful light of the Warp, and around his hands coalesced tendrils of raw psychic might.
But Franklin Valorian stood ready, unperturbed by the survival of his twisted counterpart. In
his hand now rested a pistol, an unassuming weapon compared to the battery of guns he had just unleashed. Yet sothing in Franklin's stance, in the glint of his eye and the quirk of his smile, spoke volus about the true nature of this final instrunt of judgnt. For a brief mont, confusion flickered across Chaos Franklin's face. After such an overwhelming display of firepower, why would his counterpart resort to a single sidearm? Franklin's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "You know, there's an old Terran saying that I've always been fond of," he said, his voice carrying clearly despite the din of battle. "It goes sothing like this: 'The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed."" As Chaos Franklin summoned the full might of his psychic powers, preparing to unleash a storm of Warp energy that would unmake worlds, Franklin's smirk widened into a full grin. "The Second Andnt, brother. Don't leave ho without it." Before Chaos Franklin could unleash his psychic assault, before he could even fully
comprehend the danger he faced, Franklin pulled the trigger.
The disintegration pistol lived up to its na in spectacular fashion. A beam of pure annihilation lanced out, striking Chaos Franklin square in the face. There was no explosion, no dramatic flash of light. Instead, where the beam touched, matter simply ceased to be.
The acrid sll of ozone and disintegrated matter hung heavy in the air as Franklin Valorian watched the last atoms of his corrupted self scatter to the cosmic winds. A sigh of relief escaped his lips, the tension of battle beginning to ebb from his massive fra. Victory, it
seed, was at hand.
But in that mont of perceived triumph, a voice thundered through his mind, carried on the psychic wavelengths of the Crone Sword:
"BEHIND YOU!" Khaine's warning roared with urgent clarity. Franklin's transhuman reflexes kicked in, his body already in motion before his conscious
mind could fully process the danger. But even for a Primarch, so threats move faster than
thought. A searing pain erupted in Franklin's chest as a blade of corrupted tal burst through his
armor, erging from his sternum in a spray of blood and shattered armor. The world seed to slow, each heartbeat an eternity as Franklin's gaze traveled down the length of the sword
to the hand that wielded it, up an arm of twisted flesh and warped armor, to a face he had thought obliterated re monts ago.
Chaos Franklin stood there, a rictus grin splitting his features, eyes blazing with unholy glee. "Did you truly believe," he hissed, leaning in close, his fetid breath hot on Franklin's ear, "that I would die so easily? Oh, brother, your weapons are impressive indeed. Atomization is quite the party trick." He twisted the blade, eliciting a grunt of pain from Franklin. "But I am blessed by the Dark Gods themselves. Death? For , it's rely an inconvenience." Franklin's mind raced, analyzing the situation even as his body scread in agony. The
corrupted blade pinning him in place radiated wrongness, its very existence an affront to reality. He could feel it trying to work its taint into his flesh, to corrupt his very essence. With a herculean effort, Franklin gripped the Crone Sword, preparing to bring it to bear against his foe. But Chaos Franklin was ready. With his free hand, he struck out, swatting the
Deathsword away with contemptuous ease. The ancient blade clattered to the ground, just out of reach.
A low chuckle emanated from the corrupted Primarch. "Now then, let's see how incorruptible you really are."
Franklin felt it imdiately - a presence, vast and alien, pressing against the borders of his mind. The Greater Daemon bound within the corrupted blade, a Keeper of Secrets of Slaanesh, sought entry into his very soul. It was a force of unimaginable power and depravity, a being
that had corrupted countless worlds and turned the mightiest of heroes to the service of
Chaos.
But it had never faced the will of Franklin Valorian.
As the daemon pressed its assault, it found not the yielding mindscape it had expected, but an
immovable wall of pure, adamantine will. Franklin's consciousness stood resolute, a bastion of order against the swirling tides of Chaos.
The pain was indescribable. Every nerve in Franklin's body scread as the corrupted blade sought to unmake him from within. But pain was a teacher, and Franklin had long ago mastered its lessons. He embraced the agony, used it to sharpen his focus, to fuel his defiance.
In the mindscape of their psychic battle, Franklin stood tall, his form radiating golden light that pushed back the encroaching shadows of the Keeper of Secrets. The daemon's form shifted constantly, a bewildering array of temptations and horrors designed to break the will
of any mortal.
Franklin's laughter, rich and genuine, echoed through the psychic realm. "Is this the best you can do?" he taunted, his voice steady despite the physical tornt wracking his body. "Half
man, half woman, and wholly pathetic. You'll have to do better than that to corrupt this eagle." The daemon's assault redoubled, waves of pleasure and pain crashing against Franklin's psychic defenses. Visions of power, of entire worlds bowing before him, flashed through his mind. The Keeper of Secrets showed him futures where he ruled the Imperium, where he ascended to godhood, where every desire was fulfilled at the rest thought. Franklin stood unmoved. "I've seen better illusions in a Hive City carnival," he quipped, even as he felt his physical body weakening from blood loss and the strain of combat. Franklin In response to the overwhelming sensory and ntal assault, his brain fell back on a coping chanism developed over years of dealing with overstimulation: repetition. "The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed," Franklin began to
recite, his voice steady despite the blood filling his lungs. "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishnt of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof." Chaos Franklin's face contorted in confusion. "What... what are you doing?" But Franklin continued, undeterred. "The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not
be infringed. Congress shall make no law respecting an establishnt of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof." The words of the ancient Terran andnts beca a mantra, a shield against the
corrupting influence of Chaos. With each repetition, Franklin's voice grew stronger, his resolve hardening.
Within his mind, the assault of the Keeper of Secrets began to falter. The daemon, used to manipulating desires and twisting emotions, found itself utterly confounded by the ordered, repetitive thoughts it encountered. Franklin's autistic hyperfocus on the constitutional andnts created a psychic landscape that the creature of Chaos simply couldn't navigate.
"Stop that infernal chanting!" Chaos Franklin roared, twisting the blade again in an attempt to break his counterpart's concentration.
"The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed," Franklin continued, his voice now tinged with a hint of amusent. "You know, I always thought these
andnts were a bit wordy, but they're really coming in handy right now."
The battlefield erupted into a frenzy of activity as the Liberty Eagles witnessed their beloved
Primarch impaled upon the corrupted blade of his chaotic doppelganger. Rage and desperation fueled their actions as they unleashed a devastating barrage of firepower towards
Chaos Franklin.
Disentigration Bolts, plasma blasts, and missiles streaked across the war-torn landscape, a
tempest of destruction aid at the corrupted Primarch. Yet Chaos Franklin stood unmoved, a sphere of shimring energy coalescing around him. The psychic shield, a gift from the capricious god Tzeentch, effortlessly deflected the onslaught, each impact sending ripples of iridescent light across its surface.
As the futile assault continued, a change swept over the battlefield. Chaos Franklin felt a familiar pull, a tugging at the very fabric of his being. His gaze darted to the towering spires of Austeria Extremis, their blackstone structures pulsing with a uniform resonance. The Immaterium was calling, its siren song growing stronger with each passing mont. A snarl of frustration twisted Chaos Franklin's features. Ti was running short. His mission, the corruption or destruction of his loyalist counterpart, remained unfinished. The attempt to
taint Franklin's soul had failed, thwarted by a will of unprecedented strength. There was only one option left.
With a grunt of effort, Chaos Franklin tightened his grip on the corrupted blade, pulling it closer and by extension, dragging the impaled Franklin towards him. The Liberator's feet scraped across the ground, leaving trails in the blood-soaked earth as he was inexorably
drawn towards his twisted mirror image.
"It seems our dance is coming to an end, brother," Chaos Franklin hissed, his face re inches from Franklin's. The corrupt Primarch's breath was hot and fetid, reeking of decay and broken oaths. "Your corruption would have been a grand prize, but I'll settle for your death.
Any last words before I finish what the Dark Gods started?"
Franklin's breathing was ragged, each inhalation a labor that sent fresh waves of agony through his massive fra. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, a stark crimson
against his ashen skin. Yet despite the grievous wound, despite the life literally draining from
his body, a spark of defiance still burned in his eyes.
With what seed to be the last reserves of his strength, Franklin lifted his gaze to et that
of his corrupted self. And then, in defiance of all logic and expectation, a grin spread across
his face. It was the sa roguish smirk that had infuriated enemies and endeared him to allies across a thousand battlefields.
Chaos Franklin's eyes narrowed, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his twisted features. "What's this? Still trying to play the hero, Franklin? I'll wipe that smirk off your face soon enough." A chuckle escaped Franklin's lips, imdiately followed by a pained cough that spattered blood across Chaos Franklin's armor. "Oh, I don't think so," Franklin managed to rasp, his
voice barely above a whisper. He leaned in closer, as if to share a secret with his corrupted self. "In fact, I'd wager I'll be wiping that smirk off your face first." Confusion replaced the sneer on Chaos Franklin's face. "What are you babbling about, you
fool? You're beaten, impaled on my blade. What could you possibly-" But Franklin wasn't listening. His mind was elsewhere, reaching out with his formidable
psychic might. He knew he couldn't recall the Crone Sword - Chaos Franklin would simply swat it away again. No, he needed sothing else, sothing unexpected. In that mont, as life ebbed from his body, Franklin reached into the pocket dinsion
where he stored his arsenal. With a thought, he summoned a pair of ornate gauntlets. They
materialized directly onto his hands, unnoticed by his preoccupied foe.
Chaos Franklin, growing impatient with what he perceived as the ramblings of a dying man,
tightened his grip on the corrupted blade. "Enough of this. If you have no last words of substance, then-" "Oh, but I do," Franklin interrupted, his voice suddenly stronger, filled with a mix of pain and grim amusent. "I have just two words for you, actually."
The corrupted Primarch leaned in, morbid curiosity getting the better of him. "And what
might those be?" Franklin's grin widened, a predatory gleam entering his eyes. With the last of his strength, he grabbed Chaos Franklin's armor with his gauntleted hands, ensuring his foe couldn't pull away. Then, focusing all of his remaining psychic might through the conduit his gauntlets,
Franklin spoke his final gambit:
"Testicular Torsion!"
Chaos Franklin's expression twisted from smug satisfaction to confusion as Franklin's words
sank in. His grip on the corrupted blade faltered, and for the briefest mont, doubt flickered
in his eyes.
Then the pain hit.
A searing, indescribable agony shot through him like wildfire, spreading from the core of his being. It was a pain that transcended the battlefield, cutting through the layers of his corrupted form, bypassing even the protective wards of Chaos itself.
Chaos Franklin's breath hitched. His body convulsed as his knees buckled beneath him, the corrupted blade falling from his grip. His scream, at first choked and disbelieving, erupted
from deep within, growing louder and more feral with each passing second.
"^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"
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