The Target for Termination

A/N: So No Chap tomorrow I'll go somewhere hehe. So Here's a Chapter it consists of Two Chapters for tomorrow. 5.4k Words.

A/N: Would you let me cook once more?

Franklin strode through the impossible landscape of the Warp, casually spinning the Wailing Doom like a drum major's baton. The ancient weapon shifted forms with each rotation - spear, glaive, halberd, axe, warhammer - each transformation accompanied by a subtle keen that gave the weapon its name.

"You know," Franklin said to Khaine, "this thing's pretty versatile. Like a Swiss Army knife, but more screamy."

"That weapon has existed since before your species learned to make fire," Khaine replied dryly. "Please stop treating it like a toy."

"Hey, I'm just appreciating its features! Besides- incoming!"

A wave of daemons burst from the writhing ground, only to meet Franklin's transformed form in full fury. His metallic wings whirled around him in deadly arcs, while the Wailing Doom lived up to its name, each strike accompanied by a banshee's cry that made even daemons flinch.

"You've got to admit," Franklin continued, decapitating a Bloodletter while his wings impaled three more, "I'm getting pretty good with it."

Their progress toward the destination the Harlequins had indicated was interrupted by something even Franklin had to admit was weird for the Warp - and that was saying something. A ship, bearing Imperial markings but of unfamiliar design, came crashing through reality itself.

"Well, that's not something you see every day," Franklin mused, taking to the air. "Even in literal hell."

Landing near the crash site, Franklin's arrival was announced by the satisfying sound of daemons being crushed under his feet, followed by a spectacular display of firepower as his weapons systems engaged multiple targets. Smart missiles and what Franklin privately called "good old-fashioned dakka" cleared the immediate area.

"This warrior..." Khaine began.

"Yeah, I see it," Franklin replied, The marine who emerged from the ship was... interesting. The Liberty Eagles colors were unmistakable, but the equipment? That was something else entirely. The exo-suit looked like what the Independence Cluster's engineers might design if you gave them a couple centuries and unlimited resources.

Before he could ponder further, the mysterious Marine leveled a disintegration rifle at him - one that made their current models look like flashlights in comparison.

"He's from the future," Khaine stated matter-of-factly. "Such things happen when your faster-than-light travel involves literally going through hell."

"Really? You're going to be snarky about this now?"

Franklin took a step forward, then suddenly remembered his current appearance - transformed into a winged, skull-faced entity of war and death, complete with bloody talons and metallic feathers that occasionally snapped out to slice nearby objects.

"Oh right, the whole 'looks like a daemon' thing-"

The disintegration rifle fired, forcing Franklin to perform an elaborate dodge that involved both his wings and a bit of creative aerial acrobatics.

"Hey now! Is that any way to- WHOA!" Another dodge. "Look, can we talk about- SERIOUSLY?" Yet another near miss. "This is getting ridiculous!"

Franklin raised his hands in what he hoped was a universal gesture of peace, his wings spread wide but non-threateningly. 

"Look, I can explain! Well, actually, I probably can't explain because this whole situation is ridiculous, but I can at least prove I'm not a daemon! Most of the time. Currently. It's complicated?"

The marine paused his assault, possibly more due to confusion than conviction. Franklin took the opportunity to remove his transformed helm, revealing his familiar features.

The marine's reaction was not what he expected.

"Father!?"

Franklin blinked, looked at the Wailing Doom where Khaine's presence resided, and then back at the marine. "Well," he said slowly, "this is awkward. I don't remember having any kids yet. Unless there's something you're not telling me about that one weekend on Nova Libertas..."

"He's your gene-son, you absolute buffoon," Khaine interjected with what could only be described as an ethereal facepalm. "A Space Marine. From your Legion. From the future."

"Ohhh," Franklin nodded sagely. "That makes much more sense. Though I have to say, time travel seems a bit excessive just to avoid writing home."

The marine lowered his weapon, though his stance suggested he was still processing the situation. Given that he'd just crashed through time into literal hell only to find his gene-father looking like he'd raided a daemon's wardrobe, that was probably fair.

"So," Franklin said brightly, "come here often?"

"Really?" Khaine sighed. "That's your opening line?"

"Hey, you try coming up with appropriate small talk for meeting your future son from another timeline while standing in actual hell. It's harder than it looks!"

The future son seemed to shake himself out of his shock, raising his weapon once more - this time to aim past Franklin at the approaching threats.

"Just like the stories," the Marine muttered, almost to himself. "You really do joke in the face of anything."

"Stories?" Franklin perked up. "Oh, you have to tell me about these. Are they flattering? Do they mention how dashingly handsome I am?"

"Focus," Khaine interrupted. "Daemons first, family bonding later."

Father and future son turned to face the oncoming horde, ready to fight side by side in the impossible realm of the Warp.

"So," Franklin called out as his wings spread for battle, "do I at least end up being a cool dad?"

The response was lost in the sound of disintegration fire and the wail of an ancient god-weapon.

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

000.41M

Independence Sector,

The Library of Congress held many secrets, but none more precious than its heart. Deep within the fortress's adamantine walls lay a chamber unlike any other in the Imperium - a fusion of technology and reverence that even the Mechanicus would find remarkable, if they were ever allowed to see it.

Denzel Washington, the Last Captain of the First Generation, stood before the stasis coffin of his Primarch. His exo-suit, a masterwork of Primaris engineering, bore the weathering of ten millennia of warfare, yet maintained its pristine functionality. The Navy blue and Crimson Red of the Liberty Eagles still shone as bright as the day Franklin had first approved the colors.

Another day, old friend," Denzel spoke to the ornate coffin that held Franklin Valorian. The Primarch lay in state, eternally young, the legendary Deathsword still clutched in his hands. The weapon that had channeled the power of a god now rested as dormant as its master, refusing all attempts to separate it from Franklin's grip.

Around the chamber, crystalline structures held the ghostly images of fallen heroes. Steven Armstrong, the Liberator's Executioner whose boisterous laughter had once echoed through the halls of their fortress. John Ezra, the ever-vigilant Head of the Secret Service whose networks had saved countless lives. Vladimir Mendelev, whose psychic might had rivaled that of the greatest librarians.

"You should see what your sons have become, old friend," Denzel spoke, his voice carrying the weight of ages. "The Primaris Project... you'd be proud of what your gene-seed has achieved. Though none quite match that first batch you helped perfect."

"Remember that time on Nova Libertas?" Denzel continued, a rare smile crossing his features. "When Steven convinced you to participate in that drinking contest with the Guardsmen? Armstrong always did know how to get you into trouble."

His smile faded as memories of Isstvan surfaced. "They died well, brother. Steven, John, Vladimir... they took hundreds of traitors with them. The First Generation stood true."

"The Farseers came again today," Denzel continued, watching as ethereal light played across Franklin's features. "Still seeking Khaine's blessing. Still receiving it, though you and he slumber." He shook his head with a slight smile. "Never thought I'd see the day when Eldar would pray at a human's coffin."

His hand unconsciously traced the enhanced physiology that had saved his life. "Sometimes I wonder if you knew, brother. If you knew that making me the first Primaris would mean I'd have to watch all our brothers fall. Armstrong at Isstvan, Ezra in the Webway War, Vladimir defending Terra..."

The chamber's ambient lighting shifted subtly, indicating an incoming priority message. The hololithic projection of AEGIS, the Independence Sector's master AI, materialized nearby.

A soft blue light manifested beside him as Aegis, the Independence Sector's governing AI, projected its avatar.

"Chapter Master," the AI's voice was unusually urgent. "A vessel has emerged from the Warp at the system's edge The Spirit of Eternity. Its signature matches Golden Age archives"

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

The revelations from the Spirit of Eternity's A.I reverberated not only through the Independence Sector but also through the highest echelons of Imperial power. The knowledge of humanity's dark and inevitable future—the final victory of Chaos—spread like wildfire, igniting a grim sense of urgency among the Imperium's leaders.

But no one felt the weight of this revelation more acutely than Sanguinius, the Angel of Baal.

Sanguinius, the angelic Primarch who had once been the embodiment of hope and nobility for the Imperium, now bore the weight of countless sacrifices made for humanity's survival. His ascension to the mantle of Lord Regent had come in the darkest of times—after so many of his brothers had fallen, disappeared, or were consumed by the same madness that had shattered their father, the Emperor. With the Emperor entombed upon the Golden Throne, it had been Sanguinius who shouldered the burden of leadership, a beacon amidst the ever-encroaching darkness.

Standing aboard the Imperator Somnium, Sanguinius faced his brother Roboute Guilliman. The Lord of Ultramar's analytical mind had already processed the implications of what they had learned, and for once, his strategic thinking aligned perfectly with his brother's burning desire for action.

"This is not a war of reunification," Sanguinius declared, his wings spread wide in a display of martial glory. "This is a crusade of extermination. Every fortress of Chaos, every cultist haven, every dark temple in the Materium must burn."

Guilliman nodded, his mind already calculating logistics and deployment patterns. "We cannot defeat Chaos in its own realm, but we can deny it anchors in reality. Starve the cancer before it metastasizes."

The Imperial Warmachine, began a systematic purge of known Chaos strongholds throughout the galaxy. Everything outside the Eye of Terror was marked for destruction. World after world was scoured clean, with a thoroughness that would have made even the most dedicated Inquisitor of the future proud.

The Pyrus Reach system became one of the most contested battlegrounds of this new crusade. Once a prosperous collection of worlds on the fringes of the Imperium, it had become a festering wound of Chaos influence. Now it burned under the combined fury of Imperial retribution.

Drop pods rained from the skies like metal meteors, while Stormbirds and Thunderhawks blackened the atmosphere with their numbers. The Numerous Astartes Chapters began their attack Terminators teleported directly into corruption-tainted temples, while Assault Marines descended on wings of flame to engage the enemy.

In the midst of a maelstrom of violence and chaos, where the skies burned with the fires of war and the earth trembled beneath the boots of titanic warriors, Captain Henry Cavill of the Liberty Eagles' 1st Company clashed with Erebus, the First Chaplain of the Word Bearers. The battlefield around them was a hellscape of death, Imperial forces locked in a brutal struggle with the heretical zealots of Chaos. But amid the carnage, the focus was on these two giants, their duel the centerpiece of the storm.

Captain Cavill's Hyper-Phase sword meeting Erebus's Crozius in a shower of sparks. The First Company Captain of the Liberty Eagles fought with all the skill earned through millennia of warfare, but Erebus, curse his black soul, was no novice himself.

"Is that all the vaunted Liberty Eagles can muster?" Erebus taunted, his scarred face twisted in a mocking smile. "I expected more from Valorian's sons."

Henry's response was a lightning-fast combination that would have decapitated a lesser opponent. But Erebus had been playing this game since before the Heresy itself, and he slithered away from the killing blow like the snake he was.

The Dark Apostle had already wounded several of Henry's battle-brothers, his accursed crozius leaving wounds that refused to heal.

"Your kind has always fascinated me," Erebus called out, his voice carrying easily over the din of battle. "The Liberty Eagles - so steadfast, so pure. Did you know we tried to corrupt your gene-seed? Multiple times, in fact."

Henry's response was a burst of Disintegration Fire, Erebus moved with supernatural speed, avoiding most shots while deflecting others with his crozius.

"The experiments always failed," Erebus continued, almost conversational as he struck. His weapon caught Henry in the side, cracking Tyranimite and drawing blood. "Something about your Primarch's gene-seed. Too... willful."

A particularly vicious blow sent Henry crashing into one of the chapel's fallen columns. His armor's systems screamed warnings as multiple ruptures were detected. Blood flowed freely from several wounds.

Erebus stood over him, his corrupted armor a masterwork of horrific imagery. "Such a shame about your Primarch, you know. Franklin Valorian - the great eagle of liberty, dead for nothing."

Despite his injuries, Henry attempted to rise. "He died... protecting humanity, something you wouldn't understand TRAITOR!"

Erebus laughed, and the sound made the very air feel unclean. "Oh, but I am so much more than just a traitor, young one. Would you like to know a secret? One that has burned in my black heart for ten thousand years?"

Despite the pain, despite knowing better, Henry found himself listening. There was something in Erebus's tone, a sort of gleeful malice that promised horrible truth.

The air shimmered, and suddenly they were surrounded by visions - memories of betrayal made manifest. Henry watched in horror as scenes played out around them:

Small gatherings in the shadows of mighty vessels, Erebus whispering to battle-brothers, planting seeds of doubt. The subtle corruption of loyalty into suspicion, faith into fear. Then the fateful moment - Erebus on Davin, the cursed blade sliding between Horus's armor plates, carrying damnation into the Warmaster's blood.

"I orchestrated it all," Erebus gloated. "The fall of Horus, the corruption of the Word Bearers..."

The vision shifted to Garviel Loken, stalwart and true, cut down by betrayal. Then to Lorgar, kneeling in the ashes of Monarchia, Erebus's poisoned words turning grief to hatred.

"You..." Henry struggled to rise, rage giving him strength. "You damned humanity."

"Indeed. I am the architect of the Heresy. The hand that toppled the first domino. And now, I'll add your skull to the collection that began with-"

"Please," a new voice rang out, terrible in its beauty, magnificent in its fury. "Do continue."

The color drained from Erebus's face as massive wings cast their shadow over him. He turned, slowly, to face the source of that voice.

Sanguinius, the Great Angel, Lord Regent of the Imperium of Man, stood in all his terrible majesty. His wings, spanning wider than a Thunderhawk's, were spread to their full extent. The Blade Encarmine gleamed in his grip, and his perfect features were twisted into an expression of pure, angelic fury.

"Lord Sanguinius," Erebus managed, his previous bravado evaporating like morning dew. "I..."

"You were just explaining," Sanguinius said, his voice carrying the weight of ten millennia of pain, "how you orchestrated my brother's fall. How you planted the seeds of humanity's near-destruction. How you corrupted Horus, my beloved brother. Please, don't stop on my account."

"My lord," Henry called out, trying to warn of Erebus's tricks, but it wasn't necessary.

Erebus attempted to teleport away - his favorite escape trick. But Sanguinius's psychic might had already closed that avenue of retreat. The Angel's power pressed down on reality itself, trapping the architect of the Heresy in place.

"No escape," Sanguinius declared, advancing with the inevitability of divine judgment. "No more running. No more manipulation. Just you, your sins, and my judgment."

"The gods protect-" Erebus began, raising his weapon.

Sanguinius moved faster than even Henry's enhanced senses could follow. The Blade Encarmine took Erebus's sword hand at the wrist. Before the severed appendage hit the ground, the Angel's free hand had grabbed the Word Bearer by the throat.

"My brother died believing he had failed humanity," Sanguinius said, his voice trembling with rage. "Franklin sacrificed himself thinking he could save what Horus would destroy. Countless billions died. And you... you orchestrated it all."

What followed would be spoken of in whispers for centuries to come. The Great Angel's vengeance was terrible to behold. Piece by piece, limb by limb, he dismantled the architect of the Heresy. Each break, each tear was measured, deliberate, and executed with the precision of an artist creating a masterpiece of revenge.

And through it all, Henry watched, his enhanced healing finally closing his wounds. He watched justice being delivered, and knew deep in his soul that it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

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

In the strategium of the Liberty Eagles Library of Congress, hololithic displays flickered with ten thousand years of history. Denzel Washington, his ancient face bearing the weight of millennia, stood before the tactical array while Aegis processed countless data streams.

"Cross-reference: Monarchia incident with subsequent Word Bearer activities," Denzel commanded, his voice carrying the gravitas of one who had witnessed the death of an age. "Overlay with known Erebus movements."

The AI's response was immediate: "Analyzing. Primary catalyst identified: Monarchia's destruction. Secondary wave: Word Bearers' apparent compliance. Tertiary phase: Erebus's increased interaction with other Legions."

"I knew Horus," Denzel said quietly, his augmented hand clenching. "Before everything went wrong. Franklin and I both did. The rivalry between our Legions was... different then. Professional. Almost friendly."

The displays shifted, showing a timeline of events:

Monarchia's destruction

Word Bearers' supposed redemption Erebus's rise to influence

The Davin incident, Horus's fall

Istvaan Dropsite Massacre

"Look at the pattern," Aegis highlighted specific nodes. "Erebus's movements precede each major deterioration in Legion relations. His presence is the common factor in multiple pivotal moments."

Denzel's eyes narrowed. "We were all watching the Primarchs. Looking for signs of discontent among the sons of the Emperor. But Erebus... he was beneath our notice. A Space Marine influencing a Primarch? It seemed impossible."

"Yet he did more than influence," Aegis continued. "Statistical analysis shows his actions were precisely calculated. The powder keg was already there:

Angron's pain and rage

Perturabo's bitterness

Lorgar's crisis of faith

Magnus's pursuit of knowledge

Curze's instability

Mortarion's Hypocritical Nature

Fulgrim's Obsession with Perfection

Alpharius/Omegon's Secretive Nature"

"Franklin tried," Denzel remembered, his voice heavy with old grief. "Emperor knows he tried. The nails in Angron's head - Franklin actually found a way to remove them. But by then..."

"The damage was done," Aegis completed. "Psychological analysis indicates removal of the nails could not undo the decades of conditioning and trauma. Similar patterns emerge with other attempted interventions:

Perturabo's recognition came too late

Magnus's warnings were already tainted by pride

Curze's paranoia had become self-fulfilling"

The displays showed Franklin's various attempts at intervention:

Medical procedures for Angron

Diplomatic missions to Olympia

Technological exchanges with Prospero

Support operations for the Night Lords...

"Erebus used each failure to reinforce his narrative," Aegis concluded. "Each thwarted attempt at healing became another crack in the foundation of brotherhood."

Denzel activated a specific memory-capture, showing Horus before the Heresy. The Primarch's face was proud, noble - untainted by what was to come. "We were looking for a grand conspiracy. Some massive, obvious threat. Instead..."

"It was a single pebble that started the avalanche," Aegis finished. "Erebus identified the stress points and applied precise pressure. Analysis shows a 94% probability that without his specific influence, the various Legion grievances would have remained manageable."

The tactical display shifted again, showing Erebus's movements like a poison spreading through the Imperium:

His whispers to Lorgar

His counsel to Horus

His manipulation of the Lodge system

His corruption of the Warrior Lodges

His orchestration of the Davin incident

"The perfect cover," Denzel mused. "A mere Space Marine, when everyone was watching the demigods among us. Who would suspect that one of Lorgar's sons could corrupt Horus himself?"

"This also explains the timing," Aegis added. "The Emperor's departure for Terra. The creation of the Council of Nikaea. The censure of Magnus. Erebus didn't create these events, but analysis shows he maximized their divisive potential."

Denzel turned to a final display - a pict-capture of the Liberty Eagles and Luna Wolves during better days. Franklin and Horus stood together, their rivalry then still brotherly. "One man. One single Space Marine managed to tear it all apart."

"Not just tear it apart," Aegis corrected. "He engineered the greatest civil war humanity has ever known. And he did it by understanding something fundamental: even demigods can be manipulated if you understand their doubts and fears."

The weight of this revelation hung in the air of the strategium. Ten thousand years of war, trillions upon trillions dead, an Imperium forever scarred - all traceable back to the calculated actions of one corrupted Space Marine.

"Now we know," Denzel said quietly. "But knowing the cause doesn't undo the damage."

"No," Aegis agreed. "But it does present a singular point of failure. A specific moment in time where everything could have been different."

He meets with the Lord Regent and the Imperial Chancellor.

Three legendary figures stood around a hololithic display showing the grim darkness of their present - a wounded Imperium, slowly healing but bearing scars that should never have been.

Denzel, his ancient face bearing the wisdom of ten thousand years, looked up at the towering forms of Sanguinius and Roboute Guilliman. The Lord Regent's wings cast golden shadows across the chamber, while the Imperial Chancellor's presence filled the room with an aura of calculated purpose.

"Aegis confirms it's possible," Denzel began, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "The Spirit of Eternity's Temporal Engine can be pushed beyond its limits. One shot, one chance to make it right."

Sanguinius's wings shifted slightly, golden feathers catching the light. "At the cost of destroying the engine itself."

"Yes, my Lord Regent," Denzel confirmed. "But Aegis believes the destruction would create a temporal ripple through the Warp. The Chaos Gods wouldn't be able to undo whatever changes our agent makes."

Guilliman stepped forward, his armor's power field casting blue reflections across the tactical displays. "The obvious choice would be for one of us to go," he said, gesturing between himself and Sanguinius. "But that's not possible, is it?"

"No, Lord Chancellor," Denzel shook his head. "The temporal mathematics are clear. Meeting your past self would create paradoxes we can't afford. The timeline is fragile enough as it is."

"And you can't go either, old friend," Sanguinius added, placing a hand on Denzel's shoulder. "Your presence would raise too many questions in that era."

Guilliman's tactical mind was already working through possibilities. "What about Captain Titus? He's proven himself against Chaos time and again..."

"My Lord," Denzel interjected respectfully, "if I may... it needs to be a Liberty Eagle."

Both Primarchs fell silent, understanding immediately. The hololith shifted to show images of Istvaan V, where the Liberty Eagles had paid such a terrible price.

"Horus knew," Sanguinius said softly. "He knew your Legion's power had to be broken first."

Denzel nodded grimly. "Our overwhelming firepower, our technology, our bonds with our mortal allies - Horus saw us as the biggest threat to his rebellion. That's why the Istvaan Massacre happened. That's why we lost John, Steven, and Vladimir."

"The traitors made sure to target your officers first," Guilliman recalled, his perfect memory bringing back the reports. "They knew taking out your command structure would cripple your Legion's effectiveness."

"Which is why it must be one of ours," Denzel continued. "Someone who knows our Legion's soul, who can interact with Franklin and our past brothers without raising suspicion."

Sanguinius's wings spread slightly, his psychic aura brightening. "You have someone in mind."

"Henry Cavill, Captain of my First Company," Denzel confirmed. "Four hundred years of service as a Primaris Marine. He's faced down Greater Daemons, led campaigns across the Nihilus, and just witnessed Erebus's confession firsthand."

"The one who fought Erebus?" Guilliman asked, though he already knew the answer. His perfect memory recalled the reports of that battle, and Sanguinius's subsequent justice.

"Yes. He has the motivation, the skill, and most importantly, the wisdom to handle such a delicate mission." Denzel's eyes showed pride as he spoke of his captain. "He understands our Legion's spirit but isn't bound by the limitations of our original gene-seed. He's the perfect bridge between past and future."

The two Primarchs exchanged glances, centuries of brotherhood allowing them to communicate volumes in a single look. Both remembered Franklin's sacrifice, the weight of choices made and unmade, the long years of rebuilding what should never have been broken.

"Time travel," Guilliman mused, breaking the silence. "In all my tactical treatises, I never considered writing protocols for this."

A small smile crossed Sanguinius's face. "Perhaps in the next edition, brother?"

The moment of levity passed quickly, replaced by the gravity of their decision. Three heroes of the Imperium, considering the unthinkable - changing history itself.

"Bring him in," Sanguinius finally commanded. "Let's meet the man who might save the past to preserve our future."

Denzel bowed and turned to leave, but paused at the threshold. "My lords... Franklin once told me that liberty isn't just about freedom from tyranny. It's about the freedom to make things right."

Both Primarchs nodded solemnly as Denzel left to summon Henry Cavill - the man who would carry the weight of history itself on his shoulders.

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

I stand at the observation deck of the Imperator Somnium, my father's flagship, now mine to command as Lord Regent. The stars beyond the armored glass seem different somehow, as if they too know that this is not how things were meant to be. Franklin should be here, not I. His sacrifice... his choice to take my place that day haunts me still.

The data-slate in my hand shows reports from across the Imperium. The Independence Sector's latest technological marvels, Roboute's continuing Indomitus Crusade, and intelligence about Abaddon's forces regrouping after their limited success at Cadia. A smile crosses my lips as I read Denzel Washington's latest report from the Liberty Eagles. That one... he carries Franklin's legacy well.

My wings shift slightly as I sense a presence behind me, Dante the Chapter Master of my Legion...no my Chapter.

"My Lord Regent," Dante begins, but I raise a hand to stop him.

"Brother," I correct him gently. Some habits of leadership I learned from Franklin – the importance of brotherhood over hierarchy. The Liberty Eagles taught us all that lesson.

The report is about Henry Cavill, the First Captain of the Liberty Eagles. His encounter with Erebus troubles me deeply. The rage I felt upon hearing that worm's confession... I have never lost control like that before. Not since the day Horus... no, best not to dwell on what might have been.

I turn my gaze back to the stars. The Imperium is different from what my visions once showed me. Not perfect – nothing involving humanity ever is – but better. The Independence Sector balancing Mars's influence with innovation. The Primaris Project, completed during the Heresy's final days, gave us warriors like Denzel, a living bridge between Astartes and Primarch.

And now, this plan with the Spirit of Eternity. Time travel. The very concept seems like tech-heresy, yet here we are, contemplating sending a warrior back to prevent it all. Henry's determination reminds me of Franklin. That same fire, that same unwavering dedication to duty.

Would you have approved, brother? I wonder, thinking of Franklin. Is this the right path?

The weight of the decision bears down on my shoulders. As Lord Regent, my word will authorize this desperate gambit. One chance to prevent the Heresy, to save trillions of lives... and possibly erase this better, if still imperfect, present we've built.

I remember the day Franklin took my place. He knew, somehow he knew, what would happen on the Vengeful Spirit. I close my eyes, remembering his last words to me: "The Imperium needs its Angel more than its Eagle." Such hubris, such nobility, such... Franklin.

"My reflection in the armored glass shows a face unmarred by the ravages of the Heresy, as it might have been."

Sanguinius chuckled softly, a rare sound that echoed in the quiet chamber as he recalled the feeble attempts of Goge Vandire and the Ecclesiarchy to seize power. Did they truly believe they could challenge the authority of a Primarch? Let alone the Angel, who stood not only as the Lord Regent of the Imperium but also as its living symbol of unity and strength?

"Fools," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. Vandire's arrogance had been amusing, his misguided ambition laughable. The High Lords, the Ecclesiarchy, they all had forgotten what true power looked like. They thought bureaucracy and superstition could overcome the will of the Emperor's chosen son, but they were wrong. In their ignorance, they had dared to dream of overthrowing him—yet they had never stood a chance.

A more stable Imperium despite its divisions. All because one brother chose to change fate.

And now we contemplate changing it again.

The data-slate chimes with another update. The Spirit of Eternity's calculations are complete. They can send Henry back, but only once. One chance to prevent Erebus from setting the galaxy ablaze.

My wings spread unconsciously as I consider the implications. The Scientific Minds of the Independence Sector assure me they can do it, that they can send Henry back to the precise moment needed. But what then? How many changes can the timeline endure before it becomes unrecognizable?

Will Franklin's sacrifice be undone? Will this better future we've built dissolve like morning mist?

These are the thoughts that plague an Angel when he should be sleeping. Roboute would tell me to analyze it logically, to weigh the probabilities. But this... this is beyond probability. This is about faith – not in the Emperor as a god, but in humanity's ability to make better choices given the chance.

I activate my personal vox, connecting to the Liberty Eagles' Library of Congress "Captain Cavill," I say, "It's time."

As I issue the order, I feel the weight of two futures: the one we've built from Franklin's sacrifice, and the one we might create through Captain Cavill's mission. The Imperium marks time by my father's will – In the year 42,000 by the Emperor's grace. But I measure it differently. I count from the day Franklin chose to die so I might live, so the Imperium might have its Angel to guide it through the darkness.

Now we seek to prevent that darkness altogether. The irony would make Franklin laugh.

My reflection shows a smile at that thought. Even now, millennia later, my brother's spirit influences us all. The Liberty Eagles' culture of brotherhood over blind obedience, their balance of duty and humanity, these are his true legacies.

Whatever comes of the mission, that legacy will endure. Of that, at least, I am certain.

The stars beyond the glass offer no answers, but they bear witness to my choice. As they once watched Franklin make his, they now watch me set in motion another change that will echo through time itself.

For the Emperor. For humanity. For a brother's sacrifice.

For hope.

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

Henry stood before the Spirit of Eternity. The ancient vessel's temporal engine hummed with power that predated the Imperium of Man. Around him stood the architects of this desperate gambit.

Denzel Washington, his armor bearing the weight of centuries, looked at his successor with pride and sadness. "It has to be you, Henry. I'm too old, and seeing myself..." he shook his head. "The temporal implications would be catastrophic."

Roboute Guilliman stood with Sanguinius, both Primarchs bearing the gravity of what they were about to attempt. The voice of Aegis, the sector's ancient AI guardian, echoed through the chamber.

"The temporal engine will function once, Captain Cavill. One journey, one chance. After this, the technology will be forever burned out."

Henry checked his weapons one last time - On his Torso the Double Headed Eagle spread its wings proudly.

"Your target is Erebus," Sanguinius stated, "Before he can poison my brothers, before he can corrupt Lorgar, before he can wound Horus. End him, and you may save trillions."

"For humanity," Guilliman added.

"For the Imperium," Denzel echoed.

Henry stepped onto the temporal platform, his resolve absolute. The last words he spoke before the light took him were clear and firm:

"For Valorian."

The light flared, reality bent, and Captain Henry Cavill, greatest of Franklin's sons in the dark future, began his journey to save humanity from its darkest hour.