An Old Friend
The city of Vharadesh rose from the parched landscape of Colchis like a prayer made manifest in stone. Its spires—a thousand granite needles piercing the burnt amber sky—cast long shadows across processional boulevards where incense smoke hung thick as battle fog. Pilgrims crowded these ancient thoroughfares, their bodies an undulating mass of devotion, faces upturned in rapturous anticipation.
Today was a day of fulfillment. Today was the day the prophecies would be made flesh.
In the central plaza, before the Spire of Ascension, stood Lorgar Aurelian, the Urizen, his copper skin adorned with scripture rendered in ink of crushed sapphire and gold. He stood taller than any mortal man, a demigod awaiting the arrival of divinity itself. Around him, the Brotherhood of Lorgar the Covenant's highest priests knelt in perfect concentric circles, their robes of ash-grey silk pooling around them like still water.
Lorgar's eyes—molten gold flecked with amber—scanned the sky, his heart thundering against his ribcage with a force that might have shattered lesser flesh. His hands, capable of crushing adamantium and inscribing scripture so fine it could only be read with augmetic assistance, trembled imperceptibly as the moment approached.
"He comes," Lorgar whispered, the words carried on the hot wind to every ear in the vast gathering, "The One approaches His faithful."
As if summoned by his declaration, a shadow fell across the plaza. The great vessel of the Emperor descended from the heavens, a leviathan of auric metal and technological wonder that defied mortal understanding. Its hull bore the Imperial Aquila, wings outstretched in dominion over the stars themselves.
The assembled masses prostrated themselves, foreheads pressed to the sun-baked stones. Only Lorgar remained standing, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the vessel's descending ramp.
First came the Custodians, golden giants whose very presence spoke of ancient power and unimaginable violence contained within perfect discipline.Taking position in a perfect semi-circle.
And then He was there.
The Emperor of Mankind stepped onto the soil of Colchis, and reality itself seemed to bend in acknowledgment of His presence. He stood taller than even the towering Custodians, His armor a masterwork of auric artistry that defied categorization as mere wargear. It was instead a physical manifestation of authority made material—each curve and plane an expression of humanity's highest aspirations rendered in gold and ceramite.
Beside him there was two giants, similar to him no doubt he knows them as brothers.
But both were overshadowed by the Grandeur of the One.
His face was a contradiction—both warmly human and utterly alien in its perfection. Eyes that had witnessed the birth of humanity, it's ascension to it's regression, regarded the kneeling masses with an expression that contained both infinite compassion and unfathomable purpose.
Lorgar moved forward, his steps measured despite the tempest of emotion raging within his transhuman frame. He fell to one knee before the Master of Mankind, his head bowed in supplication.
"My Lord and God," Lorgar's voice carried across the silent plaza, melodious and resonant with conviction born of absolute faith, "Your most devoted servant welcomes You to Colchis, where we have awaited Your divine presence since time immemorial."
The silence that followed seemed to stretch into infinity.
Then, a hand—strong beyond mortal comprehension yet gentle in its touch—rested upon Lorgar's shoulder.
"Rise, my son," the Emperor spoke, His voice simultaneously a whisper in Lorgar's mind and a symphony that reached every ear in Vharadesh. "We have much to discuss."
The Emperor's gaze swept across the assembled masses, the grand temples, the inscribed verses that adorned every surface. Something flickered across His perfect features—not displeasure, but a momentary calculation, a strategic adjustment in the grand campaign that was the Great Crusade.
"The preparations you have made are... impressive," the Emperor said, each word measured with precision. "But before we proceed with the ceremonies you have arranged, I would speak with you privately."
Confusion rippled across Lorgar's features, but he nodded immediately. "Of course, my Lord. The Chamber of Divine Contemplation has been prepared for Your—"
"No," the Emperor interjected softly. "Let us walk the battlements. I would see this world that has shaped you."
The Primarch hesitated only momentarily before bowing in acknowledgment. "As You command."
The Emperor and His seventeenth son ascended stone steps worn smooth by millennia of pilgrim feet. The battlements of Vharadesh offered a panoramic view of the city and the barren landscape beyond—a world of dust and stone where humanity clung to existence through rigid adherence to faith and ritual.
For a time, they stood in silence, the warm wind tugging at their cloaks. Lorgar found himself struggling against an uncharacteristic uncertainty. In all his prepared speeches, his meticulously crafted liturgies designed to honor the One's arrival, he had not anticipated this quiet moment of... what? Assessment? Judgment?
"You have questions," the Emperor said at last, His gaze fixed on the distant horizon where heat shimmer distorted reality.
"I..." Lorgar began, then steadied himself. "I had expected You to be pleased with what we have accomplished in Your name. The entire world united in worship of Your divinity, prepared to join You and spread Your word across the stars."
The Emperor turned to face His son fully, His eyes—depthless wells of ancient knowledge—fixing Lorgar in place with their intensity.
"My son," He said, each word heavy with meaning, "you have accomplished much indeed. Your capacity for inspiration, for leadership, for binding disparate peoples to a unified purpose—these are gifts I value beyond measure."
Relief flooded through Lorgar's massive frame, but it was short-lived.
"However," the Emperor continued, "there is a fundamental misunderstanding that must be addressed."
The Primarch's expression froze, uncertainty creeping across his features.
"You call me God," the Emperor said, His voice neither angry nor judgmental, but firm in its conviction. "You have built temples, crafted liturgies, established priesthoods—all in service to a divinity I do not claim."
Lorgar's lips parted, but the Emperor raised a hand, requesting silence.
"Walk with me further," He commanded gently.
They moved along the battlements, the Emperor's golden armor catching the harsh sunlight, throwing it back amplified a hundredfold. Below them, the citizens of Vharadesh continued their devotions, unaware of the universe-altering conversation taking place above their heads.
"Look at them, Lorgar," the Emperor gestured toward the masses. "Their lives consumed by ritual, by supplication to higher powers, by the desperate hope that their worship will protect them from the harshness of this world."
"Their faith gives them purpose," Lorgar countered, his orator's voice restrained but passionate. "It elevates them above mere survival."
"Does it?" The Emperor's question hung in the air like a challenge. "Or does it merely distract them from achieving their true potential? Look at this world, my son. Barren, hostile, unyielding. And yet, humanity survives here not because of divine intervention but through human ingenuity, human perseverance, human adaptability."
The Emperor's hand came to rest on Lorgar's shoulder once more, the weight of it both reassuring and commanding.
"Religions prosper on worlds like this because humanity has nothing else. No resources to develop technology, no abundance to foster art and science, no security to pursue knowledge for its own sake. Faith becomes the substitute for progress, ritual the replacement for innovation, stagnant like a puddle of water"
Lorgar's brow furrowed, the tattoos upon his skin seeming to writhe with the tension in his muscles. "But You, father—Your godlike power, Your wisdom, Your bearing—if these are not the marks of divinity, then what are they?"
The Emperor's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "They are the inherent capability of humanity, realized through Millenia of development. I am not a god, Lorgar. I am a man—the most powerful psyker humanity has produced, yes, but a man nonetheless. My abilities are not supernatural; they are the upper boundaries of human potential."
"But the prophecies," Lorgar began, his voice strained with the effort of reconciling his lifelong beliefs with the Emperor's words. "They spoke of Your coming, of the Messiah who would—"
"If being called a Messiah will allow me to save and unite fractured humanity," the Emperor interrupted, His voice gentle but unyielding, "if it will help me to point the way forward for our species, then I will accept such titles pragmatically. But I will not perpetuate falsehoods, especially not to my own sons."
The Emperor's eyes seemed to glow with inner fire as He continued, "The universe is vast and indifferent, Lorgar. There are entities in the galaxy that would stop at nothing to extinguish our proud race. True elevation comes not through worship but through understanding, through mastering the material universe and our own potential within it."
Lorgar's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, the weight of challenged faith bearing down upon his transhuman frame. The Emperor, seeing this, made a decision.
"Look again at your world, my son," He commanded softly. "But this time, see it not as it is, but as it could be."
The Emperor's mind touched Lorgar's, and reality seemed to ripple around them. The barren landscape of Colchis shimmered and transformed. Where there had been dust and rock, verdant fields stretched to the horizon. The harsh sun warmed croplands heavy with harvest. The city below them changed as well—the temples remained but were repurposed as universities, laboratories, cultural centers. The people moved with purpose not driven by devotion but by curiosity, by the hunger for knowledge and advancement.
"This is Colchis as it could be," the Emperor explained, His voice resonating directly in Lorgar's mind. "A world where humanity has abandoned superstition for science, ritual for reason, blind faith for material understanding."
The vision was so vivid, so tactile, that Lorgar could almost feel the cool breeze from the imagined forests, could almost hear the sounds of children learning in schools rather than chanting in temples.
"This is no mere conjuring," the Emperor continued. "This is a possible future—one that your leadership could help create, not in millennia, but within a human lifetime."
The vision faded gradually, reality reasserting itself with almost painful clarity. The dusty, temple-dominated landscape of Colchis returned, but Lorgar now saw it through new eyes—saw its limitations, its wasted potential.
"You possess a gift, my son," the Emperor said into the silence that followed. "The gift of inspiration, of moving hearts and minds toward a unified purpose. I need this gift not to spread faith in my divinity, but to spread understanding of humanity's true potential. I need an orator who can convey the Imperial Truth with the same passion and conviction you have given to religion."
The Emperor's gaze held Lorgar's, infinitely powerful, in this moment of truth between father and son.
"Will you join me, my son? Not as a high priest worshipping a false god, but as a primarch, as a son, leading humanity toward its true destiny among the stars?"
Lorgar stood motionless, the crossroads of his existence stretching before him. Everything he had believed, everything he had built his identity upon—all lies, or at best, misinterpretations of a greater truth. And yet, the vision the Emperor had shown him burned in his mind, a possibility more glorious than any religious ecstasy he had ever experienced.
In the plaza below, the rituals continued, the people of Vharadesh oblivious to the psychic storm brewing above. Yet something was changing. As the Emperor's will worked subtle alterations in the collective consciousness of the city, priests found themselves pausing mid-litany, uncertain of the words they had recited thousands of times before. Devotees rose from prayer with questions forming where certainty had once reigned. The change was infinitesimal, a seed planted rather than a forest grown, but it was begun.
Lorgar felt it—the shifting of the very foundations upon which he had built his empire of faith. And yet, rather than despair, he felt a strange lightness, as if chains he had not known he wore were beginning to loosen.
"I have doubts," Lorgar admitted finally, his gaze meeting the Emperor's without wavering. "A lifetime of belief does not dissolve in a moment, even at your word."
"I would be concerned if it did," the Emperor replied. "Blind faith in me would be no better than blind faith in non-existent gods. I ask not for unquestioning acceptance, but for the courage to question, to seek, to grow beyond the limitations of religion."
Lorgar's golden eyes reflected the harsh sunlight of Colchis as he considered his father's words. Then, with deliberate movement, he reached up and unclasped the heavy pendant that hung around his neck—a symbol of his office as Urizen, as the voice of the divine on Colchis.
"For now," he said, his melodious voice steady despite the turmoil within, "I will take this leap of faith—faith not in divinity, but in the promise of transcending the confines of religion. I will follow you, father, and I will listen. And perhaps, in time, I will understand."
The Emperor smiled then, a rare expression that transformed His features from divine abstraction to something warmly, recognizably human.
"That is all I ask," He said, extending His hand.
As their hands clasped—demigod and transhuman son—something shifted in the fabric of possibility. In countess potential futures where Lorgar's faith betrayed and his worship twisted to darker powers, a new path opened—uncertain, fraught with its own dangers, but burning with promise.
-----------------
A The great tome would later materialize across the nascent Imperium like a whisper becoming thunder. First in the hands of Word Bearers Legionaries, then spreading to iterators and remembrancers, until finally reaching the calloused palms of common laborers and the manicured fingers of planetary governors alike. Its burgundy cover bore no ornate decorations, no gilded flourishes—only stark silver lettering that caught the light of distant stars:
Liber Ascensionis Humanitatis
The Book of Human Ascension.
Within these pages, Lorgar Aurelian had distilled a vision so potent it transformed worlds not through the barrel of bolters, but through the unstoppable force of realized potential. The Primarch of the XVII Legion had once been the architect of faith; now he had become the architect of mankind's philosophical foundation.
A remembrancer's hands trembled as she turned another page, her eyes widening at the elegant script that seemed to burn with conviction rather than mere ink:
"Let it be known across the infinite void that humanity stands not as supplicants before cosmic forces, but as inheritors of a universe that awaits our grasp. We do not kneel. We rise. We do not pray. We act. The ancient chains of superstition have been severed by the blade of reason, and in their place we forge bonds of shared purpose that shall never break."
She paused, breath caught in her throat, before continuing:
"Witness now the Emperor—not as divine, but as exemplar. He stands before us not as a god demanding worship, but as the pinnacle of what mankind might become. His psychic might, his vision, his indomitable will—these are not supernatural gifts bestowed by mystical forces, but the awakened potential that sleeps within our species. He is not above humanity; he is humanity ascendant."
The words resonated through her consciousness, rational yet somehow more compelling than any religious text she had encountered in her extensive studies. Where dogma demanded blind acceptance, the Liber Ascensionis invited comprehension.
"The cosmos presents itself as a crucible of endless challenge. Xenos abominations that would see us extinguished. Both exist in the Material world and in Immaterium they feast upon ignorance and fear. The grinding entropy that consumes civilizations through apathy and division. These forces shall break against the immovable bulwark of unified mankind, for we alone possess the singular capacity to master both material science and psychic potential—the twin pillars upon which our inevitable dominion shall be established."
----------------------
The twin suns of Colchis dipped lower into the horizon, casting the ancient desert in deeper shades of amber and crimson. Their heat had softened, but the air remained thick with the weight of what had transpired—a world turned on its head, its faith broken, its people left searching for meaning amidst the rubble of their gods.
Franklin Valorian and Magnus the Red trudged onward, their immense forms casting elongated shadows over the desolate plains. The silence between them stretched, heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts. Around them, the ruins of what had once been temples and shrines whispered tales of a devotion now shattered, their echoes swallowed by the vastness of the desert.
Magnus spoke first, his voice low and contemplative. "Do you think they'll hate us for this? For tearing down the very foundation of their beliefs?"
Franklin took a swig from the flask in his hand, its contents burning like the suns overhead. He passed it back to Magnus with a shrug. "Probably. But let them. Hate's easy to deal with. You can shoot it, punch it, or drown it in bureaucracy. Despair, though?" He gestured broadly at the ruins around them. "That's the real bitch. You can't fight despair."
Magnus raised the flask to his lips, savoring the sharp, alien taste of liberty distilled into liquid form. "You underestimate the resilience of humanity, brother. They'll find something new to cling to. They always do."
Franklin smirked, his ever-present confidence undimmed. "Maybe. But let's hope they cling to something useful this time. Science, progress, logic—hell, I'll even settle for better plumbing."
Magnus chuckled despite himself. "Practical as ever, Franklin."
"And don't you forget it," Franklin replied, his tone lighter now, though his gaze remained distant, fixed on the horizon where Bucephalus loomed like a silent sentinel. "Let Father handle the big-picture stuff—Unity, Truth, the galaxy-wide kumbaya. Me? I'm here to make sure the little guys don't get stepped on while the rest of you are busy philosophizing."
Magnus arched an eyebrow, his singular eye glowing faintly in the twilight. "And yet, here you are, walking with me amidst the ruins of belief, waxing poetic about despair and progress. Perhaps you're not as detached as you like to pretend."
Franklin's grin widened, a sharp edge of mischief in it. "Oh, I've got thoughts, brother. Plenty of them. I just don't burden the rest of you with them. Keeps my mystique intact."
Magnus shook his head, amused despite himself. "One day, Franklin, you'll have to choose a side. You can't keep straddling the line between idealist and pragmatist forever."
"Sure I can," Franklin shot back, his smirk widening. "I'm the Liberator. I'm all about freedom, remember? Including the freedom to be a walking contradiction."
They reached the edge of a crumbling plaza, where a lone statue still stood amidst the devastation. It depicted a figure long since forgotten by the Imperium, its features worn smooth by time and the relentless sands. Magnus paused, studying the statue with his singular, unblinking gaze.
"Do you think they prayed to this one?" he mused aloud. "Hoped it would save them from famine, disease, war?"
Franklin stepped closer, inspecting the statue with a critical eye. "Looks like a middle manager to me. Probably their god of paperwork."
Magnus sighed. "You're impossible."
"And you're too serious," Franklin countered, clapping his brother on the back with enough force to make Magnus stagger. "Come on, Red. Let's leave the soul-searching to Lorgar. He's better at it anyway."
As they walked, "You realize," Franklin was saying, gesturing broadly at a half-demolished temple, "that Father's approach lacks a certain... public relations finesse." His voice carried the hint of laughter even as he discussed matters of galactic significance. "If he'd just let me handle—"
The insistent chime of his personal vox cut through his words with the precision of a power blade.
Franklin frowned, the expression almost comical on his features—like a man irritated by an unexpected dinner guest rather than an interplanetary communiqué. With a casual gesture, he activated the device, expecting routine matters, perhaps even some jest from his commanders.
The voice that emerged was not human. It resonated with digital perfection, each syllable precisely measured, yet carrying undertones of something uncharacteristic for an artificial intellect—urgency bordering on dread.
"Lord Valorian," came Sovereign's voice, the central Artificial Intelligence of the Sweet Liberty, "The Great Wall of Liberty has been breached.
Threat assessment: Maximum. Recommending immediate strategic intervention."
Five words. Five simple words that struck with the force of an extinction-level event.
Franklin's face—that perpetually amused, confident visage—transformed. The change was subtle, yet in a being engineered for perfection, even microscopic shifts revealed volumes. The half-smile vanished.
The casual posture stiffened to transhuman alertness. But it was the eyes that spoke most eloquently—widening fractionally before narrowing to predatory focus, the warmth in them cooling to absolute zero in the space between heartbeats.
"Show me," he commanded, voice stripped of all humor.
The vox projection flared to life between the Primarchs, painting the desert air with ghostly light. The hololithic display flickered momentarily, distance and interference creating static ghosts at the edges of perception, before resolving into brutal clarity.
The Great Wall of Liberty— the most heavily guarded place before the Independence System—stood burning against the void. Burning, decimated Fortress Ringworlds broke apart, Killzones overwhelmed. Light-years of advanced Independence Sector technology, the culmination of Dark Age engineering, crumbled before their eyes like parchment consumed by hungry flames.
The recording's audio engaged, and the desert silence of Colchis was shattered by sounds that belonged to nightmares older than humanity's first dreams of the stars.
"WAR! WAR! WAR!"
The chant rolled across the battlefield with terrible precision, each syllable pronounced with the unison of creatures bonded at levels deeper than mere shared purpose. Not the feral roar of common greenskins, but something older—something that had once brought ancient star empires to their knees and fought the Necrons and their Gods to a Standstill.
Magnus stepped closer, his singular eye widening, psychic energy crackling around his massive form like coronae of forbidden knowledge. "That chanting... it's not Orkish. Not as we know it."
The feed shifted, focusing on a new horror. Nine-meter tall monstrosities smashed through adamantium barriers as though they were parchment, their sophisticated power armor gleaming with technologies that rivaled or perhaps even surpassed Imperial manufacturing. Their weapons discharged streams of energy that reduced entire sections defenses to molecular dust. One of them turned toward the recording device, and Franklin saw intelligence burning in its eyes—not the feral cunning of an Ork but the calculated malice of a sentient strategist.
The feed panned outward, revealing the full scope of the catastrophe. A Blackstone Fortress—one of the ancient star-forts that had guarded the borders of the Independence Sector for decades—listed in the void, flames erupting from breaches in its superstructure as it plummeted toward a nearby inhabited world. The destruction would be apocalyptic; billions would die in the impact and subsequent atmospheric disruption.
"Krorks."
Khaine's voice reverberated through Franklin's psyche like the toll of a funeral bell.
The feed zoomed outward, revealing the true architect of this unprecedented assault. Standing head and shoulders above even the giant Krork officers was a true monster – a fifteen-meter colossus clad in armor that seamlessly blended biological and technological components in a way that defied Imperial classification protocols.
"DAKKA BRINGER IM BACK!" the creature roared, its voice so powerful that the audio pickups in the feed momentarily distorted. Each word was delivered with unexpected clarity – not the crude language of common Orks but the precise diction of a being with genuine linguistic capability.
Franklin shook his head, eyes narrowing as he processed the tactical implications. "Eldrad warned me about this," he said, addressing both Magnus and Khaine simultaneously. "The Farseer predicted a Krork resurgence in the sector. I expected incursions, but...I didn't think it would be like this" his voice trailed off as another section of the Great Wall collapsed under concentrated fire.
"You underestimate our ancient rivals, Primarch, Khaine's voice resonated within Franklin's mind, carrying the weight of galactic cycles spent in conflict. And now you pay for it."
Franklin nodded grimly, the perpetual humor in his eyes replaced by cold calculation. He turned to Magnus, who had remained silent throughout this exchange, though his crimson features had tensed with concern.
"Tell Father the Sector is under attack," Franklin instructed, his voice resuming its normal confidence. "But make it clear that I can handle it. The Independence Sector's situation will not hinder the Great Crusade." He paused, considering the strategic implications. "There are no reports of Terra under attack – this is purely out of rivalry. Glorblasta has come for a rematch"
Before Magnus could respond, Franklin disappeared in a flash of light.
A/N: So apparently I was mistaken, Pakistan ,Karachi is on the other end of our Voyage, I'm in Europe rn lmao, it's still Cold as I remember, we going to London Gateway then Jeber Ali finally Pakistan then India, then Murica Baby! Which would probably take 5 months all, I'll probably sign off in Tanger since my contract is only 6 months.
A/N: I severely underestimated the changes that had happened to the Maritime Industry had to retouch on my knowledge on this and yes Work never does stop on the ship for y'all asking.