20D Chess

Franklin's tactical mind raced through possibilities. The Emperor - his Emperor - was a perpetual, unique even among that immortal breed. Age was something that happened to others, not to the Master of Mankind. Yet here stood his father, bearing Time's marks like battle honors.

"You're wondering about the wrinkles," the Emperor said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement that felt alien yet somehow right. "We don't have much time. Your victory here, wielding Khaine's power - it created a beacon across realities. I had to find you before They noticed."

"How do I know you're not one of their tricks?" Franklin challenged, warrior's instinct warring with filial recognition. "The Four aren't exactly known for their subtle approach, but-"

The psychic blast caught him mid-sentence, sending him crashing to the frozen ground with enough force to crack the reality-paused surface. Power, undeniably his father's but somehow both familiar and strange, coursed through him like liquid lightning.

"Any more stupid questions, my son?" The Emperor's voice carried that same strange mix of authority and newfound humor.

Franklin pushed himself up, wings flexing as he reassessed his father's form. "So apparently in your old age...not old, archaic age," he drawled, conducting a head-to-toe analysis of the temporal anomaly before him, "you developed a unique sense of humor. Should I be concerned about other personality improvements? Started collecting hobbies? Taking up knitting perhaps?"

"Knitting? If only the Warp could be unraveled so easily." The Emperor's faint smile vanished, leaving a grim shadow in its place.

"Time changes all things," the Emperor replied, and for a moment the humor fell away, revealing depths of experience that made Franklin's twin hearts skip a beat. "Even things that should be immutable. That's why I'm here - why I had to find this particular moment, this particular you." 

The Emperor began by stating that he came from the same future as Captain Henry Cavill, Franklin's time-traveling son.

"Wait, so I'm talking to the God-Emperor of Mankind? The Holy Daddy?" Franklin quipped, only to be blasted by a psychic wave from the Emperor.

"I am not a god," the Emperor's voice carried the weight of ten thousand years of frustration. "Your father, yes, but also the culmination of ten thousand years of war, faith, and sacrifice—things I never wanted to embody but became anyway. I never was, never will be, and never desired to be one. That lie – that deification – was one of humanity's greatest mistakes...Lorgar's mistake that I failed to correct, but I digress."

"Could've fooled me with that light show," Franklin muttered, rubbing his chest where the psychic energy had struck.

The Emperor ignored the jab. "Do you remember when Henry came back in time? I nudged events to have him go back in time, That was part of the many that will come"

Franklin's casual demeanor vanished. "Then why are you here now? Why not leave this timeline to play out?"

"Because your death, Franklin—the death of the Franklin in the timeline I come from—set everything in motion. You were more than a Primarch; you were an idea. Liberty and freedom personified. When the people of the Independence Sector thought of liberty, they thought of you, Quintillions viewed you as the symbol. And when you died..." The Emperor paused, his voice uncharacteristically heavy. "That belief, that collective willpower, created a mark in the Warp unlike anything before. It was as though the concept of liberty itself was shattered."

Franklin absorbed this, his mind racing. "A psychic tsunami," he muttered.

"Yes" The Emperor's gaze bore into him. "That shockwave destabilized the Warp and created a moment of leverage—a window for me to act. Using the Akashic Reader, I projected my power backward in time and merged it into the ritual of my own creation. The shamans who birthed me? Amongst them there was one made from my pure psychic might. I used your sacrifice to create a stronger Emperor in this timeline a stronger and powerful me"

Franklin whistled low. "So that's how you knocked out the Tyranid Hive Mind a few years ago."

"You're saying I already died for this timeline to exist, do I have to die again?"

"No," the Emperor said firmly. "That timeline's Franklin has already paid the price. His death laid the foundation for this chance. You exist now because of his sacrifice. But your role is not over."

"The Golden Timeline," the Emperor intoned, his voice carrying the weight of millennia of careful manipulation and patient planning.

Franklin couldn't help himself. Even in the face of cosmic revelations, humor remained his shield and sword. "Is everything always gold with you, father? Golden armor, golden 'banana boys' as my Eagles call your Custodians, golden swords..." He gestured broadly at their surroundings. "Hell, even the Imperial Palace is just one giant golden monument to architectural excess."

The psychic blast that followed sent Franklin skidding across the crystalline floor, though he noted it held less force than the previous one. Either the future Emperor was developing a sense of humor, or he was running out of patience. Perhaps both.

"Your irreverence, even in the face of existence-defining moments, remains both your greatest strength and most irritating quality," the Emperor stated, his voice carrying the weight of millennia. "But the Golden Timeline is not named for its aesthetic appeal. It is named for its singular, precious nature."

Franklin straightened, brushing off his armor once more. "Alright, I'm listening. What makes this particular strand of fate so special?"

The Emperor's presence seemed to expand, filling the frozen moment with an awareness of infinite possibilities. "Imagine reality as a tapestry of infinite threads, each one a different path, a different outcome. I have spent ten thousand years searching these threads, whilst I was entombed onto the Golden Throne, following each to its conclusion." His eyes grew distant, seeing beyond the physical realm. "One timeline above all others – a golden one – offered us salvation. I've spent millennia guiding reality toward this fragile hope."

"How fragile?" Franklin asked, his usual levity fading as he recognized the weight in his father's words.

"Very," the Emperor admitted, his admission carrying the burden of countless failed futures. "The Golden Timeline requires Chaos to overreach – to reveal their hand in a gambit they've only attempted once before. Sadly, that universe failed. It is called The End Times."

The Emperor's form seemed to shimmer with contained power as he continued. "It is a double-edged blade. To initiate it, the Chaos Gods must project their full power into reality, warping it utterly. Their armies become nigh unstoppable, and their chosen champion – a vessel for their combined might – emerges as the apocalypse made flesh."

"But there's a catch," Franklin guessed, his tactical mind already piecing together the implications.

"There is." The Emperor's gaze pierced through layers of reality itself. "When they anchor themselves to reality, they expose the strings that connect them to the Warp. These strings are normally imperceptible, interwoven with existence itself. But during the End Times, they become visible – and vulnerable."

The Emperor straightened, his presence filling the frozen moment with terrible purpose. "By forcing the Chaos Gods to initiate the End Times, we create our opportunity. When they deem a timeline beyond their control, they send their champions and armies in a final gambit to reset it or destroy it. This is the War of the End – Rhana Dhandra for the Eldar. But instead of resetting the timeline, we will sever their grasp on reality."

"The War in Heaven 2.0," Franklin mused, "Our War in Heaven."

He stood silently for a moment, absorbing the weight of his father's words. "If we succeed," he said finally, "what happens to the Warp? To Chaos?"

The Emperor's eyes blazed with purpose, golden light suffusing his form. "If we succeed, Chaos will be severed from this universe forever. The Warp will become a blank canvas – a tool, not a tyrant. And humanity will step into the Golden Age I envisioned ten thousand years ago and Humanity will ascend into a Psychic Species just like the Eldar"

But then the Emperor's brilliance dimmed slightly, his form becoming less substantial. "But first, you must deliver these memories to my current iteration. The Webway is just the first step, and I cannot do it myself. I am simply a shred of consciousness now, all of my power transferred to the current me."

"Why couldn't you transfer the memories with the power?" Franklin asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

"My younger self was... naive. His mastery over his powers was rudimentary compared to what it would become. Including these memories with the power transfer would have risked detection. He would have questioned them, probed them, perhaps even rejected them. Thus it must happen after he is wise enough, the memories must come from you – someone he trusts, someone who allows him to probe the mind"

"One last question," Franklin called out as reality began to reassert itself. "The Golden Timeline – are we in it now? Or are we still trying to reach it?"

The Emperor's final words echoed through the dissolving moment: "That, my son, depends entirely on what you do next. The strings of fate are visible – now we must decide which ones to cut, and which ones to weave into humanity's salvation."

Franklin's eyes lit up with sudden interest. "Speaking of memories," he ventured, a familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes, "since you're sharing – don't suppose you've got the footage of how I faced off against juiced-up Horus? You know, for tactical analysis purposes only. Purely professional interest."

The Emperor's expression softened, an emotion almost like fondness crossing his weathered features. "As a matter of fact," he replied, "I managed to preserve the memories of you before you fell. Would you like to see how you died, my son?"

"Absolutely!" Franklin's enthusiasm was genuine. "I mean, how many people get to study their own heroic last stand? Though I'm still planning to improve on that particular performance this time around."

The Emperor's form began to fade, the last of his power nearly spent. "Then let me show you, Franklin, how a Primarch of Liberty faced the end of all things. Perhaps..." His voice grew distant, "Perhaps in seeing how you fell, you'll find a way to stand."

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

In the depths of the Inner Palace, where golden light struggled against encroaching shadows, two demigods stood alone in a chamber that had witnessed the birth of humanity's greatest dreams and darkest prophecies. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, weighted with the destiny that hung between them.

Franklin Valorian, the Liberator, stood before his angelic brother. His trademark smirk remained, a defiant flame against the darkness that had claimed so much already. But Sanguinius, with his enhanced perception, could see the weight of loss etched in every line of his brother's face. The Liberty Eagles, once proud and numerous, had been reduced to a mere handful at the Dropsite Massacre. Their mighty flagship, the Sweet Liberty, no longer sailed the void. Yet the Independence Sector still held, a bastion of resistance where millions of traitor corpses piled against its gates – a testament to the indomitable spirit of its Primarch.

Sanguinius, the Angel of Baal, radiated an otherworldly luminescence that seemed to push back the gathering darkness. His wings, pure white against the aureate walls, cast feathered shadows that danced like portents across the chamber's ancient stones. The weight of foresight hung heavy upon his noble features, the curse of knowing tomorrow's sorrows etched in the tightness around his eyes.

"Stay," Franklin's voice carried none of its usual mirth. "Brother, I need you to look forward. Tell me what you see."

The chamber fell silent save for the distant thunder of siege engines and the low hum of power fields. Sanguinius closed his eyes, his psychic might reaching out through the tangled skein of possibility. Golden light played across his features as visions danced behind his eyelids.

"I see..." The Angel's voice carried the weight of prophecy. "An Imperium stable, guided by my hand as Regent. The realm of mankind secure against the darkness." His eyes opened, meeting Franklin's gaze. "And I see your death, brother. Upon the Vengeful Spirit, your light extinguished."

Franklin's smirk widened, though it never reached his eyes. Those hazel orbs, windows to a soul that had witnessed the annihilation of nearly everything he held dear, held an ancient sorrow. The Drop Site Massacre had claimed all but a handful of his Liberty Eagles, his mighty legion reduced to a fragment of its former glory. His captains, his sons, lay cold in the rust-red soil of Isstvan V. Yet still he stood, still he fought, still he smiled in the face of oblivion.

"The Imperium would thrive with you living on?" Franklin's question cut through the heavy air.

"Yes," Sanguinius answered without hesitation.

"Then that is all I need to know." Franklin's smile softened, becoming genuine for a moment. "Besides, Horus has yet to face the strongest Primarch."

A brief laugh escaped the Angel's lips, a sound like crystal bells in the darkness. "Leman might object to that claim."

"He has never won a single duel," Franklin chuckled, the sound echoing off the chamber's ancient walls. For a moment, they were brothers again, sharing a jest as they had in brighter days.

Sanguinius's expression suddenly shifted, his eyes growing distant once more as the futures realigned themselves before him. The skein of fate twisted, showing new possibilities, new paths branching out into the infinite. He saw Franklin ascending the Vengeful Spirit, saw the clash of titans that would follow, saw...

"You would lose, but you would still go?" the Angel whispered, wonder and confusion warring in his voice. "The future could change you are powerful brother" His eyes refocused on his brother's face, searching.

Franklin's response was immediate, delivered with that insufferable confidence that had carried him through countless impossible victories: "I'd win."

He reached out, placing a gauntleted hand on his brother's shoulder. "I will use Horus's corpse to mourn my children"

Sanguinius stepped forward, embracing his brother. For a moment, they were not demigods or generals, but simply brothers saying goodbye. "Your sacrifice will not be forgotten," the Angel promised.

"Oh, I know it won't," Franklin grinned, already turning toward the chamber's exit. "I expect statues. Big ones. And make sure they get my good side."

As the Eagle of Liberty strode from the chamber, his shoulders straight and his head high, Sanguinius watched him go with eyes that saw both the present and the future that would now never be. In all his visions of tomorrow, he had never foreseen this – a brother's willing sacrifice changing the course of destiny itself.

The last thing he saw was Franklin's casual salute as the doors closed behind him, that eternal smirk still playing on his lips as he walked toward his date with destiny aboard the Vengeful Spirit. In that moment, Sanguinius understood that sometimes the greatest acts of heroism were not the ones written in prophecy, but the quiet choices made in golden chambers, where brothers traded tomorrows for the hope of a better future.

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

The Vengeful Spirit screamed.

Not with voices, though ten thousand damned souls howled within its corrupted corridors. Not with metal, though its twisted bulkheads groaned under the assault of an approaching inferno. The flagship of the Warmaster screamed with reality itself as something ancient and terrible carved its way through its impossible geometries, leaving molten ruin in its wake.

Horus Lupercal, Warmaster of Chaos, stood in his sanctum. The chamber, once a testament to martial glory, now writhed with shadows that bore too many eyes, its walls weeping with substances that had no name in any human tongue. The Chaos Gods had blessed him with power beyond measure, had elevated him above his former station into something that could challenge even the Master of Mankind.

But they had also warned him of another threat.

The warnings echoed in his mind as another wall of his sanctuary simply ceased to exist, transformed into liquid metal and screaming plasma by a force that cared nothing for the laws of physics or the protections of the Warp. Through the molten breach stepped a figure that blazed with such fury that reality itself recoiled from its presence.

Franklin Valorian, the Liberator, the Eagle of Liberty, had come for his brother.

"Franklin," Horus spoke, his voice carrying harmonics that could drive mortals mad. "Have you come to—"

The words died in his throat as he beheld his brother's transformation. The familiar smirk was gone, replaced by something ancient and terrible. Franklin's form shifted, reality bending around him as divine fury took physical shape. Wings of living metal erupted from his back, each feather a blade that could cleave through tank armor, each movement leaving contrails of molten air. His head became an avian skull wreathed in flames that burned with colors that had no business existing in material space.

The temperature in Lupercal's Court, a chamber designed to contain the powers of the Warp itself, began to rise. Not gradually, but with the sudden violence of a fusion reaction. The intricate metalwork of the floor, crafted from materials salvaged from dead civilizations, began to bubble and run like mercury. Daemon-forged columns, their surfaces carved with screaming faces, started to lose cohesion.

Horus felt something he had not experienced since his elevation: uncertainty. The power radiating from Franklin was different from the psychic might of the Emperor or the raw Warp energy of the Gods. This was something older, something that predated even the birth of Slaanesh. The Deathsword, the fifth Crone Sword containing the largest shard of Khaine, pulsed at Franklin's side with a hunger that made even the Chaos Gods take notice.

"No words, brother?" Franklin's voice emerged from the burning skull, each syllable carrying the weight of exploding stars. "No grand speeches about the weakness of our father? No offers of power or brotherhood restored?"

Horus raised Worldbreaker, his mighty maul humming with dark energy. The Chaos Gods had prepared him for this, had shown him the paths to victory. Yet as he looked upon his brother, he saw not the Franklin he remembered, not the perpetually amused warrior who had stood with them during the Great Crusade. Here was something that walked the line between material and divine, a being of such focused wrath that it made Khorne's berserkers seem hesitant in comparison.

The air between them ignited spontaneously, forming a curtain of flame that sorted itself into impossible patterns. Symbols of liberty and defiance, eagles and broken chains, manifested in the fire before dissolving into pure energy. The deck beneath Franklin's feet had long since turned to slag, yet he stood upon it as if it were solid ground, each step leaving footprints of crystallized metal that glowed white-hot.

"You took them from me," Franklin continued, advancing with the inexorable patience of a solar flare. "My sons. My brothers. You orchestrated their deaths at Isstvan V, watched as your pawns gunned them down. Did you think I would forget? That I would forgive?"

Horus felt his enhanced senses struggling to process what stood before him. The Chaos Gods had granted him vision beyond vision, the ability to see the true nature of reality itself. Yet looking upon Franklin was like staring into a fusion reactor with eyes of flesh. The power radiating from his brother didn't simply interact with the Warp—it rejected it, burned it away like fog before a blowtorch.

The Warmaster had prepared for the Emperor's arrival. Had laid traps within traps, had scattered his opponents across his vessel like pieces on a regicide board. But Franklin had carved a straight line through it all, had burned through every obstacle with the single-minded determination of an extinction-level event.

As Franklin took another step forward, his transformed state became even more pronounced. The steel wings spread wider, scraping against the walls of the chamber and leaving molten furrows in their wake. The flames surrounding his avian skull burned brighter, and in their light, Horus saw echoes of ancient wars fought before humanity had mastered fire. He saw the War in Heaven, saw the birth of gods and their deaths, saw the moment when Khaine himself had shattered.

The warning of the Chaos Gods suddenly made terrible sense. They had feared this, had seen this possibility. Not just Franklin's physical might or his technological supremacy, but this moment of transcendence when grief and rage and determination fused into something that could challenge gods themselves.

Lupercal's Court, the sanctum of the Warmaster of Chaos, began to melt in earnest now. The carefully laid wards, the protections bought with the souls of planets, simply evaporated in the face of heat that could rival the core of suns. The daemons that had haunted the chamber's shadows fled screaming, their forms unable to maintain coherence in the presence of such focused destruction.

"Then come, brother," Horus finally spoke, gathering his god-given power around him like armor. "Show me the strength that makes the Ruinous Powers tremble."

Franklin's response was not in words. The Deathsword cleared its scabbard with a sound like dying stars, its edge glowing with the ancient fury of a murdered god. The war that was about to begin would not be merely physical, nor would it be purely spiritual. This was to be a clash between different forms of divinity—the borrowed might of the Chaos Gods against something older, something forged in the crucible of loss and tempered by unshakeable determination.

The strongest of the Emperor's sons had come to face the Warmaster.

The Deathsword met Worldbreaker in a clash that sent ripples through reality itself. Metal screamed against metal, god-touched weapons testing their might against one another. But it was not the weapons that decided the next moment – it was the wings.

Living steel, molten and merciless, swept through the space where Horus had been a heartbeat before. The Warmaster's enhanced reflexes, gifts of the Dark Gods themselves, barely saved him from bisection. Yet even as he moved, secondary edges caught him, carved furrows through his power armor plate as if it were parchment. Blood, black with corruption, hissed into vapor where it met the superheated metal.

"Clutch your borrowed power, Horus," Franklin's words cut deeper than any blade, resonating with a truth that made the Chaos Gods' gifts seem hollow. "You will need it."

The Warmaster's armor, forged in the depths of the Warp and blessed by entities that predated humanity, began to run like wax where the wings had struck. Pain, a sensation he had thought himself beyond, bloomed across his enhanced form. He attempted to counter, calling upon the might that had laid waste to entire systems, but Franklin was already moving.

The sequence that followed defied mortal comprehension. The Liberator's assault carried the precision of a master swordsman multiplied by transhuman speed, amplified further by divine fury. Each strike flowed into the next with liquid grace, yet hit with the force of colliding planets. Horus found himself giving ground, his responses becoming increasingly desperate as his brother's offense proved impossible to fully counter.

A horizontal slash nearly took his head - only a desperate backward lunge saved him, and even then, he felt the heat of the blade sear his face. The gifts of Chaos knitted the wound instantly, but the burning persisted, like a brand of shame upon his flesh.

Horus reached into the well of power gifted to him by the Ruinous Powers, sought to bend reality to his will. Space twisted, corridors folding in on themselves, gravity reversing, the laws of physics becoming suggestions rather than absolutes. Yet Franklin simply burned through these alterations as if they were cobwebs, his transformed state ignoring the very concept of impossible geometry.

The heat. By all the Dark Gods, the heat. Fighting Franklin was like trying to wrestle a sun, each moment of proximity threatening to reduce armor to slag, flesh to ash. The blessings of Chaos kept Horus whole, regenerating damage that would have annihilated lesser beings. But even these gifts seemed to struggle against whatever his brother had become.

Desperate, Horus unleashed powers that could shatter worlds. Reality cracked around them, warp energy flooding the chamber like a tsunami of madness. But the blessing of Khaine that surrounded Franklin simply burned through it all, the ancient Aeldari war god's power proving sovereign even here, in the heart of Chaos-touched territory.

Horus had faced the greatest warriors of the galaxy. Had bested Primarchs in single combat. Had elevated himself to stand as an equal to gods. But this...this was different. He wasn't fighting a warrior or even a demigod he was fighting a star that learned to hate.

And he was the recipient of this hatred.

Realization struck him with the force of a Titan's fist - he had not been built for this. 

As another combination of strikes forced him further back, the Warmaster felt his confidence crumbling like ash. The temperature in the chamber had risen beyond what even his enhanced physiology could easily endure. His armor's systems screamed warnings in his mind, their machine spirits gibbering in terror at the presence of something that defied their calculations.

Yet even as despair threatened to overwhelm him, Horus felt his patrons surge within him, refusing to let their champion fall. Power flooded his form anew, and with it came...another presence. Another warrior, moving to strike at Franklin's exposed flank.

The attack was perfect, timed to exploit a gap in even Franklin's burning defense. But his brother's parry was equally perfect, the Deathsword moving with liquid grace to deflect the blow. Then came the laugh – a sound that made even Horus's enhanced blood run cold.

It was not the laugh of a warrior enjoying combat. Not the laugh of a brother amused by treachery. This was the laugh of something that had stared into the abyss of betrayal and found it wanting. A sound that carried the weight of every brother lost at Isstvan V, every son gunned down by those they had trusted. It was a laugh that said, clearer than any words: Is this truly all you have?

A/N: This is the Franklin from the future not the Uber-powered one in the present, powerful yet not the strongest form of him. This Franklin is still in possession of the Crone Sword, not Anaris, and has yet to retrieve the Warshard of Khaine, the one that will die in order for the strongest iteration to be created.