The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 32: Pride and Honor



The tension in the training cage was palpable as Denzel Washington and Ezekyle Abaddon faced each other, their contrasting styles evident even before the first blow was struck. Denzel, standing at 9 feet tall, embodied grace and precision, his twin hyperphase blades held in a relaxed yet ready stance. Abaddon, towering at 10 feet, was the epitome of raw power, his power sword crackling with barely contained energy.

As if responding to an unheard signal, Abaddon roared and charged forward, his power sword arcing through the air in a devastating overhead strike. Denzel, however, was no longer there. With a fluid motion that belied his massive size, the Liberty Eagle had sidestepped, allowing Abaddon's blade to crash harmlessly into the floor.

"First blood could have been mine," Denzel said calmly, his blade resting lightly against Abaddon's exposed neck for a split second before he danced away.

Abaddon snarled, spinning to face his opponent. "Lucky dodge," he growled, pressing forward with a flurry of powerful strikes.

Denzel met each blow with precision, his twin blades moving in perfect harmony. Where Abaddon sought to overwhelm with brute force, Denzel used the space of the cage itself as a weapon, always moving, always just out of reach.

In the crowd, Franklin Valorian nodded approvingly. "Notice how Denzel uses the entire cage," he murmured to Horus. "Every step is calculated, every movement purposeful."

Horus grunted, his eyes narrowed. "Abaddon's strength is unmatched. He'll wear your man down eventually."

But as the duel progressed, it became clear that Denzel was far from tiring. Time and again, he maneuvered Abaddon into positions where a killing blow could have been struck, only to pull back at the last moment. Each time, he would comment quietly, "That's two... three... four..."

The Luna Wolves in the crowd shifted uncomfortably, recognizing the skill on display. Even some of Abaddon's staunchest supporters began to look concerned.

Abaddon, however, seemed oblivious to these near misses, his focus solely on trying to land a solid hit on his elusive opponent. His attacks grew wilder, more desperate, while Denzel remained calm and focused.

"You can't dodge forever!" Abaddon roared, lunging forward with all his might.

Denzel didn't dodge this time. Instead, he stepped into Abaddon's guard, his blue blade deflecting the power sword while the red one sliced a neat line across Abaddon's chest plate. "Five," Denzel said softly, loud enough for only Abaddon to hear.

The Luna Wolves' First Captain stumbled back, shock evident on his face. For the first time, doubt crept into his eyes.

In the crowd, Tarik Torgaddon leaned towards Steven Armstrong. "By the Emperor," he muttered, "your man's toying with him."

Armstrong blew a smoke ring, grinning widely. "Told you, didn't I? Abaddon's about to learn a hard lesson."

As the duel entered its final stages, the difference in skill became undeniable. Denzel moved like water, flowing around Abaddon's increasingly desperate attacks. The Liberty Eagle's blades were everywhere, scoring Abaddon's armor time and again.

"Six... seven... eight..." Denzel's count continued, each number a testament to a killing blow avoided, a lesson in humility delivered with surgical precision.

Finally, with a move of breathtaking speed and grace, Denzel disarmed Abaddon. The power sword clattered to the ground, and Denzel's blue blade came to rest at Abaddon's throat.

"Nine," Denzel said, loud enough for all to hear. "The duel is concluded."

The silence that followed was deafening. Abaddon stood, chest heaving, his face a mix of rage, disbelief, and, grudgingly, respect.

Denzel lowered his blades and bowed deeply to his opponent. "You fought with honor, Ezekyle Abaddon. Your strength and courage are beyond question. But remember this day, and know that true mastery comes not just from power, but from precision, control, and understanding."

As Denzel turned to leave the cage, Abaddon's voice stopped him. "Washington," he growled, his voice rough with emotion. "You... you could have ended this at any time, couldn't you?"

Denzel looked back, a small smile on his face. "The purpose of this duel was not to end you, Ezekyle, but to enlighten you. I hope I have succeeded in that, at least."

With that, Denzel strode out of the cage, leaving a stunned Abaddon and an equally shocked audience behind.

Franklin approached his First Captain, clapping him on the shoulder. "Well fought, Denzel. You've done the Eagles proud today."

As the dust settled in the wake of the duel, the training cage buzzed with a mix of awe and disbelief. Horus Lupercal, Primarch of the Luna Wolves, stood at the edge of the arena, his expression a carefully controlled mask. His eyes, however, betrayed a complex mix of emotions as they darted between his brother Franklin Valorian and the victorious Denzel Washington.

Horus had always prided himself on being the Emperor's favored son, the first among equals. But Franklin, the 11th Primarch and the first to be found, had always been a thorn in his side. The Liberty Eagles' record of 3,000 worlds brought into compliance in just 17 years had seemed impossible, even laughable, when Horus first heard of it. He had dismissed it as propaganda, a trick of numbers and misdirection.

But now, watching Denzel's masterful display of skill and strategy, Horus felt a creeping doubt. Perhaps there was more to Franklin's methods than he had given credit for. The thought sent a surge of envy through him, which he quickly suppressed, burying it beneath layers of practiced diplomacy.

As Horus approached Franklin to finalize their plans for the upcoming compliance action, he couldn't help but reassess his brother's Legion. What he had once seen as reliance on flashy technology and overwhelming firepower now appeared as a seamless integration of advanced weaponry with supreme martial skill.

"Brother," Horus said, his voice carefully modulated to hide any trace of the turmoil within. "Your First Captain fought well. It seems the Liberty Eagles have more than just impressive gear at their disposal."

Franklin grinned, clapping Horus on the shoulder. "Glad you noticed, brother! We believe in using every tool at our disposal - be it technology, strategy, or good old-fashioned skill. Now, shall we discuss how to bring this system into compliance?"

As the two Primarchs began to talk strategy, Horus found himself both impressed and unsettled by Franklin's insights. The 11th Primarch's approach was unorthodox, blending psychological warfare with precisely applied force in ways Horus had never considered.

Meanwhile, across the chamber, Ezekyle Abaddon sat alone, his armor still bearing the marks of Denzel's blades. The First Captain of the Luna Wolves was lost in a storm of conflicting emotions, his pride wounded more deeply than his physical form.

Abaddon's mind raced, replaying the duel over and over. He had been so sure of his superiority, so confident in his strength and skill. How could he have been so thoroughly outmatched? The realization that Denzel could have ended the fight at any moment gnawed at him, each remembered "kill" a fresh blow to his ego.

"He was toying with me," Abaddon muttered, his fists clenching. "Making a fool of me in front of both our Legions."

Part of him wanted to rage, to demand a rematch, to prove that this was a fluke. But the warrior in him, the part that had survived countless battles and risen to the rank of First Captain, knew better. Denzel's victory had been absolute, his skill undeniable.

As much as it pained him to admit it, Abaddon found a grudging respect growing for the Liberty Eagle. Denzel had not just defeated him; he had taught him a lesson in humility and the true meaning of martial prowess.

Tarik Torgaddon approached his brother captain, concern evident on his face. "Ezekyle," he

said softly, "are you alright?"

Abaddon looked up, his eyes burning with a mix of shame and determination. "No," he growled, "but I will be. We've grown complacent, Tarik. Relied too much on our reputation and raw strength. It's time we learned from this."

Tarik nodded, surprised but pleased by Abaddon's response.

The stark contrast between the Liberty Eagles and the Luna Wolves had never been more

apparent than on the ash-strewn plains of Gordian XIII. As the final world in the system stubbornly clung to resistance, the two Legions found themselves grudgingly cooperating, their differences thrown into sharp relief.

Captain Denzel Washington of the Liberty Eagles stood atop a ridge, his exosuit gleaming in

the dim light of the planet's twin suns. He watched through magnified lenses as the Luna Wolves prepared another of their infamous spear-tip assaults on the enemy's main fortress. "Fools," he muttered, shaking his head. "Why send men to die when guns can do the job?" Beside him, Second Captain Steven Armstrong chuckled, the sound distorted by his suit's vox. "You're too kind, Denzel. I'd call them something far less polite."

As if to punctuate Armstrong's words, a barrage of artillery fire erupted from the Liberty Eagles' lines. Massive shells arced through the air, leaving trails of smoke before hammering into the fortress walls with earth-shattering force.

"Now that's how you soften a target," Armstrong grinned, his voice filled with savage glee.

In stark contrast to the Eagles' overwhelming firepower, the Luna Wolves were assembling their assault squads. Astartes in gleaming white armor checked their bolters and chainswords, their faces set in grim determination.

First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon strode through their ranks, his presence electrifying the air around him. "Brothers!" he roared, "We are the tip of the spear, the Emperor's wrath made manifest! We shall break their walls and crush their spirits!"

A cheer went up from the Luna Wolves, drowning out the distant thunder of the Eagles'

artillery.

Tarik Torgaddon, standing at Abaddon's side, cast a glance towards the Liberty Eagles'Nôv(el)B\\jnn

position. "Seems our cousins are content to let their guns do the talking," he remarked dryly.

Abaddon's face darkened. "They hide behind their technology, Tarik. We are true warriors, meeting our foes face to face."

As the Luna Wolves launched their assault, racing across the open ground towards the fortress, the Liberty Eagles watched with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

"Look at them go," a Liberty Eagle sergeant chuckled. "Like grox to the slaughter." "Aye," his battle-brother agreed, hefting his massive disintegration rifle. "But you have to admire their spirit, foolish as it is."

The Luna Wolves crashed into the fortress's defenses like a tidal wave of ceramite and adamantium. Bolters roared, chainswords screamed, and the air filled with the sound of

battle.

From their vantage point, the Liberty Eagles continued their bombardment, careful to avoid hitting their cousins but making no effort to coordinate their fire with the Luna Wolves'

advance.

"This is war," Armstrong growled, watching the battle unfold. "Not some glorious melee from ancient myths. Why can't they see that?"

Washington nodded solemnly. "Pride, brother. It blinds them to the realities of modern

warfare."

As if to underscore their point, a squad of Liberty Eagles in their imposing exosuits stomped past, each carrying enough firepower to level a city block. They laughed and joked among themselves, their camaraderie evident despite the grim business at hand.

"Now that's more like it," Armstrong grinned. "Reminds me of the vids of ancient Terran soldiers. What did they call themselves? Marines?"

Washington chuckled. "Something like that. Though I doubt even they had this much dakka."

The word 'dakka' - an Ork term for firepower - had become something of an inside joke among the Liberty Eagles. They embraced the comparison, finding humor in the idea that their love for overwhelming firepower might make them seem Orkish to their more traditional cousins.

As the Luna Wolves engaged the bulk of the planetary defense forces, Liberty Eagles gunships

swooped low, their advanced stealth systems rendering them nearly invisible. Precision strikes eliminated key defensive positions, opening gaps in the enemy lines that the Wolves exploited without even realizing the Eagles' role.

Seal Team Epsilon, led by Armstrong himself, utilized their cutting-edge armored exo-suits

to slip past the chaos of the main battle. They moved like ghosts through the city,

neutralizing command and control centers with ruthless efficiency.

As Tarik fought his way to the governor's chambers, he found Armstrong already there, standing over the lifeless body of the planetary leader.

"What is this?" Tarik demanded, shock and anger warring in his voice.

Armstrong turned, his armor splattered with blood. "Mission accomplished. The head of the

rebellion has been removed."

"This wasn't your call to make!" Tarik shouted, gesturing at the dead governor. "He could

have been brought to compliance!"

"And risk him inspiring further rebellion?" Armstrong countered. "This was the most

efficient solution."

"Efficient?" Tarik spat the word. "This is nothing but murder."

Armstrong's eyes narrowed. "It's war, Torgaddon. There's no room for half-measures or

misplaced mercy. The Liberty Eagles understand this. Perhaps if you did, you wouldn't need us to clean up after you."

As more Space Marines from both Legions filtered into the chamber, the argument escalated.

Luna Wolves accused the Eagles of theft of glory, while the Eagles derided the Wolves for their outdated notions of combat.

"Enough!" Tarik's voice cut through the growing tumult. He locked eyes with Armstrong, his usual good humor completely gone. "This isn't over, Eagle. Your methods dishonor us all." Armstrong's reply was cold. "Results are what matter, Wolf. Remember that when you're

licking your wounded pride."

As the two Legions withdrew from the now-compliant world of Gordian XIII, the rift between them had grown wider than ever. Tarik Torgaddon and Steven Armstrong made their reports to their respective Primarchs, each painting the other in the worst possible light.

The debriefing room aboard the "Vengeful Spirit" crackled with tension. Primarchs Horus and

Franklin Valorian stood at the head of the table, their towering forms casting long shadows over the assembled captains.

Tarik Torgaddon's usually jovial face was set in a hard line, his eyes constantly darting to

Steven Armstrong, who nonchalantly puffed on a cigar. The smoke curled around him like a shroud, adding to his already imposing presence.

Across the table, Ezekyle Abaddon's gaze bored into Denzel Washington, the sting of his

recent defeat in their duel still fresh. Denzel, for his part, maintained a serene composure, seemingly oblivious to Abaddon's glare.

Horus's voice cut through the thick atmosphere. "The Gordian System is now fully compliant.

Well done, all of you."

Franklin nodded, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Indeed. Our combined efforts have brought another star system into the Imperial fold."

As the Primarchs continued their summary, glossing over the more contentious details of the

campaign, the captains remained silent, the undercurrent of their conflicts simmering beneath the surface.

When the debriefing concluded, Horus and Franklin exchanged formal farewells, their brotherly rapport evident despite the tensions between their sons. "Until next time, brother," Horus said, clasping Franklin's forearm. Franklin's grin widened. "Try not to miss us too much, Horus. The galaxy's a duller place

without us around."

As the Liberty Eagles filed out of the "Vengeful Spirit" and made their way back to their flagship, "Sweet Liberty," the atmosphere noticeably lightened. The familiar corridors of their vessel, gleaming with advanced technology, seemed to wash away the lingering tension

from the joint operation.

Franklin gathered his captains and a selection of his Astartes in the ship's grand strategy

room. The Primarch's imposing figure was relaxed as he leaned against a holographic display, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Well, my sons," he began, his voice carrying easily across the room, "what did you think of our lupine brothers?"

A chorus of chuckles and snorts answered him before the comments began in earnest. "Prideful morons, the lot of them," one Astartes called out, eliciting nods of agreement from

his brothers.

Denzel Washington, ever the picture of calm, spoke next. "Abaddon is a formidable warrior, but his pride blinds him. He fights with fury but lacks finesse." Franklin raised an eyebrow. "And you showed him the error of his ways, didn't you, Denzel?"

A small smile graced Denzel's lips. "I merely demonstrated the superiority of our training,

Father."

Armstrong's gruff voice cut through the ensuing laughter. "Torgaddon's a joke. All quips and no substance unlike you Father. He talks about honor like it's going to win wars."

"And what do you think wins wars, Steven?" Franklin asked, his tone curious. Armstrong took a long drag on his cigar before answering. "Results, Father. Cold, hard results. Something we deliver in spades."

John Ezra, who had been silent until now, finally spoke up. "Aximand... he's different from the others. Quieter. More thoughtful. But there's something beneath the surface. Something... uncertain."

Franklin nodded, considering Ezra's words. "Keep an eye on that one, John. Uncertainty can be

a dangerous thing in our line of work."

The Primarch pushed himself off the display and walked among his sons, his presence both comforting and electrifying. "You've all done exceptionally well. The Luna Wolves may have their reputation, but you've shown them what the Liberty Eagles are made of."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room. "Never fear the other legions, my sons. Our

methods may differ, our doctrines may clash, but remember this - we are the Liberty Eagles. We have the shiniest toys, the biggest guns, and the unwavering will to use them." A cheer went up from the assembled Astartes, their pride in their legion palpable. Franklin's voice rose above the noise. "We bring freedom to the galaxy, one world at a time.

And if others can't keep up, well..." He grinned, a fierce, wild expression that his sons

mirrored. "That's their problem, isn't it?"

As the meeting dispersed, the Liberty Eagles moved with renewed purpose. The encounter

with the Luna Wolves had only served to strengthen their conviction in their methods and

their loyalty to their Primarch.

Franklin watched his sons file out, his expression thoughtful. The rivalry with the Luna Wolves was a useful tool, keeping his legion sharp and motivated. But he couldn't shake the

feeling that it was more than just friendly competition. Something was brewing in the galaxy, a storm on the horizon.

But that was a problem for another day. For now, there were more worlds to liberate, more

tyrants to overthrow. The Emperor's Great Crusade continued, and the Liberty Eagles would

be at its forefront, guns blazing and banners flying.

As "Sweet Liberty" disengaged from the Gordian System, its massive engines flaring to life, Franklin Valorian stood on the bridge, watching the stars stretch into lines as they entered the Warp. Whatever the future held, he knew one thing for certain - it would be anything but

boring.

As the Liberty Eagles departed, the atmosphere aboard the "Vengeful Spirit" remained charged. Horus, stood at the viewport, his piercing gaze fixed on the retreating form of "Sweet Liberty."

"Gather in my quarters," he commanded, his voice low but carrying effortlessly to his senior

officers.

Once assembled, Horus turned to face his sons. Abaddon, Torgaddon, Aximand, and other high-ranking Luna Wolves stood at attention, their faces a mix of frustration and barely concealed anger. "Speak freely," Horus said, his eyes scanning each face in turn. Abaddon was the first to break the silence, his voice a low growl. "They're reckless, Lord. The

Liberty Eagles act without regard for proper military doctrine." Torgaddon, usually jovial, wore a frown. "It's not just recklessness, it's arrogance. Armstrong executed the planetary governor without a second thought. No attempt at negotiation, no consideration for the larger implications."

"And yet," Horus mused, "they achieve results. Quickly and efficiently."

"At what cost?" Aximand interjected, his quiet voice drawing all eyes. "Their methods leave

little room for the subtleties of governance. They may win wars, but do they win peace?"

Horus nodded, considering. "A valid point, Little Horus. But tell me, what of their Primarch? What are your impressions of Franklin Valorian?"

The room fell silent for a moment before Torgaddon spoke up. "He's... difficult to read, my

Lord. Always smiling, always with a jest on his lips. But there's something beneath the

surface." Abaddon snorted. "A facade, clearly. No true warrior grins in the face of battle like that." "Perhaps," Horus said, his voice thoughtful. "Or perhaps it's simply who he is. A smiling killer, as dangerous with a quip as with a bolter."

The Primarch turned back to the viewport, his reflection overlaying the stars. "I've noticed

something about Franklin. His eyes... they twinkle when his sons accomplish something. It's

subtle, but it's there. A genuine pride." "You think his joviality is real, then?" Aximand asked.

Horus shrugged, a surprisingly human gesture from the demigod. "I'm not certain. And that

uncertainty... it troubles me."

He turned back to his sons, his gaze intense. "Franklin Valorian is a puzzle. His Legion possesses technology that rivals, perhaps even surpasses, that of the Mechanicum. They achieve compliance swiftly, but often brutally. And through it all, he smiles." "What are your orders, my Lord?" Abaddon asked, eager for direction. Horus was silent for a long moment before responding. "We watch. We learn. The Liberty

Eagles are a powerful ally, but they could be a dangerous enemy. Understand their methods,

but do not adopt them. We are Luna Wolves. We have our own way of war." As his sons nodded in agreement, Horus dismissed them, remaining alone with his thoughts. The truth was, Franklin Valorian unnerved him in a way few others could. The jovial Primarch

seemed to see through Horus's carefully constructed facade of confidence, picking up on the

pride that lay beneath.

Horus found himself wondering if Franklin's perpetual good humor was a similar construct. A mask to hide... what? Ambition? Disdain? Or was it genuine? A Primarch who found joy in the grim business of conquest was almost more unsettling than one who reveled in the violence. Moreover, the technological superiority of the Liberty Eagles was a concern. Their weapons, their ships, even their basic equipment outclassed much of what the other Legions possessed. If they ever turned that technology against the Imperium...

Horus shook his head, dispelling the thought. Franklin was his brother, a fellow son of the

Emperor. Such suspicions were unworthy.

And yet...

The Primarch of the Luna Wolves found his hand clenching into a fist. The Great Crusade

continued, and with it, the jockeying for position among the Legions. The Liberty Eagles were the first legion to operate with a Primarch, their successes mounting with each campaign, and a record few if not none could match, Horus knew that the Liberty Eagles had set the Bar High.

"Watch yourself, brother," Horus murmured to the empty room. "Your smile may be genuine, but this galaxy has a way of wiping grins from even the most jovial faces." As the "Vengeful Spirit" prepared to depart the Gordian System, Horus made a mental note to

speak with their father about the Liberty Eagles. Their methods, their technology, their

enigmatic Primarch - all of it needed to be carefully considered.

For now, though, there were more worlds to bring into compliance. The Great Crusade waited

for no one, not even for Primarchs wrestling with doubts and suspicions. With a final glance at the stars, Horus left the viewport, his mind already turning to the next campaign. Whatever the future held, he would face it as he always had – with cunning, with strength, and with the unshakeable belief that he was destined for greatness. Little did he know that the seeds of doubt planted by his encounter with the Liberty Eagles would grow into something far more sinister in the years to come.