The Primarch of Liberty

In the vast expanse of Sweet Liberty's docking bay, reality itself seemed to hold its breath. The sleek Eldar vessel, all graceful curves and wraithbone elegance, settled into one of the two hundred docking ports like a predatory bird coming to rest. The atmosphere grew heavy with anticipation, charged with both physical and metaphysical energy that made the very air crackle with potential.

Franklin Valorian stood before the airlock, his massive frame a monument to transhuman engineering, yet somehow dwarfed by the presence that surrounded him - the ghostly manifestation of Khaine himself, a shimmer of violence barely contained within reality's bounds. Around him, his Primeborn Captains formed a crescent of power that would have given pause to lesser beings.

When the Whiteseers emerged, they did so with calculated grandeur. Their alabaster wraithbone armor seemed to pulse with power, Capes floating on currents of psychic energy that normal reality never knew. Their blank masks, devoid of features save for elaborate runes that shifted and changed with each passing moment, concealed faces that had witnessed every horror imaginable. Each step they took released waves of psychic pressure that would have driven mortal minds to madness.

It was, by any measure, an impressive display of power. Yet the response they received was far from what they expected.

Denzel Washington, First Captain of the Liberty Eagles, regarded them with the same unimpressed calm he had shown while cutting through armies of daemons. His hands remained relaxed, nowhere near the hilts of his legendary blades - Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi and Totsuka-no-Tsurugi. The message was clear: their display warranted neither defense nor aggression.

Steven Armstrong's response was even more dismissive. He took a long draw from his cigar. The smoke he exhaled formed perfect rings that drifted through the Whiteseers' psychic aura, a casual violation of their attempted dominance display that spoke volumes.

John Ezra, the Director of the Secret Service, maintained his position with the stillness of a statue, he was recording every detail of the xenos visitors while betraying nothing of his own capabilities. His silence carried its own weight - the quiet confidence of one who had seen far worse and lived to classify it.

Vladimir, Chief Librarian of the Liberty Eagles, demonstrated perhaps the most pointed dismissal. Without breaking eye contact with the Whiteseers, he raised a flask of Libertan Vodka to his lips and took a long drink. His psychic defenses weren't just holding against their pressure - they were actively ignoring it, like a mountain ignoring a breeze.

Henry Cavill, the man out of time, observed with the detached interest of one who had seen it all, his stance conveyed a few words "Classic Eldar"

Director Jaxsen's scoff echoed in the cavernous space. "Damn knife-ears always gotta make an entrance," he muttered, loud enough to carry. He analyzed their every movement, already feeding data to the CIA's vast intelligence networks.

In the background, a Technoseer calmly erected a protective barrier around the mortal crew members - not out of necessity, but protocol. The casual ease with which he maintained the shield while continuing his routine duties spoke volumes about the Liberty Eagles' technological sophistication.

The Whiteseers' moment of superiority shattered when they felt it - a gaze that bypassed flesh, bone, and soul to pierce the very essence of their being. Franklin's eyes met theirs, and behind him, through him, with him, burned the regard of Kaela Mensha Khaine himself. The power of the War God's attention fell upon them like the weight of dying suns, an oppressive force that threatened to unmake reality itself.

In that moment, the Whiteseers understood with crystal clarity that they stood before more than a mere "mon-keigh" Primarch. They faced the chosen Hand of Khaine, a being who had earned the respect and allegiance of an Eldar god through deeds that would become legends. The psychic pressure they had attempted to exert seemed suddenly childish, like bringing a candle to challenge a supernova.

Their salute came swiftly, born of both respect and survival instinct. "Praise Kaela Mensha Khaine," they intoned, their voices carrying the harmonic resonance of their race. "Hail the Hand of the War God. Honor be to Cegorach's chosen."

The words echoed in the vast chamber, and with them came a subtle shift in the Whiteseers' bearing. Their initial dismissal of aiding a "mon-keigh" in their sacred duties dissolved in the face of undeniable truth. This was no mere transhuman warrior - this was a being who had earned his place in the cosmic order through deeds of beating the great enemy again and again.

Franklin's response was characteristically balanced between formal and informal. His hand extended in greeting, a curiously human gesture that nonetheless carried the weight of galaxies behind it. When one of the Whiteseers took it, the contact was brief but significant - a bridge between ancient power and new legend.

"Let us begin," Franklin said, his smirk carrying echoes of battles yet to come and victories yet to be won. The words were simple, but they reverberated with purpose.

Around him, his Primeborn Captains shifted almost imperceptibly, each ready to execute their part in the grand strategy that would unfold. They had faced down daemons and xenos, beat all Chaos had to offer, and razed the dark city of Commorragh. This new challenge was simply another chapter in their continuing legend.

The Whiteseers, their lesson in humility complete, fell into step beside Franklin as they moved deeper into Sweet Liberty's labyrinthine corridors. They had come expecting to guide a mon-keigh through tasks beyond his comprehension. They left that expectation behind in the docking bay, along with any doubt about why Cegorach himself had chosen this particular warrior for this crucial task.

-------------------------

The planning chamber of Sweet Liberty stood as a testament to humanity's mastery of both technology and space. Its vast expanse housed countless data-screens and augur arrays, but at its heart beat something far more profound - a hololith projection that turned simple light into a map of reality's skeleton. Here, in this chamber where science met sorcery, Franklin stood before the gathered wisdom of millennia.

When the Whiteseers approached the hololith, reality seemed to hold its breath. Their alabaster armor whispered secrets across the deck plates as they raised their hands in synchronized motion. The map, already a marvel of cosmic cartography, suddenly exploded into complexity. What had been a labyrinth became an infinity, paths splitting into paths splitting into paths, each one glowing with possibilities that stretched beyond mortal comprehension.

Franklin's eyebrows rose, his transhuman mind processing the astronomical increase in data. "Well," he said, his voice carrying the weight of newfound respect, "that's a helluva lot more than we thought."

"This," one Whiteseer spoke, voice carrying harmonics that echoed in dimensions beyond normal space, "is but one variation among infinite possibilities. We chose this particular stratum because it bears the wounds we must heal."

The map shifted again, focusing now on the true nature of their battlefield. The Webway revealed itself in all its impossible glory - not truly a dimension, but something far more subtle and dangerous. A lacework of reality threaded between the material universe and the howling chaos of the Warp, each tunnel glowing with the light of ancient technologies and powers long forgotten.

"The Ancient Ones," the second Whiteseer continued, "built more than mere tunnels. They created a tapestry that binds reality itself together. Neither fully real nor wholly immaterial, the Webway exists in the spaces between spaces."

Franklin studied the display intently, his hand passing through one of the projected pathways. "Like capillaries between muscle fibers," he mused. "Carrying the lifeblood of reality itself."

"An apt metaphor," the first Whiteseer acknowledged. The projection zoomed in on four locations, each one marked by swirling distortions that spoke of reality's wounds. "These are your targets, Hand of Khaine. Each breach is held open not by mere chance, but by the will and anchor of a Greater Daemon."

"The Ruinous Powers," Franklin nodded, his expression hardening. "They're keeping their foot in the door."

"And Cegorach can't handle this himself because..."

"Because to do so would draw the direct attention of the Dark Gods," the first Whiteseer explained. "Where now they send their servants, they would come themselves. The Laughing God is powerful, but even he must choose his battles carefully in these dark times."

Franklin nodded slowly, his tactical mind already processing the implications. "So you need someone with enough power to kill Greater Daemons, but not enough significance to attract the direct attention of the Chaos Gods themselves." A grim smile crossed his features. "Someone expendable."

"Someone who has proven capable," the second Whiteseer corrected. "The Hand of Khaine is far from expendable, but you operate outside the traditional powers they monitor most closely."

"Speaking of monitoring," Franklin gestured to the wider Webway map, "we're likely to have company. The Dark Eldar aren't known for missing opportunities."

A sound emerged from behind the Whiteseers' masks that might have been laughter, had it not carried centuries of bitter knowledge. "Ah yes. The notorious one who burned Commorragh. Our dark kin remember you well, Primarch."

"Our dark kin are... problematic," the second Whiteseer stated. "But they are a minor concern compared to the task at hand. Should they interfere, we will assist in their elimination. It is the least we can do."

Franklin turned back to the map, studying the breach points. "The permanent sealing - how does that work? What's to stop them from just tearing new holes?"

The first Whiteseer stepped forward, manipulating the display to show the psychic architecture of the Webway itself. "Once sealed properly, these breaches can only be reopened by beings of immense power. The Architect of Fate possesses such strength, but it drowns in its own schemes, too caught in webs of possibility to focus its full attention here. And should it try..."

"The other three would object strongly," Franklin nodded. "The Great Game never ends."

"Precisely. Though you yourself possess tools that could assist in more than mere sealing," the Whiteseer pointed out Franklin's trophy from Commoragh, The Reality Engine that was currently in the Impossible City, Calastar. "Why the Laughing God wishes you to have this Formidable artifact... well, the gods play their own games, do they not? Just as mysterious as Khaine's choice of champion."

Franklin felt the War God's presence stir within him, a burning reminder of powers he wields. "The gods may play their games," he said, his voice carrying echoes of ancient battlefields, "but we're the ones who have to clean up the board."

The hololith shifted once more, highlighting the paths they would need to take. Each breach pulsed with malevolent energy, a reminder of the powers they would face. But as Franklin studied the display, his mind was already crafting strategies, weighing options, preparing for the battles to come.

In the end, it wasn't just about earning access to the Black Library. It wasn't even about helping Magnus, though that remained his primary motivation. This was about something larger - about maintaining the delicate balance that kept reality itself from unraveling. The gods might play their eternal games, but sometimes it took a more direct approach to keep the board from shattering entirely.

"Well then," Franklin said, straightening to his full height, the weight of Khaine's presence burning like a star around him, "shall we go disappoint some daemons?"

The Whiteseers bowed slightly, acknowledging both the Primarch and the god he carried within him. The great work awaited, and reality's wounds wouldn't heal themselves. It was time to remind the Dark Gods why even they sometimes feared the actions of younger powers.

-------------------------

The Webway corridor stretched before them like an impossible cathedral of light and shadow, its crystalline walls containing energies that defied mortal comprehension. Within this sacred space, a profane sight greeted them - legions of Khornate daemons engaged in eternal combat, their brass-armored forms creating a sea of violence that stretched to the horizon of reality itself.

Franklin Valorian stood at Sweet Liberty's command pulpit, his massive frame silhouetted against the cosmic display. In the distance, a Chaos altar pulsed with malevolent energy, its protective shields writhing with unnatural colors that hurt the mind to observe.

"Sweet Liberty," Franklin began, his voice carrying the casual confidence of one accustomed to wielding planet-destroying firepower, "target that altar."

"Primarch, wait!" The urgency in the Whiteseer's normally melodious voice cut through the command like a blade. "You cannot-"

Franklin turned, one eyebrow raised. "Problem?"

The Whiteseer's blank mask somehow managed to convey exasperation. "Your vessel... its weapons would do more than destroy the altar. You risk expanding the breach itself."

"The Necrons learned this lesson during the War in Heaven," the second Whiteseer added, gestures sharp with concern. "Each breach they created required centuries of restoration by our ancestors."

Franklin's expression shifted to one of tactical adjustment. "Energy weapons then? We have quite a selection."

The first Whiteseer's shoulders slumped slightly - a gesture that spoke volumes from a being typically so controlled. "Primarch, perhaps we were not clear. Your vessel is the size of a Craftworld. Any weapon it possesses would be... excessive."

There was a moment of silence as the Whiteseers truly processed what that meant - that they stood aboard a human-made vessel that rivaled the greatest works of their civilization. Their perfectly maintained composure cracked just slightly, revealing a glimpse of awe they quickly suppressed.

"Now we understand," the second Whiteseer murmured, "why Khaine chose you. The capacity for destruction you command..."

A slow smile spread across Franklin's face - the kind of smile that had preceded the burning of Commorragh. "Well then, if Sweet Liberty's too much gun for the job..." He activated the fleet-wide vox. "All escorts, do you see the problem in front of us?"

One by one, a thousand voices responded - captains of vessels ranging from mighty carriers to swift corvettes, each one a master of void warfare in their own right. Their confirmations echoed through the command chamber like a gathering storm.

Franklin's smile widened. "I don't want to."

The Whiteseers barely had time to process his words before reality ignited. A thousand ships, each one a masterpiece of human engineering, opened fire as one. The relatively "small" weapons of the escort fleet turned the Webway corridor into a canvas of destruction. Disintegration batteries carved lines of light through daemonic flesh. Macro cannons thundered their disdain for warp-spawned entities, Smart Missiles began their Flight paths to fireworks, Plasma projectors added their song to the symphony of annihilation.

The Khornate horde, caught in their endless battle-fury, had just enough time to realize that their eternal combat was about to be interrupted by something far more final. The foremost ranks simply ceased to exist, their brass armor and corrupted flesh reduced to component atoms by the precision barrage. Behind them, rank after rank of daemons discovered that their immunity to projectiles had limits when faced with the concentrated firepower of humanity's most advanced fleet.

The Whiteseers watched in stunned silence as Franklin orchestrated the destruction with the casual ease of a maestro conducting a familiar symphony. Their masks couldn't hide their mixture of horror and admiration as they witnessed firsthand why the Dark Eldar still had nightmares about this particular mon-keigh.

"You see," Franklin said conversationally, as streams of firepower continued to reorganize reality before them, "sometimes the best solution isn't the biggest gun you have. Sometimes it's just having enough smaller guns firing at the same time."

"Your... restraint is noted, Primarch," one Whiteseer managed, their voice carrying a hint of what might have been humor.

"I do try," Franklin replied, watching as the last waves of fire cleared their path to the altar. "Now then, shall we go close that breach? I believe we have some house calls to make."

The Whiteseers nodded, still processing the casual display of overwhelming firepower they had just witnessed. Perhaps, they reflected, the Laughing God's choice of ally wasn't so mysterious after all. Sometimes the best solution to a cosmic problem was someone who could approach it with both the power of a god and the practical mindset of a soldier who knew exactly how many guns it took to solve a problem.

The path to the altar lay clear before them, marked by the cooling remains of what had been a legion of daemons. It was time for the next phase of their operation - and if the Whiteseers had learned anything in the last few minutes, it was that their allies' definition of "subtle" would take some getting used to.

-------------------

Through the smoldering ruins of what had once been a temple to endless slaughter, Franklin strode like a tourist. The ground beneath his feet was still cooling from the orbital barrage, glass crunching with each step where daemon blood had been flash-heated to crystalline form. Around him, the very walls of the Webway hummed with violated potential, reality itself struggling to heal from the wounds carved into it by Chaos.

Before them stood a being that embodied millennia of violence. Ka'grath the Unavenged, Bloodthirster of the Eighth Host, towered even over Franklin's transhuman frame. Its brass armor still glowed with residual heat from the bombardment, wings spread wide enough to cast shadows across entire formations. The daemon's axe, a weapon that had harvested souls across a thousand worlds, dripped with the essence of reality itself.

Franklin's approach was almost casual, Anaris held with deceptive looseness at his side. "You're one tough bitch," he observed, his voice carrying across the dimensional space between them. "Most things don't stay standing after that kind of welcome party."

The Bloodthirster's response was a roar that contained the screams of civilizations it had destroyed, a sound that should have shattered sanity and burned reason to ash. "I AM KA'GRATH THE UNAVENGED! EIGHTH OF THE BLOOD HOST! HARVESTER OF-"

Its litany of titles ended in a wet gurgle as Franklin crossed the space between them with transhuman speed. Anaris, the blade that contained Khaine's power to end immortality itself, swept through daemon-flesh with terrible purpose. The Bloodthirster's right arm, still raising its hellforged axe, separated from its body in a spray of warp-essence.

Ka'grath stumbled back, more confused than pained. Pain was an old friend to servants of Khorne. Pain was practically currency in the Blood God's realm. But this... this was different. The daemon's eyes widened as it reached out with its consciousness, searching for its severed limb in the warp.

There was nothing there.

"NO!" The word escaped in a roar of denial that shook reality itself. "IT CANNOT BE!"

Franklin's chuckle carried the weight of Khaine's own amusement. "What's wrong, big guy?" He twirled Anaris in a lazy arc, warp-light catching on its impossible edge. "Suddenly realizing you can die?"

Real fear - an emotion foreign to most Bloodthirsters - bloomed in Ka'grath's burning eyes. This was wrong. This violated the natural order of things. Daemons were immortal. They could be banished, yes, forced back into the warp to reform, but true death? That was for lesser beings, for mortals, for-

The thought ended as Franklin moved again, this time unleashing Anaris in a strike that contained not just physical force but the conceptual weight of Khaine's own power. The blade met Ka'grath's hellforged axe, and for a brief moment, the two weapons sang against each other - a duet of destruction that echoed through dimensions.

Then Anaris, carrying the weight of a god's decree, sheared through both weapon and wielder.

Ka'grath the Unavenged, Bloodthirster of the Eighth Host, experienced something no daemon of its stature had known before - the absolute certainty of ending. As its form separated along the line of Franklin's cut, it felt not just its physical form dying, but its very essence unraveling. There would be no return to the Blood God's halls. No reformation in the Warp. No chance for revenge or redemption.

Just... nothing.

The daemon's final scream contained something beyond rage or pain - the existential horror of an immortal being discovering its mortality. It echoed through the Webway's corridors, a sound that would haunt the dreams of those who heard it, carrying as it did the death of something that should not have been able to die.

As the last traces of Ka'grath faded from existence - not just banished but truly ended - Franklin turned to the Whiteseers. Their blank masks couldn't hide their awe at what they had witnessed. Khaine's presence burned around him like a corona of divine violence, acknowledging the first use of Anaris's restored power.

"Well," Franklin said, cleaning the blade with a casual flick, "I'd say the sword works as advertised, ever since merging with Khaine's Warshard. Shall we move on to the next breach? I believe we have three more appointments to keep."

Behind him, where Ka'grath had stood, there was nothing - not even the usual residue of warp energy that lingered after a daemon's banishment. The Bloodthirster was simply... gone, ended in a way that would send ripples through the Warp itself. The message to the Ruinous Powers was clear: their servants were no longer guaranteed immortality, attack the Liberator at your own peril.

The aftermath of divine violence still lingered in the air, reality itself trembling in the wake of a Greater Daemon's true death. Franklin stood, Anaris, still humming with the power of permanent ending, rested in his grip as he turned to leave.

Then he remembered.

"Wait," Franklin's voice carried the weight of command that could stop armies in their tracks. "What about the breach? Shouldn't we-"

His words died in his throat.

There, in the space where reality had been torn asunder by Chaos, stood a figure that defied the grimdark aesthetic of the universe itself. A being that looked as if it had stepped out of a children's picture book rather than the annals of cosmic war. The clown - for there was no other word that could adequately describe this entity - wore a motley of colors so bright they seemed to offend physics itself.

In its hands, held with all the serious dedication of a grandmother preparing to darn socks, were an oversized needle and thread. The needle gleamed with impossible light, its eye large enough to pass a human hand through. The thread, if it could be called that, seemed to be woven from starlight and laughter.

Franklin, veteran of a thousand battles, bearer of a god's power, and witness to events that had shaped the fate of galaxies, could only manage one response:

"What the fuck?"

The clown, its face painted in patterns that seemed to rearrange themselves when viewed directly, gave Franklin what could only be described as a vaudevillian wink. Then, with movements that belonged more in a circus than in the space between dimensions, it began to sew.

The needle danced through the fabric of the Webway itself, weaving space and time back together with stitches that somehow managed to be both precise and utterly ridiculous. Each pass of the needle was accompanied by a sound that should not have existed - something between a giggle and the birth of a star.

The Whiteseers, beings of ancient power and dignity, stood in perfect stillness. Their blank masks betrayed nothing, but their rigid postures suggested they were trying very, very hard to maintain their composure out of fear or out of laughter only they know.

Franklin watched as the cosmic tailor continued its work, each stitch sealing the breach with a level of effectiveness that bordered on the absurd. The clown's movements became increasingly theatrical - a pirouette here, a bow there, each gesture accompanied by sparkles that had no business existing in this or any other dimension.

"This," Franklin said to no one in particular, "is definitely Cegorach."

The clown paused in its sewing to give Franklin an elaborate bow, complete with a flourish that sent its motley spinning in impossible directions. Then, with a final thrust of the needle that somehow included a backflip, it tied off the last stitch.

The breach, which had moments ago been a wound in reality itself, was now sealed with stitches that looked exactly like the kind one might find on a well-loved stuffed animal. They even seemed to twinkle.

As the clown prepared to depart, it turned to Franklin and produced - from seemingly nowhere - a small card. With another elaborate bow, it presented the card to the Primarch. Upon inspection, it appeared to be a "Job Well Done!" sticker, complete with a smiling star.

Before Franklin could formulate a response appropriate to the situation (if such a response existed), the clown vanished in a puff of glitter that smelled inexplicably of fresh-baked cookies. The sound of otherworldly laughter echoed through the Webway, suggesting that Cegorach had found Franklin's reaction entirely worth the effort of this elaborate performance.

"Right," Franklin managed, still staring at the perfectly sewn breach. "I suppose that's... one way to do it."

As they turned to leave, heading for their next target, Franklin could have sworn he heard the distant sound of a cosmic laugh track. The Laughing God, it seemed, had a very particular sense of humor.

The Whiteseers, maintaining their dignity through what appeared to be sheer force of will, said nothing. Though one of them might have been hiding a smile behind their mask. It was, after all, not every day that one got to see a Primarch rendered speechless by cosmic needlework.

As they made their way back to the fleet, Franklin shook his head. "Pops is never going to believe this part," he muttered. Behind him, the stitches continued to twinkle, a reminder that in a universe of grim darkness and eternal war, sometimes the most effective solutions came with a side of divine slapstick.

The laughter of Cegorach followed them, a melody that spoke of jokes older than stars and punchlines yet to come.