The Sun Rises

Golden light, pure and terrible in its intensity, burst forth from the unassuming figure of the Emperor. It washed across the battlefield like a tidal wave, scouring away daemons and warp-spawn wherever it touched. The Keeper of Secrets screamed, its voice shifting from pleasure to agony as it was unmade by the Emperor's radiance.

Daemons caught in the initial wave simply ceased to be. Lesser warp entities evaporated like mist before the morning sun, their unholy forms unable to maintain cohesion in the face of such overwhelming psychic purity. Greater daemons fared little better, their bodies twisting and dissolving as they howled in agony and despair.

The Keeper of Secrets that had been poised to strike down Franklin Valorian screamed, its voice shifting from sensual pleasure to mind-shattering agony as it was unmade by the Emperor's radiance. Its beautiful form, crafted to embody the darkest desires of mortals, melted like wax under the onslaught of golden fire. In its final moments, it reached out towards its dark patron, but found no salvation in the embrace of Slaanesh.

Amidst this cosmic display, Franklin remained at the ritual's heart, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. The daemon weapon he'd claimed had crumbled to ash in his hands.

Be'lakor thrashed wildly, still pinned by the Deathsword, his shadow-stuff form hissing and steaming where the golden light touched him. "This changes nothing!" he shrieked, his voice echoing with hatred. "The threads of fate cannot be—" His words cut off as another wave of the Emperor's power washed over him, reducing his voice to agonized howls.

Across the battlefield, the tide of war turned so swiftly and decisively that it left both Aeldari defenders in awe. Daemons were vaporized by the thousands if not hundreds of thousands, their essence forcibly expelled from realspace and cast back into the roiling seas of the Warp. The very air seemed to sigh in relief as it was cleansed of Chaotic corruption.

Greater Daemons and the Avatars of the Chaos Gods, entities of such power that they had been holding their own against the might of Khaine himself, suddenly found themselves outmatched. As one, they turned their attention from the Aeldari god of war to the newly revealed threat. Their voices, terrible and mighty, joined in a single cry that echoed across dimensions:

"ANATHEMA!!!"

The word carried with it millennia of hatred, fear, and grudging respect. For the Emperor was indeed anathema to Chaos, the antithesis of everything they represented. His very existence was a repudiation of their claims to power, a denial of their right to corrupt and destroy.

The Emperor's psychic might radiated outward in ever-expanding waves. Where before, Warp rifts had torn the fabric of reality asunder to spew forth endless legions of daemons, now they snapped shut like the jaws of a steel trap. The unnatural energies sustaining them were no match for the pure force of will exerted by humanity's master.

In moments, the only remaining portal disgorging daemonic reinforcements was the Webway gate, its Ancient construction granting it a measure of resistance to even the Emperor's power. But even this last bastion of Chaotic incursion faltered, the stream of daemons emerging from it reduced to a trickle.

Khaine, the Aeldari god of war who had been locked in desperate combat with the avatars of Khorne and Slaanesh, seized the opportunity presented by their distraction. With a roar that shook the foundations of Altansar, Khaine brought his burning sword to bear. The blade, forged in the heart of a dying sun, cleaved through the avatar of Khorne with shocking ease. The Blood God's champion, bereft of its master's attention, collapsed into a pile of brass and gore.

Slaanesh's avatar, a being of terrible beauty and insidious corruption, fared no better. Khaine's next strike caught it mid-transformation, its form shifting between masculine and feminine, beautiful and horrific. The sword of the war god split it from crown to heel, and with a sound like shattering crystal, it too fell.

As they died, the avatars of Chaos howled out final warnings and curses.

Khaine, momentarily freed from his battle with the avatars of Khorne and Slaanesh, manifested fully beside Franklin. The god of war's presence was like a bonfire next to the Emperor's sun, but no less terrible in its own right.

"Primarch," Khaine's voice resonated in Franklin's mind, "What was to be is now Undone. I have torn the knowledge from their essence as they fell."

Franklin, still maintaining the ritual circle, managed a weak grin. "Hit me with the spoilers, big guy. What exactly did we just avoid?"

"YOUR DEATH," Khaine replied, his voice like clashing swords. "Altansar's damnation. My imprisonment within Slaanesh's realm. The threads of fate were woven thus until you, father, the Emperor, sundered them."

"Wait, you're telling me I was supposed to—"

"Die here, yes. Keeper of Secrets would have struck you down. The ritual would have failed. I would have been drawn into the Prince of Pleasure's embrace, and Altansar would have fallen deeper into the Eye than ever before, This was all Pre-Ordained by the Architect of Fate it was his manipulations in order to get rid us"

A thunderous explosion interrupted their conversation as four new figures emerged from the Webway portal. These weren't merely Greater Daemons—they were avatars of the Chaos Gods themselves, empowered by their masters' direct attention and burning with hatred for the Emperor's intervention.

Their voices, so mighty and terrible, now seemed petulant and small in the face of the Emperor's overwhelming presence.

"You upend the great game, Anathema!" they cried. "The balance is destroyed! Chaos will have its due!"

The Emperor, resplendent in his unleashed glory, regarded the avatars with a mixture of contempt and pity. His response, when it came, was simple yet profound:

"So what?"

Those two words, spoken with the finality of an ultimate judge, resonated across the battlefield. They carried within them a rejection not just of the Chaos Gods' claims to power, but of the very idea that their "great game" held any legitimacy at all.

In that moment, it became clear to all present – Aeldari, and daemon alike – that the Emperor of Mankind was not merely opposed to Chaos. He was its antithesis, its nemesis, and potentially its doom.

Franklin looked between Khaine and the Emperor, then at the four hyper-charged avatars before them. "So basically, you're saying if Pops hadn't shown up, we'd all be super dead right now?"

"Worse than dead," Khaine confirmed, raising his burning sword. "But now the future is unwritten. The Changing God's plans lie in ruins, and the Dark Prince's grasp has been denied"

The Battle Erupted almost immediately God against God.

The Emperor's combat was nothing like the brutal displays of the Primarchs or the elegant dances of the Eldar. He fought with absolute efficiency, each movement erasing rather than destroying. Where his sword struck, it didn't just cut—it denied. Each gesture wasn't merely an attack but a rejection of the very concept of what he fought against.

The Avatar of Tzeentch attacked first, its rage overriding its usual scheming nature. Its staff wielded magic that could unwrite reality, but the Emperor moved through the impossible geometries and probability storms like they were barely there. His blade, wreathed in golden fire, carved through the Lord of Change's defenses not with force, but with pure negation. Where the golden light touched, the daemon's mastery over fate and change simply ceased to be.

"YOUR INTERFERENCE WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN, ANATHEMA!" the daemon shrieked, its form constantly shifting between shapes.

The Emperor's response was characteristically brief: "Neither will your failure." His next strike severed probability itself, causing the daemon to experience every possible defeat simultaneously.

Meanwhile, Nurgle's Avatar, a bloated thing of infinite diseases, tried to drown the Emperor in waves of pestilence. The Emperor's aura simply burned away the plagues, golden fire reducing complex diseases to mere atoms, then to nothing. Each of Nurgle's 'gifts' evaporated before they could reach him, the concept of decay itself rejected by his presence.

Nearby, Khaine was locked in a brutal, primal clash of divine forces. The Aeldari God of War moved with the fluidity of molten steel, his blazing sword carving arcs of blood-red light through the air as it met Khorne's Avatar. The Bloodthirster, unnaturally empowered, countered every strike with equal ferocity, their battle so intense that the very wraithbone around them liquefied into pools of psycho-reactive slag.

Slaanesh's Avatar, a vision of lethal beauty, weaved through the chaos like a twisted dancer in a nightmare. But Khaine had learned well from his battle with the Dark Prince. His movements were precise, ruthless—stripped of any grace or flourish that might feed Slaanesh's insatiable hunger for sensation.

Franklin stood within the ritual circle, channeling power into Khaine while basking in his father's radiance. The Emperor's power had renewed him, burned away his fatigue, but he knew his role now was to maintain the connection, to keep Khaine anchored and empowered while the gods settled their dispute.

The Emperor moved with perfect efficiency, no motion wasted. When Tzeentch's avatar launched a bombardment of impossible spells, the Emperor's sword drew patterns in the air that turned the magic back upon itself. When Nurgle's avatar vomited forth a tide of entropy, the Emperor's light transformed it into pure energy, feeding it back into the ritual.

"YOU DARE?" Tzeentch's avatar shrieked, its form blazing with stolen stars. "ALL WAS ORDAINED! ALL WAS PLANNED!"

The Emperor's response was characteristically direct - his sword severed three of the Lord of Change's wings in a single stroke. "Your greatest failure," he spoke, his words burning reality itself, "is believing your own lies."

Khaine, meanwhile, had adopted a fighting style that would have shocked the Aeldari—crude, brutal, effectively human. It was anathema to both Slaanesh's desire for perfection and Khorne's appreciation of martial skill. The God of War had learned from Franklin's influence, it seemed.

"YOUR METHODS ARE BENEATH YOU," Slaanesh's Avatar hissed through a mouth of crystal razors.

"AND YET THEY WORK," Khaine replied, ramming his burning blade through the creature's chest with all the ceremony of a street brawler's shiv.

The Emperor's battle reached its crescendo as Tzeentch's Avatar, maddened by the unraveling of its schemes, abandoned subtlety entirely. It manifested as pure change, a cascade of probability and mutation that threatened to rewrite the laws of physics themselves.

The Emperor's response was sublime in its simplicity. He raised his left hand, and suddenly there was only certainty. Probability collapsed into singularity, possibility became actuality, and the Avatar of Tzeentch found itself frozen in a single, vulnerable state.

"Even gods must learn," the Emperor declared, his sword descending.

Nurgle's Avatar seized the opportunity to attack, releasing a plague potent enough to extinguish stars. For a brief moment, the Emperor's armor dimmed under the corruption, but His response was swift and undeniable—a golden light that not only incinerated the disease but reasserted the very essence of health itself.

As both pairs of combatants drove their opponents back, Franklin maintained the ritual circle, watching with blood-streaming eyes as divinity clashed with divinity. The sheer power being thrown around should have annihilated the Craftworld, but somehow the Emperor's presence was containing the devastation, limiting it to their immediate vicinity.

"This battle was always meant to be your victory!" Tzeentch's Avatar screeched, its voice laced with desperation as yet another wing was cleaved from its form. "Everything is proceeding as planned!"

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

Captain Henry Cavill of the Liberty Eagles stood transfixed, his enhanced retinas straining against the sheer radiance before him. Even his Mechsuit's auto-dampeners struggled to compensate for the divine light emanating from the Emperor's form. Here, in this moment of cosmic significance, he witnessed what so many in his future could only imagine - the Emperor at the height of His power.

Approaching his Primarch within the ritual circle, Henry noted Franklin's condition. The Primarch was covered in dried blood, his mechsuit bearing testament to the ferocious combat that had preceded the Emperor's arrival. Yet despite his exhaustion, Franklin maintained that characteristic smirk, as if the whole situation - gods battling before them - was somehow cosmically amusing.

"Father," Henry spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've seen Lord Regent Sanguinius clash with Greater Daemons. I've witnessed Imperial Chancellor Guilliman break entire armies. But this..." He gestured toward the battle, where reality itself bent and broke under the weight of divine combat.

Franklin, his focus never wavering from his task despite the seemingly ordinary conversation. "Wild, isn't it? That's my old man up there. Superman among supermen."

Henry turned back to the spectacle, watching as the Emperor's sword cut through space and time, each stroke unmaking corruption, turning chaos into order. This wasn't the distant corpse-god worshiped by billions in the grim future Henry knew. No, this was the Emperor in his full, terrifying splendor—humanity's greatest warrior, the ultimate expression of their potential. The sight of it made Henry's twin hearts ache with a strange mix of pride and sadness.

"In my time," Henry said, his voice thick with emotion, "they pray to Him, even with the Imperial Truth present in the foundation of the Imperium. Despite everything The Imperial Chancellor tried to do, the guardsmen still whisper His name in their darkest moments. And now... now I get it. How could they not, after seeing this?"

Franklin's smirk softened slightly. "They're praying to the wrong thing, kid. What you're seeing isn't godhood - it's the peak of human potential. Raw, concentrated evolution given form and purpose. The old man's powerful as hell, sure, but he's still flesh and blood under all that gold."

A tremendous crash drew their attention as the Emperor deflected a reality-warping blast from Tzeentch's avatar, the golden light transforming the chaotic energy into pure creation. Henry's auto-senses struggled to process the display, warning runes flashing across his helmet's display.

"But how?" Henry wondered aloud, his tactical mind trying to reconcile the being before him with the distant figure of his future. "How does such power end up bound to the Golden Throne? How does this..." he gestured at the cosmic battle, "become that?"

"That's the thing about being flesh and blood," Franklin responded, his voice carrying a weight of understanding that surprised his son. "We can bleed. We can fall. Even him. Especially him, because he'll never stop fighting for humanity. Gods don't bleed for their creations - fathers do."

They watched as the Emperor moved with impossible speed, His sword describing arcs of pure annihilation through the air. Each stroke wasn't just defeating the avatars - it was rewriting the very rules of reality around them. Henry thought of the countless Imperial Guard he'd fought alongside in his time, of their whispered prayers and desperate faith. How many of them had dreamed of witnessing what he saw now?

"In my future," Henry said quietly, "the Astra Militarum still whispers His name in battle. Not our Liberty Guard - they know better - but the others. Billions of them, across a million worlds. Some still cling to Lorgar's teachings, despite everything. If they could see this..."

Franklin chuckled, though his voice held a note of understanding. "They'd probably still pray. People always need something to believe in. But belief should raise you up, not weigh you down. We don't need gods. We need heroes, leaders—examples to follow. And the old man's the best example there is... although," Franklin added with a wry grin, his thoughts drifting back to what Henry had told him regarding the future he was from, "if half my brothers turned against him, maybe he wasn't exactly the best dad, huh?"

As the battle raged on, Henry Cavill, son of the future, stood witness to a moment that would be forever seared into his memory. He watched the Emperor of Mankind demonstrate why humanity call Him master, even as his gene-father showed him why such mastery need not be mistaken for godhood.

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

Khaine, for his part, had fully embraced the brutalist combat style. He headbutted Khorne's Avatar, used Slaanesh's own blade as leverage, and generally fought with a efficiency that bordered on insult to both Chaos Gods' aspects.

The end came not with thunder, but with golden silence. The Emperor's light reached a pitch that redefined radiance, and suddenly the Avatars of Tzeentch and Nurgle simply... weren't. No dramatic explosion, no final curse. They were, and then they weren't, edited out of reality.

Khaine's victory was more traditional—Khorne's Avatar banished in a geyser of brass blood, Slaanesh's form unraveling into screaming shadow-stuff. But the effect was the same: four Avatars had stood against Order incarnate, and four Avatars had fallen.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Franklin stood in the now inactive ritual circle, his massive frame bearing the marks of exhaustion and battle. Blood had dried in trails from his eyes, and his armor bore the scars of daemonic weapons, yet he stood tall as he faced his father's luminous form.

"You look like shit, son," the Emperor's avatar said with a hint of a smile, his radiance already beginning to dim.

Franklin managed a weary chuckle. "Yeah? You should see the other guys. Oh wait, you deleted them from existence." He paused, studying his father's fading form. "The Astronomicon... you're using everything you've got for this?"

"A few hours of darkness is worth preventing millennia of darkness," the Emperor replied, his form becoming increasingly translucent. "Come to Terra As Soon as Possible. What you've learned here... what you've done..." He let the sentence hang, that knowing smirk playing across his features.

"How do you—" Franklin began, but stopped himself. "Right. Future sight. You know, that gets really annoying sometimes."

The Emperor's form dissipated entirely, leaving behind a lingering warmth in the air.

As if responding to the Emperor's departure, the Deathsword at Franklin's side pulsed with crimson energy. Khaine's presence, which had been a roaring inferno during the battle, settled into a steady burn within the blade. The God of War had returned to his vessel, though his influence remained palpable in the very air of the Craftworld.

Maugan Ra approached first, his helm bearing new battle scars from the conflict. Despite his injuries, he moved with the deadly grace characteristic of his kind. Behind him, Autarch Ilrathan limped forward, supported by two Aspect Warriors, his armor still smoking from a Bloodthirster's near-miss.

"Hand of Khaine," Maugan Ra spoke, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "We have witnessed power that we thought lost to the galaxy a being of such magnitude. Your father... the great enemy who called him the Anathema."

Franklin nodded, wiping blood from his face with what remained of his cloak. "Yeah, Father tends to make an impression. Though I have to say, he usually doesn't go full delete-button on reality like that. Must've really pissed him off."

Franklin raised an eyebrow. "Speaking of implications, we should probably discuss the whole webway gate situation. You know, while we're all feeling friendly and not trying to kill each other."

The following hour saw intense negotiations, conducted in one of the few undamaged chambers of the Craftworld's council chambers. Franklin, despite his exhaustion, demonstrated the diplomatic skills that had helped him conquer worlds simply through words.

"Look," he said, spreading his hands on the wraithbone table, "I'm not asking for unlimited access. Just regulated use for my forces when necessary. In return, you get priority access to the Independence Sector's production capabilities. And trust me, we make some pretty sweet gear."

Maugan Ra's helm tilted slightly. "You speak of trade? With the Craftworld you just saved from damnation?"

"Hey, just because we saved you doesn't mean we can't also have a mutually beneficial arrangement. I mean, you've seen our work." Franklin gestured to his own mechsuit. "Plus, I figure having a direct line to the guy wielding a chunk of your war god might come in handy."

The negotiations continued, with the Farseer Council raising various concerns and conditions. Franklin met each with patience and understanding, occasionally consulting with Khaine through the Death Sword when matters of divine significance arose.

Finally, Ilrathan spoke for the council. "We accept these terms, Hand of Khaine. The webway gate shall be accessible to your forces, under the specified conditions. And..." he paused, looking at his fellow Aeldari, "we would be honored to answer your call to war, should the need arise."

Just then, a young Farseer burst into the chamber, his eyes wide with urgency. "My lords! A fleet approaches through the void! 600 Void ships strong! They request their Primarch's return."

Franklin's face broke into a broad grin. "That's my ride." He started to rise, but the Death Sword at his side pulsed with urgent energy. Khaine's presence filled the chamber, not with the burning rage of battle, but with the solemn weight of ceremony.

"BEFORE YOU DEPART, MY CHAMPION," the god's voice resonated through all present, "THERE IS ONE FINAL MATTER TO ADDRESS."

The sword lifted itself from Franklin's grasp, floating in the air before them. Its crimson light cast dancing shadows across the chamber's walls.

"IN CLAIMING MY GREATEST SHARD, YOU HAVE ALTERED THE NATURE OF YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH THIS CRAFTWORLD," Khaine continued. "MY AVATAR CAN NO LONGER BE AWAKENED HERE—BUT I OFFER SOMETHING IN ITS PLACE."

The sword's light intensified, focusing on Maugan Ra and Autarch Ilrathan. Both warriors straightened, despite their injuries, as if called to attention by their very souls.

"STEP FORWARD, WARRIORS OF ALTANSAR."

They obeyed, moving with reverent precision. The sword descended, its tip touching each of their chests in turn. Where it touched, crimson light spread like burning blood through their armor.

"YOUR VALOR IN THE FACE OF THE GREAT ENEMY HAS NOT GONE UNNOTICED. FROM THIS DAY FORWARD, YOU SHALL BEAR MY MARK. THROUGH YOU, THE EVERCHOSEN OF KHAINE MAY BE CALLED TO BATTLE—THE WARRIORS OF ALTANSAR WHO HAVE PLEDGED THEMSELVES TO MY SERVICE, BOTH LIVING AND DEAD."

The assembled Aeldari gasped as spectral forms materialized around the chamber—the spirits of Altansar's fallen warriors, their forms wreathed in Khaine's fire. They knelt as one, pledging themselves to their god's service.

"WHEN THE HAND OF KHAINE CALLS OR WHEN ALTANSAR NEEDS DEFENSE, YOU SHALL HAVE THE POWER TO ANSWER WITH ALL THE MIGHT OF ALTANSAR'S HONORED DEAD."

The marking complete, the sword returned to Franklin's grasp. Maugan Ra and Ilrathan stood transformed—not physically, but there was an unmistakable aura of divine purpose about them now. The assembled Aeldari immediately dropped to one knee, recognizing the significance of what had just occurred.

Franklin cleared his throat. "So... I guess this means we're really doing the whole 'Hand of Khaine' thing officially now, huh?"

"We shall answer when called, Lord Valorian. The warriors of Altansar, both living and dead, stand ready to fight alongside the Hand of Khaine."

Franklin nodded, then gestured toward the ceiling. "Well, my ride's waiting, and I've got a date with the Golden Throne. Try not to get sucked into any more Warp storms while I'm gone, okay?"

As he prepared to depart, Franklin cast one last look at the gathered Aeldari. They stood proud despite their wounds, their spirits unbroken by their near brush with damnation. In their eyes, he saw not just respect or gratitude, but something the Aeldari rarely showed to any human: true reverence.

"THEY SEE IN YOU A BEING OF TRANSCENDENCE," Khaine's voice whispered in his mind. "A WARRIOR WORTHY OF GODLY POWER, YET HUMBLE ENOUGH TO WIELD IT WISELY."

"Humble? Me?" Franklin grinned as he strode toward the landing pad where his transport waited. "Clearly you haven't been paying attention."

The god's response was something like a chuckle, and for a moment, Franklin could have sworn the Deathsword felt warmer in his grip. As he boarded the shuttle that would take him to his waiting fleet, the warriors of Altansar raised their voices in a battle cry that would become legend—a cry that honored not just their god of war, but the demigod who had helped restore him to glory.

The liberation of Altansar was complete, but as Franklin settled into his transport, he knew this was just the beginning. His father waited on Terra with knowledge of what was to come, and somewhere in the void, the Chaos Gods nursed their wounds and plotted their revenge.

But for now, he had a victory to celebrate and a Legion to return to. And maybe, just maybe, a few hours of sleep to catch up on.