Trazyn.
Perhaps the name itself did not sound particularly remarkable, but his other title certainly did—
Trazyn the Infinite.
Within the records of the Imperium's countless military and intelligence organizations, no Necron overlord appeared more frequently, more actively, or was more thoroughly studied than him.
The ruler of the Nihilakh Dynasty—the overlord of the tomb world Solemnace.
However, Trazyn himself preferred to introduce his role quite differently: as the curator of the Solemnace Museum of Antiquities, and a "voluntary preserver of galactic history, relics, and significant events." Compared to his cold, calculating kin, Trazyn was flamboyant, eccentric, and hopelessly unpredictable.
He would appear out of nowhere, causing all sorts of "minor inconveniences" for certain departments of the Imperium.
At present, the list of official Imperial charges against Trazyn the Infinite included accusations from the Ecclesiarchy, the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Inquisition, and several Space Marine Chapters. These accusations ranged from:
— The theft of the preserved head of Saint Sebastian Thor, a revered relic of the Ecclesiarchy.
— The mysterious disappearance of an entire Catachan regiment during the Archabrius Campaign.
— A series of infamous correspondences allegedly "flirting" with Inquisitors, said to have lured Inquisitor Valeria to corruption and contributed to the disappearance of the feared Inquisitor Katarinya Greyfax.
— The theft of numerous relics from Chapter vaults, the disappearance of sacred artifacts, and the mysterious loss of STC (Standard Template Construct) data cores considered the pinnacle of Mechanicus ingenuity…
Currently, whenever word spread that Trazyn the Infinite had been sighted, there was one thing guaranteed—the Chapters and Forge Worlds that had lost their relics or STCs would move heaven and earth to reach him first.
After all, it had become common knowledge among Imperial specialists that Trazyn's tomb world held countless priceless treasures, relics, and technologies beyond reckoning.
Even if one managed to raid only a single underground vault of the green-boned collector, the reward would be immeasurable.
And as for why Trazyn's name had become so infamous across the galaxy—
The answer was simple:
Trazyn himself made sure of it.
"There, there—just idle fame. No need for such ceremony," Trazyn said casually.
Noticing the subtle shift in the faces of Creed and the others, the Necron waved both hands as if brushing away their hostility entirely.
Just as the humans were about to lose their patience, Trazyn suddenly grew more solemn. He turned his gaze toward the object in his hand—a crystalline cube framed in green light—and held it before his glowing eyes.
Inside it shimmered a cluster of violet-red crystalline particles—each segment pulsing faintly like a beating heart. Wisps of warped energy swirled around it, twisting in radiant, spiral patterns.
"An unknown energy substance…" he murmured softly. "Could this truly grant new life to my kind?"
For a long moment, the emerald light in his eyes flickered as he studied the crystal. At last, regaining composure, he lowered his hand. His metal fingertips tapped rhythmically against the shaft of his ornate phase staff.
In response, a three-dimensional emerald hologram blossomed from the staff's head—a projection of the subterranean blackstone caverns beneath Kasr Kraf Fortress.
Within the projection, under the protection of Crusaders and several Astartes tactical squads, a single mortal stood solemnly at the core—holding the stabilized Honkai Cube, its brilliance flooding the chamber with radiant light.
The Honkai glow seeped into the eternal blackstone structures. Even the nano-scale conduits buried deep within the walls began to illuminate—pulsing like veins of molten energy. Like living constructs, they writhed and twisted, intersecting and weaving before spreading outward in all directions—some vanishing into unreachable depths, others stretching toward unseen ends…
The once-smooth surfaces of the blackstone construct had transformed almost beyond recognition. The crystalline purple-red lattice seemed to breathe, its warped patterns spreading like veins of living light. Threads of energy ran chaotically across its surface, intertwining like veins of molten silk.
Reality and illusion began to blur.
Space and time trembled—swelling, pulsing, gestating…
This sensation—corruption.
Indeed, when Trazyn realized how much the underground blackstone structure had changed since his last visit—corrupted so rapidly he barely recognized it—his eyes flashed violently with emerald light. In that instant, the possibility struck him.
Though the discoloration and twisting were more like an invasive assimilation than typical Chaos corruption—lacking the usual grotesque mutations and foul stench—the essence felt disturbingly familiar. It mirrored the destructive corruption of the Warp's ruinous powers in eerie precision.
But more than that—it reminded Trazyn of something else. Of a race once both a benefactor and a blight to the Necron kind. A cosmic species of greed and sin.
"Have you realized it yet?"
The voice—a soft, elegant female tone, as light as butterfly wings—floated through the air. It carried a strange charm, slipping unbidden into Trazyn's mind, bypassing every defense within his living-metal consciousness.
"Who!?"
The Necron Overlord's voice rang out—harsh and furious—as he slammed his phase staff into the metallic floor. The blow shattered the arched ceiling above, sending coolant spraying from ruptured pipes.
"Emperor's mercy—this metal skeleton's turning on us!"
"I told you! Xenos can't be trusted!"
"Hold! Stop! Don't shoot—his systems might be malfunctioning!"
Thud!
Before anyone could react, Trazyn's metal body stiffened and fell backward like a puppet with its strings cut, twitching with crackling red lightning. His mouthpiece sputtered with garbled static—strange syllables tumbling out in a half-conscious mumble.
"..."
After a few seconds of silence, a grizzled Space Wolf strode forward. "Oi, tin bones! You dead or what?" he grunted, prodding the fallen Necron with the blunt edge of his inactive power axe.
Crack-crack-crack—!
A voice—not Trazyn's—echoed from the metallic shell, dripping with amused contempt.
"I dislike sharing a body, Trazyn. I know you keep multiple backups here on Cadia. Come now—manifest another. We have much to discuss about our arrangement."
Before the humans could even process what was happening, the "Trazyn" on the floor twitched, and the red light flared to life within its ribcage. The fallen Necron rose, turning its head sharply. Cracks spread across its metallic face like peeling paint, and from within the fractures glowed a pair of radiant crimson eyes—multifaceted, kaleidoscopic, and infinite.
For a moment, the air grew heavy, oppressive. Countless spectral silhouettes seemed to stand behind it—cold, watchful, and suffocating.
"Crossing dimensions without disturbing the cosmic fabric is tedious," the entity murmured, flexing the metal fingers as though testing the body's limits. "Feels almost like sneaking in illegally… hmm?"
"Oh… Sanguinius' roar? What happened to enrage him so?"
With a teasing sway of her hips and an oddly graceful motion, she adjusted the stiff metallic limbs, as though reacquainting herself with a new shell. Her crimson eyes flicked toward the battlefield as she picked up the fallen Necron phase staff.
Though not the true scepter of a Necron Phaeron, it was nonetheless finely crafted. For one who delighted in collecting curiosities, it was—intriguing enough.
"You… who are you?!"
Clang-clang-clang—!
A harsh metallic voice rang out. Another Trazyn entered the chamber, his body gleaming green, his optics wide with fury.
"Impossible… absolutely impossible! A Star God—!!"
...
Cadia Orbit.
The void war had reached its peak. Under crimson detonations and multicolored weapon fire, the heavens themselves burned.
From the state of the void war alone, Abaddon's Thirteenth Black Crusade seemed on the verge of final triumph.
The destruction of the Cadian fleet was only a matter of time. If they did not flee, they would be annihilated.
But just as Abaddon prepared to deliver the final blow—driving off the Imperial Navy harassers and turning his full might toward Cadia itself to claim the 'treasure' that even the Chaos Gods coveted—his command deck was bombarded with one disastrous report after another from the surface.
Aboard the Vengeful Spirit, flagship of the Black Legion—
BANG!
"When my Legion arrived, I spent an obscene fortune launching the strike that overloaded Cadia's void shields. And at that time, you told me Kasr Kraf was like a crumbling hovel—that all we had to do was kick once, and it would collapse entirely!"
"How long has it been since then?! And now you return, armor shattered and tail between your legs, to tell me Kasr Kraf is unbreakable—and you dare suggest I retreat?!"
Zzzzt—!
The lightning claws of Talon of Horus flashed—a set of crackling blades like reaper scythes—and in an instant, they pierced the warped, mutated face of the kneeling Chaos Lord before him. Abaddon's expression, half-lit by an unholy crimson glow, twisted with fury, veins bulging at his temples.
"Useless filth!"
He slammed the corpse to the floor with a roar, shattering the daemon-forged ceramite fused to its flesh. The stench of blood and ozone thickened the air as Abaddon's killing intent filled the chamber.
The Chaos Marine who had been reporting froze, choking under the oppressive aura of the Despoiler's wrath. His face flushed and swelled as though crushed by a vice.
"The so-called apostles of the true gods have been banished. The Word Bearers' priests and sorcerers' summoning rites were destroyed. Our Titan legions have been wiped out—executed by precision strikes. The corpse-god's sorcery… they resurrected the dead xenos Primarch!"
(Note: The traitor Chaos forces often mocked the Blood Angels and their descendants by slandering their dead Primarch, Sanguinius, calling him a tainted, impure hybrid because of his wings.)
"Resurrected?!"
Abaddon's golden eyes, shot with red veins, swept across every Chaos Lord and warband champion in the chamber. Then he laughed—sharp, deranged, and echoing.
"A rotting corpse with the power to resurrect?! That's the most pathetic excuse I've ever heard!"
"This is nothing more than another delusion from those corpse-worshiping psykers! Lies woven by Alpha-level telepaths—they've always been adept at deceiving themselves in such ways!"
"Where is Erebus of the Word Bearers?! Have him and his master deal with these psykers!"
He refused to believe it—to believe that the Archangel Sanguinius had appeared on the Cadian battlefield.
The image on the projection feed—of the radiant golden angel descending, annihilating daemons, banishing warp spawn, and single-handedly tearing through the might of his ten-thousand-year warhost—was like a voice in Abaddon's skull, screaming, mocking.
You are a coward.
The age of the Primarchs is over? What a lie. A comforting delusion.
If the Primarchs have returned—then what are you, Abaddon the Despoiler? Nothing but trash.
A cowardly clone who slew only his father's kindness—a broken shadow of Horus' legacy.
You do not dare face the wrath of a true Primarch.
Every frame of the servitor footage, every scrap of audio burned that truth deeper into his mind—dragging him back to the memory of his own humiliation.
Ten thousand years ago, during the Siege of Terra, Abaddon had led an elite strike force beneath the Saturnine Wall. There, he had faced the Primarch Rogal Dorn—Lord Commander of Terra, Praetorian of the Emperor, and Master of the Seventh Legion.
It was the greatest defeat of his career.
Forget breaching Terra's defenses—he had barely survived. His elite sons of Horus were cut down like wheat. Abaddon himself had been moments from death before the teleporters aboard the Vengeful Spirit pulled him out.
One exchange. One confrontation. He was crushed.
If Dorn hadn't been distracted by the ongoing siege against the traitor legions and Primarchs, Abaddon would never have escaped alive.
That was his record—the result of facing a true Primarch in direct combat.
Not a sparring duel between brothers before the Heresy. Not the Istvaan V massacre, where treachery and orbital bombardment tipped the scales. No—this was open war, even with the advantage of Chaos' blessings.
And he had lost. Miserably.
If Sanguinius truly lived—if the Archangel had returned—what did that make him? What did it make his so-called legacy of patricide and vengeance?
"Impossible! Absolutely impossible! Lies! Deceit!"
"Sanguinius died at the Emperor's very throne!"
"Hahaha… all illusions! Even an Alpha-level psyker's tricks cannot last! I'll kill this false angel the same way I slew the false Horus! They're all failures!"
Gradually regaining composure, Abaddon raised the Talon of Horus, its claws glinting with dark light.
"Prepare the grand sacrifice. I am the victor here—the true heir of the Warmaster!"
—
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