The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 153: Arsenal of Democracy



The Library of Congress on Nova Libertas held many secrets, but none quite like what lay in its deepest vaults. Franklin led Sanguinius through corridors that seemed to descend forever, their boots echoing against adamantine floors that had supported the weight of civilization's deadliest creations for millennia.

"Open Sesame!" Franklin's voice rang out with theatrical flair, and Sanguinius couldn't help but smile at his brother's characteristic showmanship. But the smile faded to wonderment as the security protocols engaged.

The first gate, massive plasteel reinforced with adamantium, groaned open. Then another, this one flickering with conversion fields. A third, constructed of living metal that seemed to flow rather than move. Gate after gate, each more impressive than the last - nine in total, each designed to stop a different method of intrusion. Quantum traps shimmered between them, ready to shred anything attempting unauthorized passage at the atomic level.

"Quite the security," Sanguinius noted, his tactical mind automatically analyzing the defenses. "Though I suspect this is merely the obvious layer."

Franklin's grin widened. "Smart. The real defenses... well, let's just say even our father would have to knock first."

As they passed the final gate, illumination panels activated in sequence, revealing a sight that drew an involuntary gasp from the Angel's lips. The vault stretched out before them, seemingly endless, with sections extending in impossible directions that suggested space itself had been folded to accommodate the collection.

"Welcome," Franklin announced with pride, "to the Arsenal of Democracy."

Nearest to them, arranged with meticulous precision, stood displays chronicling humanity's relationship with warfare. Sanguinius found himself drawn to a particular section where ancient projectile weapons stood beside their modern counterparts. A primitive firearm labeled 'Glock' sat beside increasingly sophisticated iterations, culminating in a plasma- based successor that bore its ancient ancestor's name.

"Every weapon?" Sanguinius asked, his voice hushed with reverence.

"Every weapon," Franklin confirmed, "known to mankind exists somewhere within these halls. The collection spans trillions of sections, each dedicated to a different era, a different path of innovation."

They passed rows of power armor, each suit telling its own story of human ingenuity. From simple exoskeletons to towering Castigator Titans, the evolution of mankind's war machines stood frozen in time.

Sanguinius approached a nearby display, his attention caught by an elegant power sword floating above what appeared to be a small blue-glowing device. Before he could ask, Franklin reached out and touched the device, causing it to collapse into a perfect sphere.

"A Tesseract Labyrinth," Franklin explained, handling the device with casual familiarity that belied its alien origins. "The Necrons used these to imprison their star gods, the C'tan. We've repurposed them as storage devices. Each one contains a billion perfect copies of the displayed weapon."

The implications struck Sanguinius like a physical blow. "A billion copies... of everything? Even the weapons from the Age of Strife? The Dark Age of Technology?"

Franklin's expression grew more serious as he returned the labyrinth to its display. "Not everything. Some technologies resist preservation. Others..." He gestured to a solitary weapon, isolated in its own containment field. "The Retcon Gun. Whatever it erases simply ceases to have ever existed. Those weapons and beings touched by it are lost forever."

"And some weapons," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "are too dangerous for even a billion copies. Those we keep in the deepest vaults, single specimens locked away where only Father himself can authorize their use. Weapons that could blow open another hole in reality like a second eye of terror, and others are sealed for the future when humanity had ascended and are wise enough for their use."

The brothers walked in silence for a moment, the weight of that responsibility hanging heavy in the climate-controlled air. Finally, Sanguinius gestured at the more conventional weapons surrounding them.

"These could arm Legions," he observed.

Franklin's familiar smirk returned. "That's rather the point. These particular sections represent our tithe to the Imperium. We maintain enough in ready storage to arm billions of Auxilia at a moment's notice. But that's not why we're here." He gestured deeper into the arsenal. "Follow me."

As they ventured further, passing sections dedicated to forgotten patterns of bolters and theoretical applications of, Sanguinius found his curiosity growing. "You mentioned Father can access the deepest vaults. How many layers does this facility have?"

"Officially? Nine," Franklin replied, his tone suggesting the truth was more complex. "Though the deeper you go, the more flexible concepts like 'layers' and 'space' become. The former Mechanicum would call this tech-heresy of the highest order, but now under Cawl I believe in time their creativity would come back."

They passed a section that seemed to bend light itself, weapons that appeared to be made of crystallized time standing in displays that hurt the eyes to look at directly. "The Golden Age of Technology taught humanity that there are no limits to what we can achieve," Franklin continued. "The Age of Strife taught us the cost of achieving it. Here, we walk the line between those lessons."

"And these weapons," Sanguinius gestured at a particularly devastating-looking device, "they're all tested? Safe?"

Franklin's laugh echoed off the impossible architecture. "Safe? Brother, there's no such thing as a safe weapon. But controlled? Understood? As much as such things can be. We maintain testing grounds in pocket dimensions, study the effects in contained environments. Every weapon here has been thoroughly documented, its capabilities and limitations mapped out in excruciating detail."

They reached what appeared to be a dead end, though Sanguinius's enhanced senses suggested the space beyond was anything but empty. Franklin placed his hand on a section of wall that looked no different from any other.

"The Arsenal of Democracy isn't just a weapons repository," he explained as complex geometric patterns began to glow beneath his palm. "It's a testament to humanity's ingenuity, our determination to survive in a hostile universe. Every weapon here tells a story of innovation, of necessity, of triumph and tragedy."

The wall dissolved, revealing yet another chamber beyond. But unlike the ordered displays they'd passed, this one hummed with active energy, workbenches and fabrication units

suggesting this was more than mere storage.

"And now, brother, your very own weapons"

The chamber they entered bore a solemn gravity despite its clinical appearance. Twenty separate sections lined the walls, each marked with a number, each representing one of the Emperor's sons. Sanguinius's keen eyes noted the vacant spaces - numbers 3, 6, 7, 10, 11, 12, 13, 15, 16, 18, and 20 stood empty, their contents already claimed by his brothers.

"This way," Franklin gestured toward the section marked with the number 9. "Your inheritance awaits."

As Sanguinius stepped into his designated area, his breath caught at the sight before him. A suit of armor stood sentinel, its golden surface seeming to capture and amplify the chamber's lighting. Beside it, arranged with precise care, lay three weapons: a sword of beauty, a spear that had the visage of a hooded angel, and a compact but lethal-looking melta weapon. Franklin's fingers danced across a nearby control panel, initiating diagnostic protocols. "The Resplendent Regalia," he announced, pride evident in his voice. "She's been waiting for you, brother."

As if responding to its true master's presence, the armor's surface rippled with subtle patterns of light. Sanguinius approached reverently, his wings adjusting unconsciously to accommodate the armor's specialized design.

"Go ahead," Franklin encouraged. "Let's see how she fits."

The process of donning the armor felt less like wearing a suit of war-plate and more like completing a circuit. Each piece sealed seamlessly, the armor adapting to his form with fluid precision. The sensation was unlike anything Sanguinius had experienced before - a perfect synthesis of protection and enhancement.

"Standard Independence Sector technology," Franklin explained, though his slight smirk suggested there was nothing 'standard' about it. "The primary structure is pure Auramite - the same material used in the Emperor's own Custodian Guard and well him. For a Primarch, nothing less would suffice."

He walked around Sanguinius, checking connection points and interface systems. "The power source is here," he indicated a spot on the spine. "A Zero-point Energy Core, barely the size of your fingernail. And before you ask - no, it won't explode. The chance of the core even being breached is so infinitesimal it would take several lifetimes of continuous combat to approach any risk. Even then, the worst that would happen is the energy would simply dissipate." Sanguinius flexed his wings, marveling at how the armor accommodated them. "The psychic

interfaces?"

"Fully compatible with your abilities," Franklin assured him. "The armor will actually enhance your psychic output. Now, for your arsenal..." He moved to the weapons display.

"This is Encarmine."

The sword seemed to sing as Franklin lifted it. "Your temporal data suggested this would be a simple power sword. We've upgraded it to hyper-phase technology. It will cut through reality

itself."

"Temporal data?" Sanguinius asked, accepting the blade. Its balance was perfect, as if it had been forged from his own thoughts.

Franklin's expression turned enigmatic. "Top secret, brother. All will become clear in time." He moved to the spear. "This is Telesto. Beyond its obvious capabilities as a power weapon, it can emit focused disintegration beams. And finally, Infernus." He handed over the melta gun. "Another upgrade based on future specifications. The heat output is... impressive, melting through a Mastodon is possible."

Sanguinius tested each weapon's weight and balance, but his mind was working on another puzzle. "Eleven brothers already found?" He glanced at the empty sections. "I don't recall

hearing anything about the twentieth."

Franklin's expression shifted to something more guarded. "Ah, Alpharius. Yes and no. I didn't guide him - Malcador requested his equipment personally." He waved a hand dismissively. "Very shady, very spooky. The Alpha Legion tends to be that way. Nothing to worry about

though."

The Angel of Baal noticed how quickly his brother changed the subject, filing that information away for later consideration. Instead, he focused on the armor's systems coming fully online, neural interfaces connecting with his enhanced physiology.

"The temporal data you mentioned," he said carefully, testing the waters. "It speaks of a future that will not come to pass?"

"One possible future," Franklin corrected. "One we're working very hard to prevent. The equipment you're wearing now is the equipment you were meant to wear I just made some improvements." His usual humor faded slightly. "The Emperor has plans within plans, brother. Our role is to ensure those plans lead to humanity's salvation, not its damnation."

Sanguinius felt the weight of those words, heavier than the armor he now wore. "And this chamber? These preparations for all twenty of us?"

"Insurance," Franklin said simply. "Each suite of equipment is tailored to its intended bearer, designed to complement their strengths and shore up their weaknesses. Some have already claimed their inheritance. Others..." He glanced at the empty sections. "Well, we'll find them

all eventually."

The barren training world stretched out before them, its atmosphere carefully regulated to match standard Imperial conditions. Craters from previous training sessions scarred the landscape, telling tales of lessons learned through controlled violence. Franklin and Sanguinius stood facing each other, their armor gleaming under the artificial sun.

"Your natural talents are undeniable," Franklin began, his usual jovial tone carrying an instructor's edge. "Both in combat and tactics. The grand strategy aspects we can refine later - that's more my and Bobby G's sphere." He paused, studying his brother's stance. "But there's something we need to address, my hawk boy."

Sanguinius's wings shifted slightly at the analytical tone. After a month of training, he'd learned to recognize when Franklin was transitioning from brother to teacher.

"The combat simulations show a consistent pattern," Franklin continued. "You favor decisive strikes at enemy command elements, personally leading your forces in decapitation attacks. Effective, certainly, but..." He let the thought hang.

"But?" Sanguinius prompted, already analyzing his own tactics.

"What happens when you meet an enemy commander who matches your martial prowess? A

theoretical situation, I grant you - there aren't many beings in the galaxy who could survive single combat with the Angel of Baal." Franklin's smile turned slightly predatory. "But I

believe your swordplay could use some refinement." Sanguinius couldn't quite hide his surprise. "Swordplay?" He studied his brother's stance, noting nothing that suggested expertise with a blade. "Forgive me, brother, but from what I've observed in our joint operations, your preferred approach is decidedly... different." His mind flashed to recent battles - Franklin unleashing devastating firepower, enemies vaporized before they could close to melee range. Just days ago, a xenos warlord had charged at Franklin with some ceremonial blade, only to be obliterated from several kilometers. "You seem to favor overwhelming firepower," Sanguinius said diplomatically. "More guns,

as it were."

Franklin's chuckle carried an edge that made Sanguinius's combat instincts twitch. "That's what Fulgrim and Leman thought too, Sangy." "Sangy?" Sanguinius brought his hand to his face in exasperation. His brother's penchant for nicknames was becoming legendary among the Primarchs. Yet something else nagged at his thoughts - the casual mention of teaching their most martial brothers.

There was no time to pursue that thought. Sanguinius's enhanced senses screamed warning, and he dropped into a combat stance. Whatever Franklin's skill level, underestimating a

brother was poor protocol at best, fatal at worst.

The Angel blinked.

Franklin was gone.

He blinked again.

Only decades of combat instinct saved the Angel. He stepped back, Encarmine rising to parry

the strike that should have been impossible to deliver. The clash of hyper-phase weapons

sent ripples through reality itself.

Franklin's face, inches from his own, wore that familiar smirk. "About that xenos commander," he said conversationally, as if they were still just talking rather than locked in combat. "I didn't avoid the duel out of necessity. I simply found them... uninspiring." What followed defied comprehension. Sanguinius found himself defending against attacks that transcended conventional combat.

Franklin's strikes didn't merely come from physical angles; they seemed to tear through the Empyrean itself. Each parry required more than instinct or training-it demanded awareness of strikes that had already occurred, were occurring, and would occur, all at once.

The Angel's wings flared in a desperate attempt to create space, but Franklin's wings

responded in kind, shadowing his every motion.

Blades clashed from impossible angles, every strike a masterclass in divine combat that

warped the laws of reality. Sanguinius barely kept pace, his every move dictated by sheer survival rather than strategy.

"Only Father could best me," Franklin remarked, his voice calm despite the supernatural

flurry of strikes. "And even then, it would be through his psychic might rather than skill with a blade. But in pure swordsmanship?" Another sequence of strikes forced Sanguinius onto the back foot, defending against attacks that seemed to bypass time itself. "In this galaxy, I have no equal." it was not boasting but a simple fact.

The demonstration lasted less than a minute, though to Sanguinius's transhuman perception, it felt like an eternity. When Franklin finally stepped back, the Angel of Baal stood drenched in

sweat, his enhanced physiology pushed to the edge of exhaustion.

"We'll continue tomorrow," Franklin said, studying his brother's state with clinical precision.

"I have a good sense of your current abilities. From here, I can craft a proper regimen for your

training. Sanguinius leaned on Encarmine, his mind racing to process what he had just experienced.

"That was... I've never... How?"

Franklin's expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. "You're wondering why I've kept this skill hidden? Why let others believe I rely on firepower and technology?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," Sanguinius admitted, straightening with effort.

"Consider it a lesson in strategy," Franklin replied. "Everyone knows the Liberty Eagles for our overwhelming firepower, our mastery of technology. They expect it. They plan for it." His smirk returned, sharper now. "But they never see the blade coming, and besides I just love my

guns"

"And our brothers?" Sanguinius asked. "Fulgrim claims to be the finest swordsman among

us."

Franklin's chuckle was genuine. "Let him. Fulgrim thrives on the reputation-it's part of his nature. I've always preferred to keep my talents understated. That way, when they're needed, the impact is decisive. Most of our brothers have learned from me in some way, each

according to their own strengths." Sanguinius flexed his wings, already feeling his body recovering from the exertion. "And what do you see in me, brother? What are my needs?" "You're a natural, Sangy. Talented in ways that make others—our brothers included- envious. But talent alone is raw. It's like an untempered blade: full of potential but not yet the weapon it could be." Franklin gestured around the training grounds. "What I showed you today? That's the destination. Not just mastery of the blade, but mastery of reality itself—

through the blade."

Sanguinius nodded, his awe giving way to determination. "Then show me the way."n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

The battle-scarred plains of Ullanor had seen countless wars, but none as transformative as this. Once the epicenter of the mightiest Ork empire in the sector, its colossal fortresses

lay in smoldering ruin, felled not by crude violence, but by something altogether alien to Orks: precision and strategy.

now

At the center of the devastation stood a figure that defied every understanding of Orkoid potential-Glorblasta the Mightee. No mere Ork Warboss, Glorblasta was the apex of Orkoid evolution, a Krork, the being Orks were always meant to be. He was not the crude, chaotic

force of nature typical of his kind. Glorblasta was something far worse: a deliberate and calculating predator, the embodiment of a forgotten war machine. "WAAAGH!" Thrakar's battle cry echoed across the devastated landscape, a sound that had made armies tremble. But Glorblasta simply moved, faster than anything that size had any

right to, and backhanded the Warboss with casual contempt.

"My deluded cousin," Glorblasta's voice carried the weight of genetic memory spanning millions of years, "submit or die."

The ultimatum hung in the air between them. Thrakar, despite his reputation for mindless

violence, possessed enough tactical acumen to recognize when he was thoroughly beaten. "I surrender! You'z da boss now!"

A smile crossed Glorblasta's face, an expression that somehow carried both approval and predatory anticipation. "My cousin, I have a task for you. But first, you must be strong, and I will make you so." He paused, his next words carrying ritual weight. "Gork and Mork hunger for war. They desire the crushing of the Imperium. Would you crush the Imperium?" Thrakar's response was immediate and enthusiastic. "WAAAGH! I'll crush da puny humies!"

The moment the words left his mouth, something extraordinary began to happen. Power flowed from Glorblasta into Thrakar, ancient genetic protocols awakening dormant potential. The Warboss began to grow, his form expanding and evolving. Crude musculature refined itself, becoming more efficient. Neural pathways rewired themselves, granting tactical acumen that no ordinary Ork could possess. When the transformation finished, Thrakar stood at chest height to Glorblasta, his presence now carrying an authority that transcended mere

physical size. "Thrakar Smasher, you are no longer the Smasher," Glorblasta proclaimed. "You are Thrakar the Beast, and you shall be the hammer that strikes at humanity's heart." "WAAAGH!" The Beast's roar carried new harmonics, a complexity that spoke of his elevated status. "THE GALAXY WILL BURN FOR GORK AND MORK!" Glorblasta produced a galactic map, its holographic display showing carefully plotted invasion routes. "Make for Terra. The path is marked. Gather your forces, grow your strength,

and bring war to humanity's throne."

As the newly ascended Prime-Ork departed, already calling his forces to war with a voice that commanded absolute obedience, Glorblasta turned to his own warriors. They were a sight that would have made even the most hardened Imperial commander pause - Orks

approaching the status of their ancient Krork ancestors, each one a master of warfare that transcended mere violence.

"Gather what we require," he commanded. "Our path leads to Nova Libertas." His gaze turned skyward, where somewhere across the vast distances of space, his intended

rival waited unknowing. "Dakka Bringer," he mused, using the Orkoid name for Franklin

Valorian, "I hope you're ready for the rematch" The laughter that followed carried notes of genuine anticipation.