Chapter 530: A World Without Trust is a Sorrowful Place
The Formless Manse.
Even in the Empyrean, a realm defined by its absolute cruelty, a sliver of warmth had finally begun to permeate the air.
The tides of the Warp continued to scream warnings of existential peril to any soul possessing a spark of sentience, yet the intuition of the dwellers within the Manse was no longer dictated by pure terror.
They were like ancient humans stepping into the wilderness, having finally grasped the logic of the tool—no longer mere prey for the beasts of the dark. Or perhaps they were like the primitive Aeldari of a savage world, blundering into the Old Ones; the mysteries of the cosmos had suddenly been laid bare, and the path ahead finally possessed a direction.
A micro-mote of confidence was blooming in the hearts of the collective. Though fragile—requiring a monsoon of effort and vigilance to sustain—it had nonetheless punched through the soil of despair to sprout a fresh bud of possibility.
As a literal living fossil of the galaxy, Trazyn the Infinite understood this shift better than most.
He had seen such buds before. They had flickered in the War in Heaven, only to be consumed by fire and the Old Night. Now, they were germinating again in the cracks of the Empyrean.
Trazyn sat hunched in a shadowed corner of the command hall, swilling a half-empty cup of caffeine.
His focus was soft, drifting over the crowds of personnel moving through the Manse. It was a riot of diversity.
The slender grace of the Aeldari, the grim resolve of the humans, and the cold, mechanical precision of his own kind. They worked in a busy, clinical silence, devoid of the ancient racial frictions. It was a harmony that felt disturbingly "sane."
"What's the matter now? Is the brew spiked?"
Ramesses delivered a practiced elbow-strike to the metal giant's ribs. He didn't care that a Necron drinking coffee was a surreal aesthetic choice.
Necron technology was advanced enough to simulate every biological function. A high-tier Overlord like Trazyn, possessing the authorization of the Dawnstar, could manipulate bio-electrical signals to possess a carbon-based organism at will. Sensory input was just another data-stream to them.
"Don't worry about being 'recycled' because you're too useful," Ramesses joked, pointing to the holographic projection of the galaxy spinning in the center of the hall.
"I swear by the Star-Sea: I am not the type to liquidate my best assets once the job is done. Your tenure as the Director of the Museum is a lifetime appointment."
While having a Necron run the Museum of Human History was the height of black humor, it was a strategic necessity. Thanks to a certain "Grand Diviner" rival of Trazyn's, who had mapped the key nodes of history sixty million years into the future, Trazyn was one of the few entities—Perpetuals included—who had witnessed the human saga from its first breath to its current state.
When Arthur and Ramesses had audited Trazyn's vaults, they had found artifacts that made their skin crawl with nostalgia. A Little Night Music. A master-copy of Mozart, mid-performance. A physical photograph of a 20th-century physics conference. The Cross of a martyred prophet. A tablet recording the flood-works of Ancient Terra. The first Sputnik satellite.
A dozen milestones of the Dark Age of Technology.
The Imperial Jade Seal of the Middle Kingdom.
When you put it like that, I feel even more endangered, Trazyn thought.
Faced with Ramesses' sudden interruption, Trazyn wondered if his "Boss" was simply bored. He set the cup down and spoke with a metallic rasp.
"I was merely... reminiscing."
He was looking back at his own path.
In an era where the galaxy had been diving headlong into the abyss, only to suddenly pull up at the last second, a question that had haunted him for eons returned: I have secured my own survival, but what is my purpose?
In the past, Trazyn had played the part of the Spectator. Unlike certain Necron Lords who clung to the delusion of a "Biological Restoration," Trazyn knew the Necrontyr were extinct in every metaphysical sense. The soul was gone.
So he had discarded the racial obsession and sought "distractions."
Now, he saw a solution for his species on the horizon. But based on his own status and the "Credit Rating" of his character, he realized he lacked the leverage to interfere with the Dynasties.
The "Museum Thief" was in a crisis of agency.
He was a master of individual initiative—he could steal a star-system if he wanted to. But to alter the destiny of a race? He was lost.
He felt like a leaf being pushed by a tidal wave. He could record the foam on the crest, but he couldn't change the direction of the water.
And that feeling had intensified since he had been granted a soul and integrated into the Dawnbreaker organization. He was part of something "Progressive" now.
"I was thinking of... tragic things," Trazyn sighed.
"Like what?" Ramesses asked. "Say it out loud. I could use a laugh."
"..."
Trazyn's facial plates remained static as he stared at Ramesses. Tell me Your sorrows so I can feel better.
After a few seconds of silence, he spoke:
"I believe that, aside from 'Formless Distortion,' Your Lordship is a perfect fit for the 'Wicked Arts' domain."
He cast Ramesses a sidelong glance and changed the subject. "Is Your shift finished?"
"Naturally."
Ramesses looked radiant. He was the one member of the Dawnbreakers who seemed entirely unburdened by the stress of the era.
Arthur, he had heard, used to be a cheerful man. Now he was a pillar of "Numbed Stoicism." He wasn't exactly brooding, but the environment had clearly taken its toll.
Karna was still an optimist, but his hyper-empathy was a curse in a galaxy as miserable as the 41st Millennium. The mental weight of a trillion suffering souls was a burden only he could feel.
And Romulus? One only had to look at the blizzard of paperwork on his desk to know his "stat-line" was purely composed of endurance and caffeine.
"Good for You," Trazyn muttered.
He offered a silent prayer for Romulus's liver, sincerely wishing the galaxy's premier administrative weightlifter would remain eternal.
Then, thinking of how Ramesses had shamelessly "Passed the Buck" to his partners, acting as if his brothers were infinite batteries for his own leisure...
Trazyn's face darkened. He felt a sudden, visceral empathy for Romulus.
If only Szarekh had possessed the common sense to consult his subordinates before making a move, Trazyn thought.
When the Necrontyr had been offered the "Gifts" of the C'tan, Trazyn had resisted. But the Silent King had decreed it a "Necessary Sacrifice for Salvation," and the race had been forcibly transformed.
When the Phaerons had petitioned the Silent King not to destroy the Command Protocols, Szarekh had claimed, "Your lives shall not be enslaved by a code; this is My atonement," and deleted the very thing that held the Dynasties together. The result was a galaxy of bickering, isolated metal kingdoms.
And now he had returned, demanding Unity. "I have conquered vast realms in the void. Abandon the Milky Way. Follow Me. Forget the soul. Also, that 'Ascendant Hegemon' prophecy? I was just joking."
The Stormlord had naturally told him to shove it, and the Necrons had descended into civil war.
Why do we always wait until the house is burning to talk?
Ramesses watched Trazyn's internal struggle and arched an eyebrow.
Honestly, his opinion of the "Trophy King" was high.
In a universe of high-tier psychopaths and divine "Special Cases," a man whose only hobby was collecting history, whose doctrine was non-interference, and who provided his alien staff with high-tier benefits was a breath of fresh air.
His methods were "Wicked," sure. But the artifacts he had stolen had been recovered by the Dawnbreakers anyway. He hadn't caused any terminal damage; in fact, he had saved more than he had "archived."
The Dawnstar Lords accepted Trazyn because he was a Spectator.
He stole history, but he didn't try to rewrite it. He watched the play to the end, then took the actors for his collection. If he could find the originals, he'd even set up an infinite loop to watch it again.
This made him the polar opposite of his rival—Orikan the Diviner.
Trazyn was "Static." Orikan was "Active."
Orikan, the master of chronomancy, was a man of "Saturation Interference." If a prophecy failed, he would travel back in time to rearrange the pieces until reality complied with his ego.
He usually ended up being beaten by the heroes of the era because his individual combat stats were abysmal, but it didn't stop him from trying.
Years ago, Trazyn had led the Dawnstar into a tomb to retrieve the "Deceiver" shard. It had nearly cost them everything.
Trazyn was currently suffering from a "Meta-mismatch." His personal style hadn't kept up with his psychological goals.
Before the Dawnbreakers, the galaxy was a lost cause. He had just wanted to develop his hobby and wait for the heat-death of the universe.
Now, there was hope. Trazyn was a Necron; he wanted his species to endure. Otherwise, the Nihilakh Dynasty wouldn't have chosen a "Xenos-Lover" as their Lord.
But he was stuck. He was living the good life while his kin were rotting in their tombs.
He wanted to act, but when he looked at his plans through the lens of history and his own "Director" status, his confidence hit zero.
He had never interfered with the destiny of a race before.
I don't trust my own strength. I don't trust my judgment. I don't trust the Dynasties. And I don't believe I can handle the weight of the choice.
Ramesses was surprised by the assessment.
He had assumed a man as "Free-Spirited" as Trazyn wouldn't have mental-health issues.
You'll steal the Emperor's alarm clock, but you're afraid to sign a treaty?
After a moment of consideration, Ramesses understood the "Warp-Logic" of Trazyn's dilemma. He spoke plainly:
"A world without trust is a sorrowful place, Trazyn."
"?"
Trazyn looked up, trying to scry the "Potions" the Formless Lord was brewing now.
"It means you either work yourself to death doing everything alone, or you spend your life in a state of terminal anxiety trying to force others to do it for you. Or, worst of all, you spend eternity begging a Superior to act. But—"
Ramesses smiled. It was a look of absolute, unshielded transparency.
"I am a fortunate man. I have partners I can rely on."
That was the "Dawnbreaker Meta."
Confidence. Pure and simple.
He trusted his brothers' stats. He trusted his own judgment.
He knew that if one of them were failing, they would speak. Tasks were divided, not hoarded.
"To achieve greatness, you must first believe in your own agency. Otherwise, the friction of suspicion will break you before the enemy does."
"Oh..."
Trazyn grasped the subtext.
It was a display of "Brotherly Superiority." Ramesses was showing off his support system and inviting Trazyn to bring his own problems to the group chat.
"..."
Trazyn scratched his metal cranium. Even after decades of cooperation, the "Status" of the person across from him was still a bit much to handle.
If Tzeentch slapped my shoulder and said, 'Brother, tell me Your troubles, let Me help You think,' I'd be checking my soul-count immediately.
Trazyn managed a small twitch of his facial plates.
"It is not a major issue," he replied.
"I am simply... 'acidic' (sour/jealous) regarding the Eldar's integration."
Though he didn't know why Ramesses was bothering with this minor psychological audit, Trazyn was genuinely moved.
"Naturally. The Jester came over with his whole family. Isha is already whitelisted. At least she's a saint, even if she's a bit... 'Theoretical' in the head."
Ramesses nodded sincerely.
Can You stop mentioning that? Trazyn thought, his "Administrative-Bionics" aching at the thought of his own race's "Slacker" Phaerons.
But he caught the hint.
The Dawnstar trusted Trazyn as a representative. They wanted him to state his "PRACTICAL" goals so the committee could audit them.
Ramesses narrowed his eyes.
"Let Me sort the threads for you."
He draped an arm over Trazyn's shoulder, assuming the role of the "Good Brother."
"One: You have a high demand for your race's survival, but You don't know the 'Implementation-Path.' Correct?"
"Correct," Trazyn admitted.
"Two: You have a low status within the Necron hierarchy. You lack the weight to move the board. Correct?"
"Correct."
"Three: Your 'Big Bosses' are untrustworthy. They don't look like Kings; they look like dementia patients. And the rest of the host are either mindless or 'Sleep-Mad.' It's a 'End-of-Dynasty' trope through and through."
As Ramesses finished the summary, Trazyn felt a flicker of spiritual collapse.
The Necron future is... bleak.
"We should start with the 'Easy Mode' first," Ramesses suggested. "Don't try to swallow the whole galaxy in one cycle."
"Think. Are there any Dynasties that can be convinced to enter a 'Technical Cooperation' with us? Not surrender. Not compliance. Just a trade deal. We'll discuss 'Assimilation' later."
Trazyn scanned his memory-banks.
Actually... there were.
Anrakyr the Traveller. Nemesor Zahndrekh. They were "Eccentric," yes, but their brains were still operational.
"I believe Anrakyr and Zahndrekh are viable targets. There are others... if You—"
"It's not about what we think, Trazyn. We don't know these people."
Ramesses tapped his own temple, looking at Trazyn.
"Think carefully. As the Dawnstar Representative for the Necron Species, if you were in our chair, would you hire these individuals? Would you try to integrate them?"
The title was official now.
Ramesses realized Trazyn's problem was a "Lack of Confidence." As an early-investor in the Dawnstar, he needed to act like a partner.
It isn't 'I beg you to let me join.' It is 'I, the Representative, am evaluating if you are worthy to join us.'
The Dawnstar didn't want the "Muscle-Brains" like the Stormlord or the "Riddlers" like the Silent King. They didn't accept Drukhari who failed the Harlequin screening.
They were a selective firm.
And the "Old Men" of the Necrons might not even pass the first round of interviews.
Trazyn was stunned. Then, the logic clicked into place.
Though I am a mere Overlord, I have opened the door for my species. I am the one providing the opportunity. Why am I agonizing over the opinions of rusting fossils?
"I believe it is possible!" Trazyn nodded, his oculars bright.
"The Dawnstar can secure these cadres. I will act as the Negotiator."
Whether it worked was secondary. He believed he could do the work.
He pulled a Tesseract Labyrinth from his robes, intending to show Ramesses the data-profiles.
Ramesses waved it away.
"?"
"None of my concern. We're going to see Master Art."
Ramesses signaled for a transport. He wasn't going to let a bunch of spreadsheets occupy his rest-cycle.
"We're preparing the pacification of Commorragh. Chaos intervention is 100%. We need to gather every viable asset. We'll talk to Master Art. If he approves, Romulus will draft the warrants, and we go to work."
He opened a Warp-gate and beckoned Trazyn.
"Bringing in a fresh batch of allies for the raid is a sound plan. Forget 'Integration' for now; we'll hire them as Mercenaries. Necrons killing Eldar is a racial tradition, after all."
"Ah... quite so," Trazyn replied, following him into the gate.
The "Dawnbreaker Committee" was a marvel of efficiency. Because they held absolute authority and shared a unified intent, they didn't waste time on pointless administrative bickering.
If the Four agreed, even the most "Abstract" proposal was law by the next morning.
The efficiency of centralization was absolute.
Provided the leaders were sane.
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