Cold. Trembling.
The Primarch of the former Human Empire—now the Governor of the A–13 Central Direct Dominion (Warhammer World)—wore an expression as cold and dim as the endless void beyond the Imaginary Barrier, as still and heavy as the silence between galaxies.
The Emperor, dressed in a pure white Roman-style toga, sat with eyes closed, calm and unmoving, indifferent to the world beyond.
He sat cross-legged, almost in the meditative pose of a Buddha from the South Asian subcontinent.
Since his resurrection and the formal renaming of Terra under new rule, the Emperor seemed to have lost all interest in the gaudy, ornate, and ostentatiously gilded armor he had once worn for millennia. He had made no effort to retrieve or restore his so-called "True" armor.
Guilliman sat nearby, gazing silently at the tactical tablet passed down from Sanguinius, deep in thought.
Jaghatai Khan sat cross-legged atop a translucent field barrier of unknown energy. A crescent-shaped kumis pouch hung from his waist, and a small Chogorian lyre rested in his hands. His fingers plucked the strings in silence as he hummed softly under his breath.
Having recently reunited with his father and his gene-brothers, Corvus Lycaeus Corax—whose childhood homeworld, Lycaeus, had been restored in name—sat atop a violet Imaginary Cube. Resting his elbows on his knees, his unfocused eyes stared blankly into the void, lost in thought.
Rogal Inwit Dorn, ever as stoic as stone, leaned on his masterwork chain greatsword, standing beside the Emperor. His gaze shifted intermittently toward the far side of the barrier—toward the divided camps of the Necrons—while the reflection of vast, ever-shifting cosmic distortions danced across his armor.
Even Vulkan Bel Vokhan, normally the most good-natured among them, seemed at a loss for words. His eyes wandered uneasily from one brother's face to another.
The Emperor's first son, Lion El'Jonson, face dark with displeasure after being humbled by the new Empress, sat silently cleaning his intricately forged longsword, his winged helm placed at his side.
The Wolf King of Fenris, Russ, sat dazed, lost in thought.
Compared to the tension and unease among the human side, the Necron camp on the opposite end was far livelier.
"Ahahaha, truly unexpected... My king, ever since we stepped into this... what was it called? That vortex resembling the Old Ones' and Aeldari's webway... our fate was sealed."
Trazyn scratched his chin in amusement, the sinewy, living tissues that had begun to creep across his metal frame making a faint shh-shh-shh as flesh brushed metal.
Now that they had formally entered the domain of Honkai, the corruption and transformation of his body had accelerated. The organic matter that had once crept slowly to his elbows on the tomb world had, upon entering the core junction of the Honkai hyperspatial artery, spread visibly across his shoulders—and even half of his right chest was now covered in pulsing red tissue.
"Your calculations are flawed. I cannot fathom how such an opportunity and blessing could fall upon a petty, irresponsible little warlord like you," one of the Necron Phaerons muttered in irritation, his cold voice tinged with disdain as he observed the grotesque mingling of metal and flesh beneath a violet-red glow.
"That's because your thought routines and data matrices are far too rigid. Calculation this, logic that—there are things beyond both."
Trazyn shrugged, his gestures almost flamboyant.
The Phaeron of the Nihilakh Dynasty, his supposed overlord, had yet to awaken from the Great Sleep—perhaps he had overslept, or perhaps his mind had decayed from slumber.
As the saying goes, "The vassal of my vassal is not my vassal." At the moment, it applied perfectly to Trazyn's current status. He no longer needed to pay heed to any Phaeron save for the Silent King himself.
As the first Necron to partially escape the curse of soullessness and bodiless existence, Trazyn's case could not be ignored. Many among the revived Nihilakh Dynasty's Lords and Overlords had begun to instinctively side with him.
"Choose you? What, did you expect Her Majesty herself to personally descend into your tomb worlds to rouse you from slumber?"
"The Necron society today is a stagnant pool, devoid of the capacity to create or appreciate any form of beauty. Eternal life sustained by metallic skeletons—far too dull, far too monotonous."
Trazyn was exhilarated. Absolutely ecstatic.
To think that Selene had chosen him, not any of the other Necron Overlords or Phaerons—it filled him with a sense of pride, as though he had emerged pure and unsullied from the mire of the Necron's soulless confinement.
I am superior to those fools who only know how to shout and kill.
Perhaps his arrival at Cadia had involved coincidence and luck—but luck, too, favored those who seized it. Had it been any of those iron-headed warlords, they would've charged in screaming, bringing ruin upon themselves. Receiving Selene's blessing? They'd be lucky to survive her wrath.
Now, a few strands of living tissue had crept up Trazyn's face. Though his metal features betrayed no expression, his emerald eyes gleamed brighter than ever. This sensation of rebirth—of feeling his body alive again—was intoxicating.
Raising his newly transformed right arm, he flexed his flesh-bound hand.
Crack—!
"Magnificent."
The dark armor plating once used by Necron warriors to test their physical systems was crushed instantly—ground to dust in his grasp.
At once, every Necron Phaeron and Overlord nearby turned their gaze toward Trazyn, eyes burning with desire and envy.
They knew exactly what they were witnessing.
All of them were among the most lucid of their kind, fully aware of what the Necrontyr—their ancient selves—had once been. A species of fragile, sickly beings born beneath stars whose radiation shortened their lives and tormented them endlessly.
Strong? Not even close. Calling them invalids would've been generous.
Even after gambling their lives to climb the technological ladder, their frail bodies optimized through genetic science, they had never known such vitality.
There was no question—this was ascension.
And the Necrons could not help but covet it.
"I never imagined that the first to achieve the greatest dream of our race—a goal pursued for millions of years—would be such an unremarkable librarian..."
The Silent King, Szarekh, raised his glowing eyes, restraining the impulse of his heralds and triarchs who were about to transmit commands. He slowly rose to his feet, his tone carrying both awe and melancholy.
"But I suppose it makes sense. From the moment we stepped into this place, our fate was already sealed. The Necron Empire—the Necrontyr race—will become her vassals."
He turned to Trazyn. "Tell me, then, Nihilakh's Trazyn—what reward has Her Majesty the Empress granted you for such monumental contribution?"
"Curator of the Imperial Capital's Grand Palace Treasure Vault," Trazyn answered instantly.
"...That's it?"
"Specialist in Artifact Evaluation," Trazyn added after a pause. "And discretionary authority for artifact retrieval and exploration."
"..."
Szarekh fell silent.
"How fitting—for the Nihilakh Dynasty."
Every dynasty produced its own kind of individual—and none but Nihilakh could have spawned someone like Trazyn.
After all, Nihilakh was known as the wealthiest of all Necron dynasties. Records indicated that before and after the War in Heaven, they had plundered over a thousand lost civilizations. One of Szarekh's own advisors had once remarked that the Nihilakh treasury likely surpassed the combined wealth of all other dynasties.
Greedy misers—the lot of them!
Even Szarekh's centuries of composure could barely withstand such absurdity. He had assumed Trazyn had negotiated some grand advantage for their kind—but this? This was it?
You've made us look cheap, Trazyn! How am I supposed to bargain with Selene now? How do I demand greater rights and respect for the Necron race after this?
Utterly exasperated, Szarekh could only sigh inwardly. Selene chose you... I truly can't tell if that was wisdom or madness.
"Of course it was wisdom."
Just as Szarekh gazed into the void beyond, his mind heavy with concern for the upcoming negotiations, Selene's amused voice echoed in his ears.
A visible ripple of space-time spread outward, forming shimmering rings of distortion that enclosed the entire sealed chamber.
"We've arrived."
Outside the barrier, the countless prismatic streaks of light that had stretched and blurred across eternity suddenly froze in place—then parted.
Before them unfurled a vast, breathtaking panorama of shifting light and cosmic grandeur.
The Emperor opened his eyes from his feigned meditation.
When the barrier dispersed, the starfire of the Honkai Dimension and the faint violet-red aurora illuminated the figures from the A–13 Central Direct Dominion. Selene slowly raised her hand.
Indeed—it was Selene herself who had led them through uncountable super-spatial arteries, world barriers, multiversal rifts, and the endless void, arriving now at the innermost core ring of the Honkai Dimension.
The barrier that shielded them was the Imaginary Isolation Field generated by Selene's palm.
"Your Majesty."
Trazyn rose and bowed, his mechanical voice tinged with reverence as he gazed around.
The alien sky bore unmistakable traces of deliberate design. It was clear that every star and constellation was positioned with intention. At the center of it all was a colossal, impossibly vast continent—an unscientific, unphysical hyperlandmass. Fleets traversed the starry expanse, leaving rhythmic ripples of light in their wake.
"Oh? The conditions look satisfactory," Selene observed lightly, bending down with elegance. "You've already converted nearly half your body." Her gaze turned to the Silent King, Szarekh. "Using this as the template, I could restore the flesh of all Necrons. What say you?"
A direct question. In exchange for restoring the Necrons' physical forms—stronger, healthier, far beyond the feeble bodies of the ancient Necrontyr—she would claim their complete submission.
"Our souls. What of our souls?" Szarekh countered immediately, seizing upon the one omission in Selene's offer.
"Our souls," Selene repeated, her tone unhurried. "Do you truly believe that possible?"
She gestured—and crackle— a holographic projection flared into existence. The image displayed the ancient War in Heaven: the Necrontyr's fall, their biological transfer ritual under the deceit of the C'tan, the extinction of their species, and the birth of the Necrons. Flesh and souls devoured—consumed endlessly by the Star Gods.
"I can grant the Necrons new flesh," Selene continued, her voice serene. "I can preserve your living-metal bodies as well, letting you exist as a dual-formed race—flesh and steel, two sides of one being. But souls...?"
She laughed softly.
"If your transfer technology had been applied equally to all Necrontyr, perhaps I could have reconstructed your souls. But tell me, Szarekh—can you honestly claim that your common warriors retain even a shred of memory or thought?"
Selene spoke each word deliberately, watching Szarekh's face of living metal darken under the gaze of the Emperor, the Primarchs, and the assembled Custodes.
"..."
After a long silence, the Silent King finally admitted, "No."
Self-deception was meaningless. He knew that the degree of completeness in the biotransference process had varied greatly by caste and rank. For himself, the Triarch, the Phaerons, and the Overlords, the transfer had preserved nearly all—more than ninety-nine percent of memory, consciousness, and identity.
But the lower castes? The commoners—who made up over ninety-five percent of their species—had lost everything. No memories. No thoughts. No awareness.
Why were there no Necron children, no Necron youth? Because they had all been converted—fed into the endless ranks of warriors. Whether their bodies fit or not, they were reforged into towering metal husks, mindless Terminators of the tomb legions.
Souls? What souls?
For the nobles and generals who retained self and thought, Selene could rebuild both body and soul, using their living data cores as the foundation.
But for the countless cannon-fodder warriors whose cores were void of any record, any trace of mind—it would not be reconstruction.
It would be creation from nothing.
Not impossible—but a monumental task.
"I shall restore both flesh and soul to those Necrons who still retain memory and consciousness," Selene said thoughtfully. "As for the hollow ones—the empty shells—I will grant them flesh alone."
"Just as the Control Protocol once bound you, I will bestow upon you, Szarekh, the authority to guide them. Future generations—those born anew—shall emerge as infants, grow as children, and by the nurturing of environment, form new souls. They will be no different from any living race."
"Except," she added, her voice rich and enticing, "for the gift of duality that I grant your kind—two forms, two essences, one existence."
The gathered Phaerons and Overlords stirred. Such an offer matched their deepest desires. They could not ask for more.
"No."
Szarekh shook his head, his glowing green eyes locking with Selene's. "I will not wield the Protocol again. Never a second time. Selene... Your Majesty, I know you have the power—to grant every Necron both soul and flesh."
Clang—!
He released the Star God Phase Scepter in his hand. It fell, ringing against the metallic floor as Szarekh dropped to both knees.
"This—this accord between the redeemer and the redeemed shall be remembered for all eternity, as an act of divine mercy."
"I, Szarekh, ruler of the Necrons, last Silent King of the Necrontyr, offer my fealty to you. I shall never betray you. I will fight for you. If you restore the souls and bodies of my kin, my people shall pay any price."
"Even if it takes ten thousand, a hundred thousand, a million years—we shall give everything to achieve it!"
Exactly the words she had been waiting for.
Perfect.
Selene had wanted nothing less—to make Szarekh shatter his pride by his own will, surrendering without coercion, wholly and willingly.
"Accepted."
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