The Primarch of Liberty

Franklin Valorian walked the ashen ground, his boots crunching softly against the desolate landscape. The air, heavy with the acrid scent of burnt wraithbone and scorched metal, seemed to hum with the remnants of battle. Before him lay the massive, shattered body of a Craftworld, its once-graceful curves twisted into jagged ruins that impaled the planet's surface like a colossal spear from the heavens. The sky above was a sickly gray, clouded by ash and dust, and the horizon stretched endlessly with the aftermath of carnage. Corpses of Eldar warriors and Necron constructs littered the ground, their frozen poses telling the story of a battle fought with desperate fury and unyielding resolve.

In his mind, Khaine's voice resounded, sharp and commanding but laced with a quiet urgency that betrayed the war god's own concerns. "My Shard lies deep within this planet. Deeper than even these ruins, Valorian. Do not delay."

Franklin's perpetual smirk twitched as he surveyed the eerie tableau. "Well, let's go get it, then. Not every day I get to walk through a living mystery. Besides, I've got nothing better to do today."

He advanced toward the ruins with steady purpose, pausing now and then to examine the battlefield more closely. The intricately carved Wraithbone of Eldar guardians was fused with the cold, unyielding alloys of Necron warriors, the two materials locked in violent harmony. He crouched near a shattered Wraithlord, its weapon still buried in the skull of a Necron Overlord, and scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"Tell me, Khaine," Franklin said, his voice carrying a note of amused curiosity, "why would a Craftworld crash onto a Tomb World? Or… did the Tomb World crash into the Craftworld? It's like a cosmic game of chicken, and I'm not sure who lost worse."

Khaine's voice carried an edge of disdain, as if the question itself was beneath him. "The Eldar likely foresaw the awakening of this Tomb World and sought to destroy it before it could rise. Perhaps they believed that activating my Avatar would turn the tide in their favor. Or the Necrons, in their arrogance, unleashed one of their enslaved C'tan, forcing the Eldar to act. Either way, it was folly."

Franklin chuckled, standing and dusting off his hands. "I guess we'll find out soon enough. Let's hope this Shard of yours isn't in a hurry."

The labyrinthine halls of the Necron Tomb World swallowed Franklin whole as he ventured deeper. The architectural mastery of the ancient Necrontyr civilization was on full display, every wall, every corridor reflecting an eerie, mathematical precision. Franklin couldn't help but marvel at the designs.

"Now this," he said, running his hand along the smooth metallic surface, "is what I call engineering. Massive chambers, interdimensional geometry, and stasis tech to keep the boys fresh for millions of years. Honestly, Khaine, this is some top-tier stuff."

"Their mastery of such principles is irrelevant," Khaine snapped. "It will not save them."

"Oh, don't be like that. You gotta appreciate the artistry. You think I can make my own Tomb World after this? Maybe a Craftworld too. Humanity'd be taking another big leap." Franklin's smirk widened. "'Course, I'd have to give it a nice paint job. Can't have it looking all gloomy."

Khaine's silence spoke volumes.

As they moved deeper, Franklin entered a vast chamber, its size utterly dwarfing anything he'd seen so far. Before him lay row upon row of Necron soldiers in stasis, their numbers stretching into the trillions. Franklin let out a low whistle.

"Good thing they're disabled, huh? If this Tomb World wasn't half-wrecked from their scrap with the Craftworld, we'd already be up to our necks in Canoptek constructs. Scarabs, Spyders, the whole creepy crawly brigade."

"The Eldar left their mark here," Khaine noted. "Their desperation and their defiance are evident in the carnage."

Franklin glanced at a nearby scene: a Wraithguard missing a leg, its blade still buried in the chest of a Destroyer Lord. Similar clashes littered the floors they traversed. Broken forms of Eldar and Necron alike stood as silent witnesses to a war that had long since ended.

"You've gotta admit," Franklin said, "your folks knew how to go out with a bang. If they hadn't been so stubborn, maybe they'd still be around."

"Their pride was their undoing," Khaine said curtly.

"Speaking of pride," Franklin said, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "have you ever thought about picking up a hobby? All this blood and war stuff, it's gotta get stale after a while."

"A hobby?" Khaine's voice was incredulous. "You jest."

"I'm serious," Franklin replied, though his grin betrayed him. "What about gardening? I hear it's relaxing. Plant some crops, water them with the blood of your enemies, watch 'em grow. Could be your thing."

Khaine scoffed, his voice tinged with mockery. "You're starting to sound like Isha. Peace, gardens, and nurturing her children. Relax and tend to flowers, is that it?"

Franklin smirked. "Sounds like a dream, honestly. Wife material, even."

Khaine's voice softened for a moment, tinged with nostalgia. "She was a mother to all—gentle, emotional, and, yes, annoying. Always pleading for mercy for mortals. She had a lover, Kurnous, the God of the Hunt and Desire. A gift and a curse, that one. His influence led to both prosperity and avarice, the seeds of the Fall."

"Sounds like someone who valued freedom," Franklin mused. "Freedom is a double-edged sword."

Khaine agreed. "In some ways, Kurnous was like you—cavalier, unrelenting. But you're more than a hunter. You're a builder, an industrialist and...preferred guns. Kurnous was a falcon; you, an eagle. But I digress."

Franklin chuckled. "I'm curious—what was life like for the Aeldari pantheon?"

Khaine paused before responding, his voice contemplative. "Mortals and gods lived similarly in some ways, though gods are everlasting and wield reality itself as their plaything. Isha was ever gentle, ever pleading for the mortals. She annoyed me to no end, always asking me to spare them." Khaine cackled darkly. "Of course, I didn't."

Franklin shook his head with a laugh. "You're incorrigible, Khaine."

Franklin and Khaine walked deeper into the Tomb World, his boots echoing against the cold, metallic floors. The deeper they descended, the more Franklin found himself musing about the peculiarities of alien technology. He turned to Khaine, his tone tinged with a mix of curiosity and admiration.

"You know, Khaine, Wraithbone has got to be the most versatile material I've ever seen. Think about it—the Eldar literally sing it into existence. Through a mix of their psychic prowess and an infusion of Warp energy, voila! You've got Wraithbone. It can be as thick and durable as Auramite, and it regenerates as efficiently as Tyranimite." He paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Only downside? You've got to be a psychic race to manipulate it. That rules out most of humanity. Well, except for the Techno-Seers and the Human Psykers trained in the ways of the Bonesingers from an exchange program of Ulthwe and Nova Libertas."

Khaine's voice resonated in Franklin's mind, carrying a note of exasperation. "The Techno-Seers? And what, pray tell, did you create to circumvent this limitation?"

Franklin grinned, the expression practically audible in his voice. "Had to improvise. I built a whole unit around the idea. Believe it or not, they came from the music industry of Nova Libertas. A pop idol group, to be exact. All of them as it happens, turned out to have remarkable Psyker potential."

There was a long pause before Khaine's sigh echoed through Franklin's thoughts. "This is how human culture works? Truly, vastly different from the Eldar."

Franklin laughed. "You've got to admit, it's creative. The idol group sings and dances, and their resonance creates massive amounts of Wraithbone. Meanwhile, the Techno-Seers handle the molding and shaping. It's a team effort."

Khaine's tone turned incredulous. "Why is everything mass production to you, Franklin?"

"What can I say?" Franklin shrugged. "Efficiency is key. Besides, it's not like I'm kicking the Eldar out of business. Human-synthesized Wraithbone is incompatible with Eldar systems, and vice versa. Everyone keeps their niche."

The duo pressed on, navigating the vast corridors littered with the remnants of a massive battle. Dead Eldar and Necron soldiers were everywhere. The deeper they ventured, the more the scene evolved. Aspect Warriors and Immortals lay intermingled in the grim tapestry of war.

Franklin knelt by a fallen Striking Scorpion, its ornate armor cracked and charred. "Looks like the Eldar really didn't want this Tomb World waking up."

Khaine's voice was somber. "For good reason. The Necron are formidable. That is no doubt."

They continued onward, their path eventually leading them to a vast chamber that radiated an oppressive stillness. Franklin's sharp eyes took in the sight of the central power core. At its heart stood what appeared to be a Tachyon power core, though it was broken and inactive. The faint hum of dormant machinery filled the air, lending an eerie undertone to the scene.

Beyond the power core loomed a massive door of Blackstone. Its dark, impenetrable surface seemed to absorb the light around it, casting the room into an unnatural gloom. Franklin approached it cautiously, his instincts on high alert.

Khaine's voice resonated with a mix of determination and unease. "My shard lies beyond that door."

Franklin glanced at the Blackstone, his brow furrowing. "And something else, I'm guessing?"

Khaine's tone darkened. "An old enemy. A C'tan. Both my shard and the C'tan are imprisoned within. They slumber, their power contained by the Blackstone."

Franklin folded his arms, studying the door. "Blackstone… that's a serious prison. I'm guessing it's isolating your shard from you?"

"Indeed," Khaine replied. "Were it not for my near-complete state, I wouldn't have been able to sense it at all. The Blackstone suppresses its connection to me."

As they reached the central power core chamber, Franklin paused and studied the massive Blackstone door in front of him. He gestured to the dormant core at its center. "Before we try and open these doors, which, honestly, need power, we're going to need a proper setup."

He activated his comm-link, his voice crisp and authoritative. "Sweet Liberty, this is Franklin. Send down men to construct defensive positions for extraction and to collect all the essential tech. Disable the defenses of the Tomb World and begin analysis on how to separate the Tomb World and the broken Craftworld. We're taking these babies home."

The response was immediate. "Copy that, Primarch. Over."

Within minutes, the scene outside transformed. Liberty Eagles Astartes and Liberty Guard descended onto the surface, followed by teams of scientists and Tech-Priests. The Tech-Priests busied themselves hauling unsecured Necrons onto their ships, while the Libertan scientists delved into retrieving data from the Tomb World's central computer systems. Reports streamed through Franklin's visor, each one detailing progress and findings. Yet one particular report caught his eye.

"Data on matter conversion?" he murmured, reading further. The details elaborated on the Canoptek constructs, particularly the Scarabs' ability to convert materials into Blackstone. Franklin couldn't suppress the smirk spreading across his face. "Now that's something."

Hours passed as the teams worked tirelessly. An imposing fortress rose among the artificial hills, complete with a massive moat and a blend of ancient design and futuristic technology. It stood as both an extraction zone and a defensive bastion, its construction a testament to the efficiency and ingenuity of the Libertans.

Back in the central chamber, Franklin stood before the inactive power core. In his hand, he held a similar Tachyon power core, its size dwarfed by his immense fist. He examined it briefly before tossing the old, damaged core aside.

"Ready, Khaine?" he asked, his smirk firmly in place.

"Always," came the resolute reply.

As Franklin placed the Tachyon Power Core into the console, the Tomb World began to stir. The dormant systems awoke with a low, resonating hum that reverberated through the ancient halls. Lights flickered to life, casting eerie green glows along the metallic walls. Almost immediately, the Necron legions began to awaken, their unrelenting presence signaled by the grinding sound of stasis chambers opening.

From the fortress above, Franklin's comm-link erupted with reports of conflict.

"Primarch, this is Sweet Liberty command. Necrons are emerging from Eternity Gates across the surface. They're attacking everything—our forces, the atmosphere, even our scouting nanomachines. It's chaos out here!"

Franklin's expression darkened as he listened, his hand tightening around Anaris. He turned to Khaine, who observed the scene with grim silence.

"Looks like we've stirred the hornet's nest," Franklin muttered.

Khaine's voice resonated in his mind, cold and commanding. "Then fight as you always do, Franklin. Show them why the Eldar gods chose you."

The clash of battle echoed through the halls as Necron warriors emerged in relentless waves. Canoptek constructs scuttled across the walls and ceilings, their insectoid forms swarming toward the intruders. Scarabs and Spyders converged on the microscopic level, engaging the nanomachines released by the Independence Sector in a strange, invisible war. Above, the Liberty Eagles and the Liberty Guard fought valiantly, their defensive positions barely holding under the relentless assault.

Within the depths of the Tomb World, Franklin spun around as a Canoptek Wraith phased through the wall, its claws poised to strike. With a single fluid motion, he swung Anaris, slicing the construct cleanly in half. Sparks and shards of necrodermis scattered across the chamber, but there was no time to revel in the victory. More constructs emerged, their relentless attacks forcing Franklin to fight with the precision and power of a warrior born for combat.

"They're everywhere," Franklin growled, decapitating a Canoptek Spyder with a single strike. "Khaine, keep your shard ready. This is going to get messy."

As the room cleared for a brief moment, Franklin's instincts flared. A blur of black metal and an eerie green blade streaked toward him. Franklin barely had time to raise Anaris, the two weapons clashing in a brilliant spray of sparks. The force of the blow sent a shockwave through the chamber, and Franklin found himself face-to-face with a Necron of undeniable presence. The being's ornate necrodermis gleamed with an authority that could only belong to one of the Necron elite.

The Necron Overlord's eyes glowed with a cold, malevolent light as he spoke, his voice a grating mix of metallic resonance and ancient disdain.

"What manner of creature are you?" he sneered. "You wield the power of a psychic being, yet your physical strength alone strains the servos of my body. And your technology…" The Overlord's gaze swept over Franklin with a calculating intensity. "Your race… transcending its mortal confines, creeping ever closer to the greatness of the original Necrontyr. Still, it will not save you. You will fall before me, as countless others have."

Franklin smirked, the ever-present confidence in his demeanor undiminished. With a swift kick, he pushed the Necron Overlord back, creating a brief distance between them. He leveled Anaris at the imposing figure, his voice steady and unyielding.

"I am Franklin Valorian, puny xenos. Lord of the 11th Legion, Prince of the Imperium of Man. My father is the Emperor of Mankind, and soon, the galaxy will be in our palms. You would do well to respect us, old timer."

The Overlord's metallic face twisted into what could almost be mistaken for a smirk, a faint echo of the pride and arrogance that once defined the Necrontyr.

"You stand before Phaeron Hektarakh, the Eternally Bound," he declared, his voice rising with a regal authority that demanded submission. "I am one of the Triarchy, second only to the Silent King himself. I am the greatest among my people, the pinnacle of Necron perfection. And you, insignificant flesh bag, will know despair before the end."

Their words hung in the air like a storm, the tension between them crackling with unspoken challenges. Franklin moved first, closing the distance with a burst of speed that caught even the ancient Phaeron off guard. Anaris sang through the air, its blade flashing with divine energy as it met Hektarakh's green warscythe. The clash sent shockwaves rippling through the chamber, shaking the walls and scattering debris.