Chapter 533: As You Know, Mankind is a Magnanimous Species
Armageddon, Hive Hades, Balcony of the Military Commission.
The low, slanted light of the sun cut through the soot-stained streets of Hive Hades, eventually coming to a rest before the spire that served as the current apex of authority for the Armageddon theater.
The smoke and smog birthed by the conflict had been methodically siphoned away by the Mechanicus' weather-engines. The toxic gasses had been distilled into a dark, corrosive rain, channeled into the parched rainforest ruins of the shattered Armageddon sub-continent.
Conscripted units were being demobilized. The primary armored columns had entered a rest-cycle. Administratum officials were neck-deep in a fresh census, re-assigning labor quotas and organizing hab-reconstruction. The war-manufactorums were pivoting, their lines slowing from the production of shells to the fabrication of the components required for the world's rebirth.
The discourse of the common man was no longer restricted to the metrics of slaughter. The bitter ash of loss was being replaced by the mundane chatter of the future—plans for reconstruction, for families, and for the hope that lived in their still-vigorous, if scarred, bodies.
As the war for survival concluded, the species entered its next phase.
Reconstruction. Development.
And the inevitable preparation for the next Crusade.
"The Necrons, then?"
Facing the request from Trazyn the Infinite, Arthur allowed a flicker of surprise to touch his features.
He glanced at Ramesses, offering a silent acknowledgement of his partner's "Work-Addict" nature. It seemed the Formless Lord—raised in an environment where productivity was a god unto itself—never missed an opening to assign more labor.
Arthur sank into a clinical silence.
Objectively speaking, the four of them possessed a technological leverage that was without peer in the current galaxy. They operated under protocols far more flexible than any other power of equivalent weight.
Could the Dawnstar strike agreements that were historically impossible?
Yes.
Their treatment of the Eldar was proof. They had effectively liquidated the sovereignty of a primary xenos branch, absorbing them into their hierarchy. Because the Aeldari were desperate to escape the hunger of Slaanesh, and because the Dawnstar Lords were undeniably effective, a massive accord had been reached with minimal friction.
But the Necrons were a more nuanced variable.
Unlike the Eldar, who were a dying race clinging to their last breath, the Necrontyr were already dead. The modern Necrons were a race of iron-men who merely claimed the name of their ancestors.
The Phaerons and Overlords—those possessing high-tier sentient logic—understood this reality with absolute clarity.
But the dead value their dignity.
We have lost our souls, we have lost our flesh, but can I not at least maintain my pride?
We have endured the eons; what harm is there in a little self-delusion?
This was the consensus of the Necron high command.
In truth, the Dynasties remained largely indifferent to the prospect of "Biological Restoration." Or, at least, they were too traditionalist to pursue it with any sense of urgency. No other Phaeron was like Szarekh; they didn't share the Silent King's erratic, "guilt-driven" impulses. With immortality secured, they were content to move with the speed of continental drift.
What threat could the galaxy possibly offer to a race that had already seen the end of life?
If they died, they simply... stayed dead. They had been through the process once already.
This was why the Dawnbreakers had never proactively engaged the primary Necron Dynasties, despite their long-standing link to Trazyn.
They couldn't "gut" the Necrons the way they had gutted the Eldar. The leverage wasn't there. Furthermore, the Dawnstar Lords were unsure what price the Dynasties would demand for their cooperation. They had chosen to watch and wait.
If the metal-men didn't come knocking, the Dawnstar wouldn't open the door.
And truthfully...
Arthur looked at Trazyn, who was currently attempting to project an air of "Solemn Dignity."
He had little confidence in the Overlord's diplomatic weight.
The "Trophy King" was a man of... questionable reputation. He lacked rank, and his infamy among his own kind was absolute.
Had it been Nemesor Zahndrekh requesting an audience, Arthur would have accepted instantly. A man of his standing could have secured significant strategic dividends for the Imperium.
But for the "Practicalities" of politics, they had a specialist in their own ranks.
Arthur thought of a certain man in blue—the brother who, since his awakening, had spent every waking hour cleaning up the Dawnbreakers' administrative messes and sanitizing the Imperial board.
Let the professionals handle the xenos-diplomacy.
"We shall consult Guilliman," Arthur stated.
His eyes remained fixed on Trazyn.
"You will act as the guide."
"With pleasure!"
Trazyn let out a metallic chirp of relief. Arthur hadn't ordered him to assassinate the Stormlord or the Silent King.
Ramesses' "Visions of Greatness" were all well and good, but Trazyn knew his own stats. He was a scout, not a king-slayer. A formal embassy was a task he could handle, provided he didn't accidentally steal the furniture.
But his reputation was a problem. He would likely impose a "Negative Status" on the human delegation.
He narrowed his oculars, his processing power dedicated to "Asset Sanitization."
Ramesses, however, was already moving. He was a master of the "Speed-Work" meta. If a job could be done, do it now and enjoy the rest later.
A teleport-circle flared beneath their feet. In a flash of displacement, Ramesses, Trazyn, and Arthur's projection manifested tens of thousands of light-years away.
Astartes-scale army transits were a logistical headache, but a "C-Suite" meeting? That required only a simple Warp-tunnel through the Formless Manse.
The Honor of Macragge
The scene shifted. Ramesses and Trazyn stepped into a domain that was the antithesis of the War Council.
The blood-lust and tactical tension of Armageddon were gone, replaced by the dense, focused aura of high-tier administration.
The hall was vast, bright, and organized with a terrifying, Roman efficiency. Workstations were arrayed in perfect grids. Staff moved with a brisk, disciplined purpose. Some recorded directives from the Telepathica choirs; others audited physical ledgers against the data-feeds. Fingers blurred across holographic interfaces as the bureaucracy of a kingdom was processed in real-time.
At the heart of this machine was the Regent's Office. It was a black hole of information, greedily consuming every status report from across the Segmentum and converting it into ordered policy.
Ramesses emerged from the teleport-gate, scanned his surroundings, and followed the honor-guard of Ultramarines toward the primary desk.
Hiss.
The logic-engine maintaining the seals identified the guests and threw the doors open, notifying the Master of the House.
A second later, the radiant, golden-clad Formless Lord and the metallic Overlord stepped into the sanctum.
"Ho! Old Thirteen!" Ramesses called out from across the room.
"The days of You hiding in your office and being pampered by Eldar secretaries are over!"
The Ultramarines in the room stiffened, their faces a mask of "Censured Discomfort."
The Custodes present subconsciously adjusted their grip on their guardian spears, ignoring the remark to maintain a look of "Peak Professionalism" before the Dawnstar Lords.
Lately, the Grey Knights had been telling tall tales of seeing the Emperor's true, radiant form in the Warp—claiming He was still the magnificent titan of old, striking at the shadows of the pit. The Custodes were seething with envy that they weren't at His side, and they were determined to prove their worth on the administrative front.
"I can assure You, there is very little 'enjoyment' in this mountain of quotas," Guilliman replied, looking up from a ledger with a look of practiced misery.
"And I doubt any of you would volunteer to swap seats with me."
"We are brothers, Roboute. Kin and companions," Ramesses said, initiating his standard "Aggressive Friendliness" protocol.
"I could never let my brother drown in a sea of ink alone."
You're the one who threw me into the sea, Guilliman thought, but he merely waved a hand.
"What do you require?"
Beside him, Yvraine didn't even have the time to feel embarrassed by the joke. She was buried in a stack of Craftworld resettlement files, her fingers moving as fast as the Regent's.
Beyond the Emissary, there were representatives from every Craftworld in the sector, all awaiting the Primarch's direct guidance.
In the micro-second it took for Guilliman to lift his stylus, the Eldar staff—who had only been studying human governance for a few years—fell into a visible panic as the data-processing rhythm slowed.
Guilliman's "Hardware" was simply too high-spec.
He hadn't even bothered to reform the administrative structure yet. He was simply brute-forcing the existing, inefficient Imperial system with his own cognitive power until the "ticking bombs" of the state were defused.
"Business, Roboute," Ramesses said. He noticed Romulus offered a quick nod before returning to his own stack of STC-audit files. Ramesses reached into his robes and pulled out several skulls, dropping them onto the desk with a series of dull thuds.
"Take a look. Do these craniums look similar to You?"
"..."
The room went silent.
The Custodes, the Astartes, and the mortal aides stared at the desk.
Human. Abhuman. Eldar. And one of gleaming, necrodermis silver.
The staff looked at the skulls, then at the Eldar hovering around Guilliman. Their expressions underwent a kaleidoscope of shifts before settling into a look of "Indescribable Meta-Confusion."
Guilliman looked at Trazyn. The Overlord was dressed in formal Necron regalia, looking like he was attending a coronation.
Trazyn paused, then realized he had forgotten to engage his "Citizen-Mask."
Necron skulls were slender, with two distinct crests—hardly "Human" in silhouette. It was a violation of the aesthetic meta.
Adhering to the "Protocol of Political Correctness," Trazyn reached up and detached his head-plate. He reached for the metallic skull on the desk.
Snap. Click.
The necrodermis flowed. The oculars flared with a golden light.
"I have long been a human," the Necron Overlord declared to the room. He subtly adjusted his frame to manifest exactly twenty-four ribs.
He was now a slightly oversized, high-fidelity human skeleton. He looked more "Imperial Standard" than most Astartes.
"..."
The silence deepened, broken only by the sound of mortal heartbeats.
One aide clutched his chest, gasping for air as his world-view shattered. A nearby medicae-servitor moved in to stabilize him.
A senior official, sipping a glass of water with trembling hands, patted his colleague on the shoulder. He wore a look of weary pity.
That is Lord Ramesses. Get used to it, or you'll be a servitor by noon.
"I shudder to think how the Imperium would look if I were facing this reality alone," Guilliman sighed. Then, he allowed a small, relieved smile.
He guessed what his partners were planning.
But even with the "Theoretical" clear, the Dawnstar's total indifference toward xenos-stigma was... provocative.
"Truly, brother, Your—"
"Sanguinius did it too," Karna interrupted. The Burning Angel was currently acting as the "Warp-Anchor" for the administrative network, his presence keeping the daemons from intercepting the data.
"?"
Guilliman's expression shifted.
"It is a historical fact, Lord Regent," Trazyn added, using the formal honorific with a crisp, metallic click.
"Ten millennia ago, our Sovereign, the Silent King, shared a brief accord with Lord Sanguinius. He provided assistance to the Great Angel during his transit to Terra."
"Hah?"
Guilliman didn't even try to hide his shock.
Sanguinius? The Golden Boy of the Imperium? Working with metal xenos?
Not just xenos, Ramesses thought. He was ready to make a deal with the Warp if it saved his sons.
Sanguinius was not the "White Lily" of the propaganda. One only had to look at his management of Baal or his "unorthodox" maneuvers during Imperium Secundus to see the steel beneath the wings.
But unlike a certain Primarch who claimed perfection, Sanguinius was a being of constant evolution. He acknowledged his flaws. He faced the Red Thirst. He looked into the abyss of his destiny and walked into the fire anyway, offering his life to prevent the worst possible timeline.
He had outgrown himself. That was his true majesty.
"And the Lion too," Arthur added over the link.
"..."
Far away in the Obscurus Segmentum, the Lion—who had just finished executing a planetary governor for collaborating with Genestealers—stiffened. He had been taking a moment to check the "Brothers' Group Chat" to fill the void of suspicion in his heart.
On the Honor of Macragge, a group of Watchers in the Dark were currently busy sorting a stack of files at the feet of the Astartes.
The Regent's Office held every secret of the modern age. The Lion no longer just "Killed"; he managed a war of information.
Standard communications went through the psychic network. But the high-priority, "Sensitive" files were carried by the robed little people.
Wooo—Wooo—
As Arthur spoke, the Watchers' red eyes curved into crescents. They waved a tiny hand and handed over a series of finger-print-authenticated withdrawal logs and personnel files. Then, they vanished back into the shadows.
These beings moved between the Warp and Reality without the need for a relay-station—the ultimate couriers of the Old Ones' legacy.
"The Lion, who knew the secrets of the Watchers, recognized the Chaos-taint long before we arrived. He understood the nature of the Tuchulcha Engine. But as a creature of the 31st Millennium, his use of such assets was limited by his own protocols," Romulus explained with a chuckle.
"In the end, between 'Consolidating his Legion on Caliban' and 'Rushing to Terra,' he chose to look for You."
"I am... honored," Guilliman sighed, shaking his head.
The Lion actually respects me. Who knew?
After offering a silent rebuke to the Lion (who had gone offline in embarrassment), Guilliman surrendered his objections.
He saw the Dawnstar's logic.
The Traitors serve Chaos. But the 'Loyalists' treat the Emperor's slogans like suggestions. They are flexible when the situation demands it.
Perhaps even Father Himself is the same.
Fearing that if he pushed any further, they would "Produce" the Emperor to lecture him, Guilliman decided to quit while he was ahead. He had to protect his Father's reputation—what little was left of it after the "Imperial Jokes" had started circulating among the Primarchs.
It seems I am the only 'Pure' member of Imperium Secundus left.
Having archived the "New Secrets" of his brothers, Guilliman suddenly felt that his own "Second Empire" blunder wasn't such a big deal after all.
"Lord Guilliman."
Yvraine's voice pulled him from his reverie.
The Eldar Emissary looked exhausted. She held a thick stack of manifests, her eyes glowing with a faint psychic light—a sign she had just finished a high-speed remote coordination session.
The table beside her was buried in reports and Eldar "Status-Runes." Holographic screens orbited her like moons, flickering with data-bursts awaiting the Regent's signature.
The pressure from the Eldar bureaucracy was a physical weight. She was speaking faster than usual, her rhythm broken by Guilliman's brief lapse in focus. She looked to him for a decision.
The pile had become a mountain.
The Eldar were efficient beasts of burden. Their hardware was superior. In both military and political spheres, they possessed potential that far outstripped a baseline human.
And their demands were low—mostly because the Dawnstar had already paid the price of entry.
He is quite a comfortable manager, Guilliman thought, picking up a stylus.
"..."
He looked at Yvraine's sagging shoulders and her "Pleading" expression. His gaze lingered on her pointed ears for a second before he wisely returned to the documents.
Well. Pot calling the kettle black.
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