Terra shudders beneath the lingering Warp energy. Craters scar the Imperial Palace grounds, smoke rising in spirals that twist unnaturally. The first rift has closed, but the echoes remain. Hybrid demons shuffle across streets, their forms monstrous, twisted by the alien Chaos Beasts and the seven Chaos Gods of Sin. They fight each other, some devouring, some fleeing, but the air thrums with threat.
Amid the carnage, Enki and Elizabeth move carefully. Elizabeth kneels beside Angron, placing the white blade lightly over his shoulders, sensing the chains of Khorne's rage breaking within him. "It's okay," she whispers, even though he cannot fully hear yet. His anger roils, but slowly, it begins to bend to something else—a choice he can finally make.
The Emperor of Mankind's voice fills Angron's mind. Not a shout, not a command, but a presence, patient and sorrowful. For months, maybe years, he has reached out to each of his sons, threading his mind into theirs, explaining regrets, failures, and guidance.
"I am sorry," the Emperor says, reaching into Angron's psyche. "I could not protect you. I could not guide you when the world demanded violence you were forced to endure. But now, you are mine again—not as a warrior to command, but as a son to lead."
Angron shakes, claws digging into the stone. "I… I remember all of it. The chains, the war, the blood… all yours, all mine." Rage flares, but Elizabeth steadies him. "Focus on what is yours to choose now."
Nearby, Fulgrim feels the subtle unweaving of Slaanesh's influence. The beauty, the pain, the endless pursuit of perfection that once enslaved him loosens. He breathes, realizing that vanity and excess no longer dictate his will. "I… I see now," he murmurs. "I can walk my own path, not hers."
Magnus's mind is a storm. Tzeentch's manipulations, the endless plotting and twisting of fate, retreat like clouds under a rising sun. His psychic storm calms, and he flexes fingers that once trembled uncontrollably, now steadied by guidance from both the Emperor and Enki.
Mortarion coughs, lungs burning, finally free from Nurgle's corruption. The toxins that once filled him, that made every breath a burden, dissipate under the Emperor's psychic reassurance. "I… am myself again," he rasp. Relief and fatigue warring in his tone.
Perturabo's mind, once bound by obsessive destruction and scheming, clears. He flexes his hands, counting, planning, measuring—but now his calculations are his own. No longer is he enslaved by the influence of the four old gods. "Precision… purpose… my own."
Even as they regain themselves, the battlefield does not wait. Hybrid demons born from residual Warp energy fight each other, alien in form and instinct. Tiamat's chimeric offspring clash with Distro's mutating masses. Afri envelops weaker demons in her obsessive embrace. Samael flickers across the field, destroying without motive. Orcs descend from orbit, ships crashing into the already chaotic terrain, hacking, shooting, and tearing into demons indiscriminately.
Enki watches, omniscient but careful. His siblings coordinate cautiously, Legions deploying with precision. Hawks' crimson-winged Astaris glide above, Ban slashes with his flaming sword, Gilgamesh rains golden weapons, Odinson rebuilds the wounded. Hella raises fallen soldiers as undead reinforcements, Atsa strengthens equipment, and Hercules charges, nearly impervious to blows.
For the first time in centuries, the Emperor's sons stand free from Khorne, Slaanesh, Tzeentch, and Nurgle. Their minds are clear, their wills their own. Yet the universe still tests them. Hybrid demons, alien chaos, and Orc hordes threaten to consume what has just been restored.
Angron roars, swinging massive fists. The fury remains, but it is tempered, controlled. He carves a path through demons, no longer their puppet, but a weapon of choice. Fulgrim strikes with elegance, exploiting weaknesses Slaanesh could never have let him see. Magnus weaves psychic shields, protecting Marines and civilians alike. Mortarion unleashes controlled bursts of toxins, devastating enemy ranks. Perturabo commands orbital artillery, slicing through demons with cold precision.
Elizabeth moves among them, stabilizing reality with her white blade, absorbing residual Warp energy with the black. Her golden apples hover, healing and empowering allies in rapid succession.
And still, the Emperor's psychic guidance continues. Each Primarch receives it individually, over weeks, months, perhaps years in psychic time. "I am sorry," he repeats in tones that resonate deep in their minds. "I am sorry I allowed you to be corrupted. I am sorry I could not be there to stop your suffering. But you are mine again. You are sons of humanity, not slaves of chaos."
The hybrid demons clash with Orcs, creating bizarre battlefield spectacles. An Orc warboss tears through a Tiamat spawn with crude axes, growling in triumph. Smaller Orcs chase Samael's shadows, hacking at flickering forms that vanish and reappear. The field is madness incarnate, yet the Primarchs—freed from the four main Chaos Gods—move as anchors of order.
Elizabeth glances at Angron, Fulgrim, Magnus, Mortarion, Perturabo, and the other Primarchs. "You are free," she says softly. "Not from the universe, not from chaos, but from their control. From their chains."
Angron's roar echoes across Terra. "Then we fight. We fight on our own terms."
Fulgrim raises his head, golden light glinting off his armor. "And we fight together."
The galaxy itself seems to pause, feeling the shift. The four main Chaos Gods bristle, sensing their influence receding. Khorne snarls, Slaanesh hisses, Nurgle chuckles darkly, Tzeentch whispers with irritation. Yet the alien Beasts and the Seven Gods of Sin do not falter; the battlefield remains deadly.
Enki steps forward, invisible to all but the Primarchs and Elizabeth, extending his mind to synchronize their actions. "Control your power. Observe the battlefield. Move as one. Their chaos is real, but you are stronger now."
The first wave of freed Primarchs carves through demons, Orcs, and residual Warp anomalies alike. Every swing of a blade, every psychic shield, every tactical strike is deliberate. For the first time, they fight as themselves, no longer puppets of Khorne, Slaanesh, Tzeentch, or Nurgle.
The Emperor's presence lingers, gentle but firm. "I am proud of you," he says, echoing in each mind. "I am sorry, but I will not fail you again. You are my sons, and the galaxy depends on what you will do next."
Above, distant rifts shimmer faintly. More dangers, more challenges, more chaos wait. But for the first time in eons, the Primarchs are free. And that freedom is the spark that can turn the tide.