The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 130: Lessons



As the Remembrancer of Franklin Valorian, I have witnessed events that defy simple chronicle or analysis. To document the life of a Primarch is to confront the intersection of myth and reality, and few figures blur that boundary as seamlessly as Franklin. Even now, as I pen these words aboard the Sweet Liberty, I can still feel the echo of the Six Years of Darkness-a scar on the collective psyche of our people and a testament to Franklin's vision.

I am Priscilla Nocturne, The President's Remembrancer, and I have been at his side since my appointment during the Liberation War. My task was to preserve truth amid the chaos of propaganda and half-truths. But as years passed, I became more than a chronicler; I became a witness to the character of a demi-god whose decisions would shape Quintillions. The story of his unwavering 99% approval rating is not simply the result of charisma or policy. It is the culmination of lessons learned during our darkest era-a time I remember vividly, as though it were yesterday.

Few periods in the annals of the Independence Sector weigh as heavily on the collective memory as the Six Years of Darkness. It was a time when humanity's greatest weakness - the capacity for self-deception - led the people to undermine their greatest triumph since the Dark Age of Technology. It was also the period that solidified Franklin Valorian's near- universal approval, the scars of which etched an unbreakable bond between leader and citizen.

When I think back to that era, the crystalline hive-spires of Nova Libertas come to mind, gleaming in 820.M30 like beacons of prosperity under the distant starlight. Yet beneath that pristine façade, doubt had begun to fester. The curse of paradise is that those born into it cannot comprehend the hell from which it was forged. I see it now, clearer than I did then, how the seeds of arrogance and complacency sprouted in the fertile soil of comfort.

I remember Marcus Valorian standing in his office on the eve of the fateful election. Hololithic displays illuminated his features, each percentage point sliding toward the Erudite Party's victory a harbinger of disaster. The Erudites spoke of liberty, autonomy, and reform. Their candidate, Lucian Augustus, was the perfect mask for corporate ambition - polished, eloquent, and steeped in aristocratic breeding.

"Let them choose," Franklin's voice came through the vox from his distant seat of governance. The clarity of his tone betrayed the weight of the moment. He had already anticipated what was to come.

"They don't understand what they're choosing," Marcus retorted, his augmetic hand crushing the armrest of his chair.

"Then they must learn. Sometimes, the only path to wisdom leads through pain."

The election was won, and Lucian Augustus's speech from the Senate steps was one for the history books. "Today, we cast off the chains of authoritarianism!" he proclaimed, a golden idol standing before an adoring crowd. "No longer will one family dictate the course of our destiny!"

How they cheered, blind to the chains they would forge for themselves.

It began subtly. "Administrative restructuring" of healthcare resulted in bureaucratic mazes where once there had been none. Children who had never known illness were suddenly without rejuvenat treatments. Education, once the pride of the sector, was "optimized for efficiency." AI tutors vanished, replaced by privatized modules few could afford. Advanced programs disappeared, and children's brilliance dulled into mediocrity.

Worker protections, the backbone of prosperity, were "reformed for competitiveness." Shifts lengthened, safety measures were discarded, and the first industrial disaster claimed hundreds of lives. The trend only accelerated. In the universities, the hum of innovation ceased as corporate interests turned laboratories into profit centers. In six short years, a generation's dreams were sold to the highest bidder.

Through it all, Franklin's voice was absent. "Let them learn," he had commanded, and the Valorian Party maintained their silence. It was not the quiet of impotence but the stillness of a storm held at bay.

By the second year, rebellion simmered. In Hive Prosperity, whispers of uprising began to stir. Jonas Michael, a firebrand whose lineage had once opposed Franklin, spoke of resistance. But it was Maria Chere, a stalwart supporter of the Valorian era, who silenced him. "This is our lesson," she declared bitterly. The rebellion died before it began, not through force of arms but through bitter wisdom. They had chosen this path. They would walk it to its end. And so they did. Families accustomed to abundance faced the cruelty of impossible choices. Corporate landlords seized public housing. Parks and gardens were sold to elites. The people endured the lesson Franklin knew they had to learn: that prosperity is fragile, and freedom without responsibility is ruin.

The Erudite Party worked tirelessly to ensure their victory would be permanent. They spoke of freedom while forging chains, of prosperity while engineering poverty, of democracy while dismantling its foundations.

"See how the Valorians held you back?" they proclaimed from their high towers. "See how much more efficient the private sector can be?"

Below, in the choking darkness of the underhive, the people saw. They saw with eyes opened by pain, understood with minds sharpened by suffering. They remembered the paradise they had carelessly discarded.

When the sixth year dawned, hope kindled anew. The election loomed, and with it, a chance for redemption. The Erudite Party's propaganda machine churned, desperate to rewrite history. But the people had lived both realities. They had experienced the "tyranny" of the Valorian era and the actual tyranny of corporate rule. They had learned.

The election results were biblical in their magnitude. Ninety-eight percent for the Valorian Party. Lucian Augustus and his ilk were not merely defeated; they were obliterated. Every seat, every office, every corner of governance returned to Valorian hands. It was a revolution by ballot, not bullet.

I remember the day Franklin addressed the Sector, his voice carried across worlds by hololithic projection. Standing before the Senate building, he looked out over the gathered masses, his presence commanding yet humble. He wore no armor, no trappings of power- only simple robes, a symbol of his belief in the people before him.

"My fellow citizens," he began, his voice carrying the warmth they had almost forgotten. "Today, you have exercised the greatest power any human can possess - the power to choose. Six years ago, you chose change. Today, you have chosen again."

The crowd was utterly silent, drinking in every word.

"Some have called me a tyrant for allowing what has transpired. Some have begged me to intervene, to use my authority to prevent the suffering you have endured. But to do so would have been the true tyranny - to deny you the consequences of your democratic choice, to treat

you as children rather than citizens."

paused, his eyes scanning the crowd with genuine compassion.

"Democracy is not merely the right to vote - it is the responsibility to live with the consequences of our votes. The prosperity we built together was not a gift from the Valorians to you; it was something we created together, through wisdom and work. And when that prosperity was dismantled, it was not destroyed by the Erudite Party alone, but by every citizen who chose to believe that freedom meant freedom from responsibility to one

another."

Tears flowed freely in the crowd now, understanding mixing with relief and shame.

"But today, you have shown that you understand. You have demonstrated that true democracy requires wisdom, not just choice. You have proven that the people of the Independence Sector know the value of what we built together - and are willing to fight to restore it."

He stepped back from the podium, and for a moment, his features softened into something like pride. "The work of rebuilding begins tomorrow. The universities will reopen to all. The medical centers will return to public service. The worker councils will be restored. But this time, every citizen will understand that these things are not gifts to be taken for granted, but achievements to be maintained through vigilance and wisdom."

Priscilla's dataslate had been left open. I couldn't resist. Since she's too busy, I've decided to contribute a little note to her chronicles-maybe, just maybe, she'll find it interesting.

It's Franklin here, by the way. Yeah, I know. Shocking that I'd be the one hijacking this, but I thought it would be fun. So, here we go, a little addendum to Priscilla's thoughts.

As much as the people learned during those Six Years of Darkness, so did I. And before you get any ideas about me being all high and mighty, let me just say I was never really blind to the flaws in my Managed Democracy. I knew it was a delicate balance, a bit like walking a tightrope. What I failed to see was just how tightly the leash had to be pulled around the elites. I had grown a bit complacent, thinking they'd learned their place. But boy, did they miss their chance to pull me into the light and make me the Evil Dictator they dreamed of slandering me as.

You see, the people voted, and the people always prevail in a democracy-no matter how much you try to pull the strings. But there was one thing I learned during that time: as long as my Managed Democracy gave the people the power to make their choice, regardless of propaganda or false promises, I couldn't afford to let the elites play their games. They had one chance—just one. If they'd seized the opportunity, ignited another Civil War, then, sure, I'd have been forced to suppress them. The image of a tyrant would've been a certainty, and I would've been forced to respond with force. But they didn't.

No, they missed that opportunity. They didn't realize that pushing too far would have shown

me as the brutal dictator they thought I was. Instead, they sat there, idly, waiting for me to make the first move to lead the rebellion against them. And guess what? They missed their moment. That's when the 75% seizure of their wealth happened. That's when I sent the IRS to audit their lavish lifestyles with the full brunt of tax reforms. And by the time they realized what was happening, they were too weak to fight back.

It was the greatest mistake they could have made-failing to challenge me when they had the

chance. They thought they could play the long game and hope I'd grow complacent enough to let them recover. But now, there's no turning back. The elites, they're thoroughly tamed. There's no hope for them to rise again, not as long as I'm around. And who knows, maybe

even after I'm gone? Ha!

Anyway, thanks for reading. Maybe Priscilla will get a laugh out of this when she finally gets her dataslate back. She's busy, after all. But hey, I'm just making sure the record is complete. With all my power, Franklin Valorian, signing off (and adding my own flare to the archives, because, well, I can).

840.30M

The vast theater aboard the Sweet Liberty fell into darkness, save for the ethereal lights that traced the movements of the Harlequins. Franklin, sat in contemplative silence as he watched their performance unfold. The massive chamber, capable of seating Millions, now held just him and his unusual companions - the ghostly presence of Khaine and the enigmatic dancers

of the Laughing God.

"Always with the interpretive dance," Franklin mused, his massive frame relaxed in a specially reinforced seat. "Cegorach could just send a text message, but no - it's got to be an

entire production."n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

The spectral presence of Khaine manifested beside him, a shimmer of barely contained

violence and ancient power. "That Stupid Clown always had liked to be cryptic and dramatic

otherwise he wouldn't be a clown. Though I must admit, his methods of communication are entertaining."

On the stage, a Harlequin wearing a mask bearing Franklin's likeness moved through a complex sequence of movements, their blade flashing as they struck down representations of daemons. The dance culminated in a powerful gesture - the Franklin-masked dancer sealing an enormous doorway with a burst of psychic energy.

"So," Franklin leaned forward, brown eyes narrowing. "Cegorach's offering me a library card? That's... unexpectedly bureaucratic of him."

Khaine's presence rippled with what might have been amusement. "The Black Library is not some corner bookshop, Valorian. This is a significant offer - though naturally, it comes with conditions."

"The webway breaches," Franklin nodded, watching as another sequence of the dance began.

"But that doesn't make sense. The Emperor has the Reality Engine for that sort of work. Why would Cegorach need my help?"

A sound like distant thunder accompanied Khaine's response - his version of laughter. "Ah, my young friend, you misunderstand the nature of the Reality Engine. It's a tool of creation and reorganization, yes - capable of repairing breaches, but that's not its primary purpose." Franklin raised an eyebrow. "Do enlighten me, O Shattered One."

"Mind your tone," Khaine rumbled, though there was no real anger in it. "Think, Primarch. How

has the webway survived this long with the powers of Chaos constantly assailing it? Do you believe it's merely the Reality Engine keeping the darkness at bay?"

"I'm assuming this is a rhetorical question leading to an illuminating answer?"

"The gods of the Aeldari have played their part in maintaining the webway's integrity. Cegorach, in

particular, has been sealing breaches since the Fall. But there are.... places he cannot go." Franklin's expression grew serious. "Because of Slaanesh."

"Indeed. Some breaches lie too close to the Chaos Realms. If Cegorach were to attempt to seal them

himself, it would draw Her attention immediately. His White Seers lack the resistance necessary for such work."

"But a Primarch..." Franklin stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Specifically, a Primarch with both significant psychic ability and an innate resistance to Chaos corruption. Plus, you know,

devastatingly handsome."

"Your capacity for maintaining levity in serious moments continues to baffle me," Khaine observed.

"It's a gift," Franklin grinned, then grew serious again. "Though I notice the Laughing God's timing is impeccable. He knows why I want access to the Black Library, doesn't he?" "Cegorach knows many things. Your concern for your brother Magnus and his sons has not gone

unnoticed."

The Harlequins completed their final dance sequence, conveying their last message about the White Seers who would guide them. As the dancers vanished into the shadows, Franklin stood, his massive frame casting a long shadow in the dimmed theatre. "Things I do for family," he sighed, activating his command vox. "Battlefleet Liberty, prepare for webway transit. Full combat readiness, but weapons cold unless I give the word. We're about to have some very jumpy cosmic elves guiding us around, and I'd rather not start

an incident."

"You truly believe you can find a cure for the Thousand Sons' I've seen my fair share of mutations but the Thousand son's flesh change is directly correlated to their Primarch's Gene-seed it's Hereditary, Magnus's gift for the Empyrean is passed down to his sons but unlike a Primarch who could stay stable when conducting the Warp, mortals regardless of transhumans cannot, especially so with Magnus's high rate of mutation in his gene seed" Khaine's presence shifted, curious. Franklin's expression hardened with determination. "What I believe is that Magnus is going to do something catastrophically stupid if someone doesn't help him soon. He's brilliant, but

he's also desperate. That's a dangerous combination."

"Speaking from experience?"

"I prefer to think of my own occasional catastrophically stupid decisions as 'calculated risks

with style," Franklin replied, heading for the theater's exit. "Besides, someone needs to be

the responsible brother occasionally, and Guilliman's got his hands full with his whole '500 Worlds' project."

"Your definition of 'responsible' continues to concern me," Khaine commented, his presence following Franklin through the corridors of the Sweet Liberty.

"Says the god who basically handed me his sword and said 'do a crime,'" Franklin countered.

"Speaking of which, how do you feel about possibly having to fight your way through some Chaos-corrupted sections of the webway?"

The god's presence flared with anticipation. "I find the prospect... satisfying."

"Thought you might," Franklin grinned. "Nothing like a little father-son, god-friend

bonding over daemon slaying, right?"

"I am not your father nor your god friend I am Khaine"

"Technically, you're more like my sword-Teacher / God-Tutor"

"I regret every decision that has led to this moment," Khaine declared, though there was a distinct

undertone of amusement in his otherworldly voice.

Franklin laughed as they reached the bridge. "No, you don't. You haven't had this much fun in

millennia. Now, let's go seal some breaches and get that library card. I've got a brother to save from himself."

"All this just for the Scholar-King?"

"That's what family does - we try, even when it seems impossible. Besides," his grin returned, "impossible just means no one's thrown enough firepower at the problem yet." "Your solution to everything cannot be 'more firepower,"" Khaine admonished.

"Watch me," Franklin replied, then addressed his bridge crew. "All hands, prepare for

webway transit. Let's go make some cosmic history."

The massive form of the Sweet Liberty, followed by its escort fleet, moved with surprising

grace toward the shimmering webway portal. As they approached, Franklin couldn't help but add one final comment.

"Just think - if this works out, I'll be the first Primarch with an interdimensional library card.

Beat that, Guilliman."

The strategic command center of Sweet Liberty hummed with activity as Franklin Valorian stood before his assembled Primeborn Captains. The massive hololithic display dominated the center of the room, projecting detailed schematics of the mighty vessel in crystalline

clarity.

"Gentlemen," Franklin began, his imposing figure cast in the blue glow of the hololiths, "welcome back to the Webway. I trust you all remember our last excursion." He gestured to a particular section of the map, where the coordinates of their previous campaign glowed softly. "Our knife-eared friends are still missing a city, as I recall."

"Best damn urban renewal project we ever conducted," Armstrong interjected, his power fists

clenching with remembered satisfaction.

Denzel stepped forward, his twin hyper-phase swords humming softly at his hips. "The Dark Eldar won't have forgotten that lesson, my lord. They'll be looking for revenge." "Precisely," Franklin nodded, manipulating the display to show their planned fleet configuration. "Which brings us to our current situation. While I'm off playing handyman in

the Webway with Vladimir, Sweet Liberty will be a stationary target. And we all know how our

spiky friends love their boarding actions."

"Let them come," Samuel L. Jaxsen declared, as he studied the tactical overlay. "The CIA's

intelligence network indicates at least three minor Kabals are operating in this sector. They're

still rebuilding from our last visit."

Henry Cavill, stepped closer to the display. "According to future records, There was an intense

war between Cabals in this section. Though the specifics are... unclear." He frowned, "The timeline's shifting. We've changed too much for perfect accuracy."

"Good," Franklin replied. "I hate spoilers anyway. Now, let's talk defense assignments." He expanded the ship's internal schematic. "Sweet Liberty isn't just a ship - she's the equivalent of a Necron tomb world with engines and a helluva alot more reality warping tech than any of

the ships in the Galaxy. Any boarding action is going to be a one-way trip for our would-be

guests. The question isn't if they'll board, but how many ships they're willing to sacrifice getting close enough to try."

John Ezra, head of the Secret Service, pulled up his own tactical overlay. "My agents are already preparing kill-zones at every potential breach point. We've upgraded our internal defense systems since Commorragh."

"Excellent," Franklin nodded. "Now, for specific assignments. Denzel, I want First Company on bridge defense. No one gets within a kilometer of command and control." Denzel bowed slightly, his dark features set with determination. "The bridge will hold, my

lord. The First Company remembers Commorragh." "Armstrong," Franklin continued, "you've got engine security. Keep our power flowing, and feel free to give any visitors your usual warm welcome."

"Going to show them these hands were made for war, sir," Armstrong grinned, his nanomachine-enhanced physiology rippled.

"John, you'll be coordinating Secret Service operations on the ground with Vladimir and me. I

need your people keeping our backs clear while we're dealing with these breaches." John Ezra nodded sharply. "We'll have surveillance and rapid response teams ready. Nothing

moves without us knowing about it."

"Henry, you've got fleet coordination. Use that future knowledge of yours to keep our ships

one step ahead of their raids."

"Understanding their tactical doctrine from future encounters should give us an edge," Henry confirmed. "I'll have the fleet ready for anything."

"And Jaxsen," Franklin turned to his CIA director, "you're our field marshal. Keep our troops

coordinated and our intelligence flowing."

"Ain't no dark eldar raid getting past my network," Jaxsen declared. "We've got ears in places

they don't even know exist."

Vladimir, who had been silently observing, finally spoke in a deep, deliberate tone, his accent

thick and unmistakable.

"My Techno-Seers have reported increased warp disturbances in target zones. The breaches

we aim to seal... they have drawn unwanted attention, da." "Which is exactly why Cegorach can't handle this personally," Franklin nodded, his tone resolute. "Speaking of our colorful friend, Vladimir, you'll be with me on the ground. We'll need your expertise with both the technical and psychic aspects of this operation." "The FBI is ready, my lord," Vladimir replied, gripping his augur staff as it hummed with

contained power. "Our anti-warp protocols have been improved since last time. No breach

will escape us-this, I swear."

Franklin surveyed his assembled commanders, pride evident in his expression. "Gentlemen, this isn't just about getting me a library card. Magnus needs what we might find in the Black Library, and I'm not about to let my brother down. But more than that, this is about showing

the galaxy that the Liberty Eagles don't just take cities - we can seal reality itself when

needed."

"And if Vect shows up?" Denzel asked, hand resting on Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi's hilt. Franklin's grin turned predatory. "Then we'll give him another history lesson about why picking fights with Primarchs is bad for business. Any other questions?" Armstrong raised a hand. "Permission to use the new gravity weapons in the engine section,

sir?"

"Granted, but try not to turn too many decks inside out this time. Repair crews are still complaining about the last remodel you did."

"No promises, sir."

As the meeting concluded, Franklin did one final review of the tactical displays. "Remember,

gentlemen - we're not just defending a ship. We're defending humanity's best chance at preventing a catastrophe none of you want to see. Keep Sweet Liberty safe, keep each other

alive, and if any dark eldar want to test their luck..." he paused, his expression hardening,

"kick their teeth in"

The Primeborn Captains saluted as one, each moving to their assigned stations with practiced

efficiency. As they departed, Franklin turned to Vladimir. "Ready to make some cosmic history, Vova?"

Vladimir's augur staff pulsed with psychic energy. "Da, always ready, my lord. Though I must

say, you call these missions 'making history,' but they feel more like 'making disaster.""

"Would you prefer 'aggressive temporal remodeling'?" Franklin smirked. "I would prefer mission that does not involve ripping hole in reality, just once," Vladimir

grumbled, his accent thick and words dripping with exasperation. "You make sound like fun,

but fun is when vodka is involved, not paradoxes."

"Where's the fun in that?" Franklin laughed, already heading for his personal armory. They

had breaches to seal, a library card to earn, and, if they were lucky, some Dark Eldar to teach

about the dangers of holding grudges against Primarchs.

Just another day in the Liberty Eagles.