"Are you ready?"
Blazkowicz asked Dorn beside him, who was wiping the teeth of Storm's Teeth, completely unaware that he had drawn the hatred of a deity.
His brother had waited for a long time, wanting to end the Ork war with his favorite weapon.
Dorn nodded and pulled the trigger. After ensuring the Chainsword was functioning properly, he magnetically attached it to his back and ignited two Dimensional Lightsabers.
Before cutting his way to the Ork Boss, he continued to use the lightsabers to avoid having the Chainsword gummed up with blood and gore at a crucial moment, affecting its performance.
"We can move," Dorn looked up at the open space in front of the fortress, where countless war engines were activated.
Blazkowicz nodded, raising his C'tan Gauntlet to project holograms of Horus, Perturabo, and Junior.
The holographic map shifted: the rune mark of the Doom Marine, the helmet of the Iron Warriors, the iron fist of the Imperial Fists, and the wolf crest of the Luna Wolves Legion all settled over the Ork base camp.
At that moment, the Primarchs and the Archon shared a tacit understanding, shouting in unison: "The final assault begins!"
Hum— The battle command was issued synchronously. The tactical panels of all participating units turned crimson, reflecting the will of the Primarchs: Begin the attack!
Thump! Thump! Thump!
The gates of the battle fortress swung open as the Atlantis Titans stepped out against the walls, their cloaks fluttering with majesty, and the dimensional weapons in their hands instantly ignited.
The hum of charging energy echoed forth. The shoulder cannons of the four mechs rotated, pouring a torrent of azure blue energy into a fan-shaped zone.
The shoulder cannons in disintegration mode swept across, plowing eight deep trenches into the ground, reducing everything to atomic ashes.
The troops had only just retreated, and now, they were launching a counteroffensive!
As if on signal, millions of spherical combat drones flew out from the fortress, gathering into various kill squads and swooping down upon the fan-shaped engagement zone.
"Crush the Xenos!"
The Knight Mechs roared from their steam sirens, rushing out from beneath the feet of the Titans. Their Heavy Stubbers fired continuously, blasting apart Ork scrap buggies.
"Charge! Brothers!"
Sigismund gripped the railing of the Land Speeder, inspiring his Legion brothers to counterattack with a ringing voice.
"By the Primarch! For your glory and the Master of Mankind!"
The war cries of the Imperial Fists echoed through the heavens, venting the long-held repression of withholding their heavy weaponry.
Rigid steel treads rolled forward as Rhino armored personnel carriers and Predator tanks crushed and ground Ork bones beneath them, forging a bloody path with unstoppable weight.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Unprecedented artillery noise erupted across the battlefield as the steel torrent surged forward. Multiple weapon systems fired in unison, leaving the Orks completely unable to mount an effective counterattack.
Almost in an instant, the battlefield technology leaped up several dimensions.
The Greenskins suddenly realized that the humans had become super Waaaaaagh!
All kinds of fierce big robots, cool flying machines, and super-heavy buggies burst forth from the ground like Gretchin.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
Orks might be confused, but they would never back down from a fight.
Without an Ork Boss to command them, Warbosss roared and led the Boyz charging forward.
Unfortunately, warfare had transcended its original mode, and the Orks had yet to realize it.
Before the heavy firepower of the steel torrent, Warbosss were vaporized instantly, reduced to burning skeletons by vehicle-grade supercharged lasers or volkite rays.
Proof showed that no matter how powerful a physical body was, it remained fragile before technological creations—unless—
It was a transcendent god worshipped in reverence!
"For Humanity! For The Emperor!"
Dorn stood atop the Mastodon, his Voice of Terra Bolt pistol firing continuously, picking off the abnormally strong Ork Boyz.
Delaying the Orks could not be rushed; purging the Orks could not be delayed.
To boost morale and hasten the battle, Dorn stood in a prominently dangerous position, using his extraordinary Primarch charisma to inspire the courage of both the Legion and mortals.
Sure enough, hearing the shout of their Gene-Father, the Legion Warriors felt a surge of strength course through their genetic lineage and seep into every muscle, making them fight even more courageously.
Led by the Primarch, the Space Marines unleashed extraordinary combat power, advancing alongside the treads of heavy armored vehicles.
bolter rounds flew in unison while armor roared.
The Humies launched a sudden counterattack, catching the Orks completely off guard. Although individuals still charged forward fearlessly, they could not form an effective defense.
Lacking overall coordination from a boss-level entity, the Warbosss could neither control the big picture nor rally the Boyz to fully commit to the battle.
Heavy treads rolled forward, Titan mechs crushed bloody mud, and the entire human formation pushed forward at extreme speed.
Blazkowicz stood beside his brother, his super shotgun firing repeatedly, killing the roaring Warbosss as they charged.
The horn of the decisive battle sounded, yet his brow was furrowed in concern.
Supernatural anomalies manifested across the battlefield as the final battle was launched.
Blazkowicz saw the souls of dead Orks converging toward the Ork base camp, forming a soul storm invisible to ordinary eyes.
Deep Psionic mutations alerted the Librarians of each Legion, causing them to submit continuous supernatural alarms.
But the arrow was on the string; the total assault would not stop.
With four Primarchs personally commanding and joining the fray, the advance would never cease over an abnormal Psionic surge.
So what if there were supernatural threats?
The decisive battle had begun; even if the Ork base camp was a dragon's den or tiger's lair, the Primarchs would still charge right in!
"For Lupercal!"
"Iron Within, Iron Without!"
"A Good Death!"
On the main front, millions of drones swept the field, Titan mechs crushed Ork Gargants beneath their feet, and the combined infantry-tank torrent surged forward irresistibly.
In the other three directions, Legion war cries shattered the wild roars of the Orks.
In Legion-level operations led by Primarchs, transhuman warriors displayed military prowess, morale, and might that no elite mortal could ever hope to match.
Astartes bolter fire showed none of the panic of mortals; their accuracy was beyond imagination, paired with the targeting assistance of tactical helmets, making almost every shot count.
Embedded within the genetics of Space Marines was an inherent capacity to coordinate with Legion brothers, multiplying their combat efficiency as their numbers grew.
"For Lupercal!"
At the very forefront of the Luna Wolves, Abaddon led the charge at the head of the death assault squad.
The suicide squad members were all those who had transgressed within the Legion; they sought to reclaim their dignity with their lives, realizing their mistakes through self-reflection and redemption.
In the next second, the Luna Wolves' fiercest warrior was sent flying by a punch from an Ork Warboss.
Abaddon spat blood as he crashed to the ground, his face full of bewilderment. He could not comprehend how an Ork barely a size larger could unleash such tremendous force.
He was fortunate; just as the Warboss was about to pursue him, a Knight Mech surged close and cleaved the Ork warrior apart with its knight Chainsword.
"Be careful." Abaddon was pulled up by a Battle-brother, and through the private vox-channel came the warning from his Gene-Father: "Something seems wrong."
Despite the punishment, Horus's concern for Abaddon far exceeded that for his other sons.
"I understand."
Abaddon swallowed the metallic taste of blood in his throat and softly replied, no longer breaking formation as he charged under the cover of his comrades and heavy firepower.
Compared to the Luna Wolves, the advance of the Iron Warriors was far more structured; moving layer by layer, they employed an effective saw-tooth formation.
Firepower cleared entire sectors with sheer tonnage, armored forces immediately pressed forward to occupy the positions, and then artillery bombardment extended further ahead.
Repeating this rhythm, the advance proceeded in flawless order. The chaotic, savage charges of the Orks could not even get close to the Iron Warriors.
Perturabo's doctrine of firepower supremacy blasted open the path ahead with payload and explosions, leaving behind torn flesh and shattered bone.
After the smoke cleared, tanks and armored vehicles rolled over, crushing Ork severed limbs along with any resilient life that yet clung to survival.
The final wall of the encirclement held no roar of Earthshaker Cannons, nor the shouts of Legion Warriors.
Yet overall, their rate of advance was the fastest.
The Doom Marine disliked talking, and the Adeptus Custodes were equally taciturn.
Black and gold shimmered together as two vastly different, immensely powerful warriors slaughtered countless Orks with Guardian Spears and dimensional blades.
The Doom Marine strode forward, Adeptus Custodes Telemon-pattern Heavy Dreadnoughts cleared the way, and the Iron Men served as mobile firing positions.
Intelligent machines and transhuman warriors covered each other as various energy beams swept past, leaving a trail of corpses in their wake.
"Something is wrong."
As the Adeptus Custodes Blade Champion carved a bloody path and the assault squad pushed on, Junior in the central position spoke to Odysseus: "The Ork resistance is far too weak; they have completely devolved into mindless beasts."
"What on earth is happening?" The Captain of the Adeptus Custodes shook the blood from his spear, feeling an eerie chill in his heart: "My spine is tingling now, and the trembling of my heart makes me want to flee."
Clutching his chest, he said raspily: "I underwent bio-alchemical augmentation and psychological conditioning, excising the fragility in my genes and all fear from my heart."
"But now—"
Odysseus looked toward the destination glowing with eerie green light, speaking no further, though his shaken voice said everything.
"I feel two grand wills," spoke the accompanying Psyker Master, his voice trembling and his body involuntarily stiffening. "Melting the barriers with burning green flames, they are crossing the veil, arriving into reality from the far shore of souls!"
Malevolence! Frenzy!
Two great wills pierced the veil between illusion and reality, crossing from the realm of souls into Realspace.
Viewed from the supernatural plane, the laws of reality were steadily warping out of balance.
Across the human host, the Legion Librarians and Psykers grew deeply unsettled, sensing two domineering, savage wills encroaching upon both mind and reality!
"Waaaa—"
Among the Sons of Horus, a mortal Psyker clapped a hand over his mouth to choke back a scream, his pale face twisted in terror.
His will was shaken by the alien power, and the psychic light in his eye sockets lost its eerie tint, bleeding into a vibrant phosphor green.
Bang!
The Psyker's panic and wavering did not escape the notice of a Legion Warrior, who cut him down with a bolter round.
The Legion Warrior's judgment was sound; that Psyker's power was beginning to spiral out of control, and he had pulled the trigger to safeguard the Legion.
That execution by bolter round heralded death and signaled that the calamity of psychic corruption was already taking hold.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Abrupt bolter fire erupted sporadically—shots completely outside the battle plan, sounding distinctly rushed.
Psykers whose bodies and eye sockets began to emit a green glow were executed one after another by the Legion Warriors to nip the danger in the bud.
Yet the bizarre phenomenon was entirely beyond suppression.
Psykers collapsed to their knees, clutching their skulls and unleashing unearthly, bestial roars as green energy surged and churned beneath their skin.
Lightning flashed. The bladed talons of the Talon of Horus impaled a Psyker's torso, its molecular disruption lightning disintegrating flesh and bone.
"What in the world is this?" Horus demanded, alarmed and bewildered.
With the astonishing vision of a Primarch, he clearly saw non-human organs mutating rapidly within the green-glowing body of the Psyker.
Greenskin transformation!
Horus's thoughts momentarily froze, appalled by the horrifying conclusion that had surfaced in his mind.
A human whose skull had not even warped had undergone an Orkoid mutation in a matter of seconds.
Even a Primarch could scarcely believe what lay before his eyes.
"Notify the entire host!" the Wolfmaster barked, his strides swift as he mentally shared this harrowing discovery across the tactical interfaces of all allied forces.
He was forced to accept that something incomprehensible had emerged on the battlefield.
Some deeper power was thoroughly rewriting humans at the genetic level, assimilating them into filthy Greenskins.
"Press the attack!" Horus roared, leveling his blade toward the green cocoon, unable to conceal his urgency.
His warrior instincts told him that this had to be ended swiftly; the Greenskins were using esoteric means to corrupt the very physical laws of the battlefield.
On the other side of the battlefield, Perturabo saw the mutation report sent by Horus, and his heart leapt into his throat.
After a moment of calculation, Perturabo issued an order to the orbital fleet via his cybernetic interface: "Deploy the Psy-Nullifying Bombs. Bombard the entire battlefield."
"Understood," came the AI captain's immediate reply.
In low orbit, several Argent Nur warships opened their ventral bays, exposing the tips of massive vertical torpedoes before sending them hurtling downward with a roar.
The torpedoes reached the airspace above the battlefield at hypersonic speed and detonated in airbursts, dispersing the ashes of Blank that glittered like starlight in the morning sun.
Though the cloned remains of Blank were not as potent as naturally born Blank, their sheer quantity made up for the deficit.
Volley after volley of torpedoes detonated high above, continuously scattering powdered Blank bone to permeate the green psychic barrier.
Atop the Mastodon, Dorn saw Horus's warning and immediately presented a solution to his brothers: "Withdraw the Psykers and restrain the Imperial Army; they cannot set foot inside the Ork energy field."
Beyond the mutations, Dorn perceived even more.
The Primarchs possessed tremendous psychic potential, but given the volatile and perilous nature of Psionic Energy, they seldom drew upon that strength.
A Primarch was inherently an amalgamation of symbols and concepts.
Against the backdrop of the Imperium's strict oversight of Psionic Energy, for them—as paragons and leaders of the Emperor's Children—to openly wield or study Psionic Energy would have dire consequences, directly undermining the foundation of the edicts set by The Emperor.
Dorn could see that the green Waaagh! energy was fundamentally rewriting the laws of physics.
Across the battlefield of the Adamantium Basin, under the corrosive blight of the Waaagh! energy, the very concept of humanity's "existence" began to waver.
Faint, stray fluorescent glows drifted around the Legion Warriors' bodies, threatening to scatter into starlight at any moment.
"Brother," Dorn called out, turning to Blazkowicz, who was blasting enemies apart with his shotgun. "Tell me."
His voice rumbled along with the vehicle's treads, grave and solemn. "What enemy are we facing?"
"Legends," Blazkowicz replied impassively, steadily firing and reloading as he blasted bursts of golden light through the Ork tide. "Physical avatars of two concepts revered and mythologized by an entire race."
Things had reached a point where secrecy was pointless; they were destined to face divine avatars.
Though Blazkowicz lacked psychic talent, he was inherently attuned to the power of the Warp, and he sensed two colossal wills descending.
Orks, two wills, deities stepping through the veil—their identities were glaringly obvious.
Gork and Mork!
Those two titans, eternal beings of Ork lore, had departed the paradise where they wrestled to their hearts' content and descended into Realspace.
The Voice of Terra in Dorn's hands paused its firing for a fraction of a second. He searched for a tangible equivalent to draw a comparison: "Like The Emperor?"
Blazkowicz pondered the comparison, then nodded in agreement. "Yes!"
"And raging, berserk," he added. "Devoid of reason as we understand it, acting purely on instinct, wielding an utterly savage will to obliterate everything they never cared about!"
Atop the Mastodon, Dorn stopped shooting and looked at Blazkowicz, asking in all earnestness, "Are you confident you can defeat it—or them?"
Resolute though Dorn was, hearing that their foes were as mighty as The Emperor left even his heart uneasy.
The Emperor, that immeasurable, glorious being in his heart, his omnipotent father—now reflected on the opposing side of the Legions.
At the thought of the power his father wielded, Dorn felt a deep, chilling tremor, if not outright dread.
He could not fathom—even his transcendent intellect could not construct a single scenario of—how one could ever overcome an adversary as formidable as his father.
"They aren't that strong," Blazkowicz replied, turning to Dorn with a bright smile on his heroic face. "The Emperor is peerless; no one in the galaxy can rival him."
The physical avatars of the Ork race were powerful, but not that powerful.
Within the Warp, Gork and Mork possessed supreme divine might, where a single clash of their wrestling could forge countless universes.
Yet this was Realspace.
The suppression that physical laws exerted upon non-real entities was far beyond mortal comprehension.
Crossing between realms, these deities bore the crushing weight of the entire Realspace; the divine power they could unleash was not even one-billionth of what they wielded in the Warp.
"The Emperor is unique; do not compare other transcendent entities to him."
Blazkowicz pointed toward the distant green cocoon, his tone noticeably lighter than Dorn's. "They are conceptual amalgams; their strength is constrained by their vessels."
"Yet no matter how sturdy an Ork Boss may be, mortal flesh has its limits and cannot contain the concept of an entire species."
"I see," Dorn nodded, signaling his comprehension.
And indeed, he understood.
A racial conceptual amalgam was like a mighty river, surging with the will and power of the entire Ork race.
Yet the body meant to house their vast might was merely a small vessel; the strength it could unleash was strictly bounded by whatever that vessel could hold.
"Alpha-level alert."
Without hesitation, Dorn transmitted everything he understood via text message to Perturabo and Horus.
Alpha-level alert.
The highest-level warning on the battlefield, applicable to apocalypse battlefields, putting the Imperial forces on absolute high alert to respond to any situation at the highest readiness level.
Finally, Dorn added an extra note: "The Orks will manifest an extraordinary entity, with an estimated Alpha-plus level psychic reaction."
The Alpha-plus psychic grade was the Imperium's official upper limit designation for Psionic Power.
A Psyker or extraordinary entity of this caliber possessed the power to annihilate an entire Star System single-handedly.
In the Imperium of Man, only Imperial Chancellor Malcador was registered as an Alpha-plus.
The Emperor was not on the list; his power transcended grade scales and could not be measured by conventional standards.
Worth mentioning, Blazkowicz had a dedicated rating within the Imperium's psychic grading system—Omega-minus-minus.
One grade lower than the Omega-minus of the Blank and the Sisters of Silence.
An Omega-minus psychic grade was almost invisible to mortal eyes; mortals who could not perceive the Blank would instead feel nausea and revulsion.
When near or in contact with a Psyker, a Blank could immediately sever their connection to the Warp and suppress their Psionic Power.
However, against excessively powerful Psykers, such as Delta-grade and above, the psychic reaction would still persist; high-level Psykers could withstand the suppression of the Blank, still cast psychic spells, and even kill the Blank in turn.
Blazkowicz was different; his suppression over Psionic Energy was absolute, and he was fundamentally immune to psychic attacks.
Even if The Emperor unleashed psychic spells right in front of him, it would not affect him in the slightest.
Based on these properties of absolute suppression and immunity, the Imperium's psychic classification archives graded the Warrior King as Omega-minus-minus to signify his uniqueness.
With the Primarch personally issuing an Alpha-level alert, the entire battlefield paused for an instant; the Legion's behavior shifted, becoming far more meticulous and cautious.
"Fortitude!" On the apocalypse-level battlefield, powerful Psykers spared no mental strength, and biomancy Psykers blessed the Legion.
Fortitude Blessing, a spell commonly used by biomancers, acted directly upon the flesh of the Astartes, enhancing endurance and stamina recovery.
"Precognition!" A curtain of divination light fell, enveloping the Legion Warriors and granting them the foresight to perceive enemy moves.
"Courage!" The blessing of telepathic Psykers instilled courage deep within their hearts, dispelling fear and exhaustion.
Bestowing battlefield blessings upon friendly forces, the powerful Psykers capable of resisting the corruption of the Waaaaaagh!, under heavy guard, turned toward the Orks
to unleash devastating strikes.
Purple lightning struck the ground, charring hundreds of Orks to cinders; gravity collapsed in an instant, tossing junk tanks hundreds of meters into the air.
Along the Legion's path of advance, steel tracks rolled, bolter rounds and artillery roared in unison, and psychic spells flashed with hazardous radiance.
The four Primarchs oversaw the Legions, radiating extraordinary presence and inspiring the warriors to charge forward valiantly.
At the same time, the very presence of the Primarchs served as humanity's "anchors" in Realspace.
The Legions shattered the frenzy of the Ork Boyz, simultaneously arriving at the perimeter of the Ork command center.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
The roars of the Orks grew ever more berserk; they were the elite among elites, green flames blazing in their eyes as they held back the Legion's advance.
On the ground, an iron torrent surged from all directions, battering the Orks into complete disarray.
The Titans of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the avatars of the Omnissiah, galloped across the battlefield, demolishing one Gargant after another and reducing Ork war machines into heaps of scrap.
The Atlantis Titan seemed like a mechanical god walking among mortals; without needing artillery, merely lifting its hundred-meter-tall frame and stepping down, it crushed a thirty-meter-tall Gargant.
The sky was dense with drone swarms, buzzing across the battlefield to deliver precision kills against Ork Boyz and Squigs.
Naval aviation pilots swept through the air like the wind, leading unmanned units to drop strings of ordnance.
Adamantium Basin, referred to by the Orks as the "Dog Bowl."
The fighting was unprecedentedly fierce; led by their Primarchs, the human Legions advanced valiantly, completing the encirclement around the Ork command post.
Every second, the four Legions slaughtered over a million Orks; with each passing minute, the Ork defenses weakened by a fraction.
They were elites, but the human warriors were elites as well.
And the humans had no worries about their rear!
In the orbital battle, the Human Fleet had seized total control of the theater, their orbital bombardments never ceasing.
From the perimeter of the battlefield to regions further beyond, Orks flooded in ceaselessly.
Lacking Waaaaaagh! force field shields or any other defenses, all of them were reduced to ash under the orbital strikes.
An army of a hundred billion Orks, a quantity that would inspire despair in any ground engagement, was meaningless before orbital bombardment.
As time progressed, the Human Fleet fully dominated the orbit and expanded their zone of control across the entire world.
The destruction of the Orks was at hand.
Over two hundred thousand Space Marines, tens of thousands of armored vehicles, and hundreds of thousands of Adeptus Mechanicus Skitarii surrounded the green cocoon so tightly that not even water could seep through.
The moment the Legions stepped into this area, they immediately sensed something amiss.
Around the green cocoon, the Waaaaaagh! energy had almost materialized, rising from the ground like smoke.
The warriors seemed to see phantoms: countless miniature Orks, wearing carefree, joyful smiles within the Waaaaaagh!
radiance, wrestling and brawling to their hearts' content.
The Waaaaaagh! field was so dense that even non-stop orbital strikes using Null Munitions could not neutralize the savagery and turbulence within it.
As the Legion Warriors inhaled the air, green energy seeped into their bodies, igniting a manic frenzy and violent aggression deep within.
They shut down the external recycling systems of their helmets, but were still unable to block the influence.
"What is this?" At the forefront of the Iron Warriors formation, Forrix raised his arm and exclaimed in shock.
His Legion comrades looked over and discovered that across the surface of the First Company Commander's gray-iron armor, a layer of tiny green mushrooms had sprouted!
The warriors were horrified; looking at their own Power Armor, they saw mushrooms sprouting layer upon layer, corroding the carbon steel surface into pitted scars.
Beep~ Beep~
It was not just on the Ceramite surfaces; the internal diagnostic systems of their Power Armor blared warnings as the recyclers detected a spore infection.
The Oolitic Kidneys reacted simultaneously, activating internal toxin filtration; the Larraman's Organ began working, accelerating blood circulation to purge abnormal factors from the bloodstream.
Ork spores had already invaded the bodies of the Space Marines!
"Blank ash!" Perturabo growled, offering a solution at the fastest possible speed.
The Legion Warriors reacted instantly; taking turns on guard duty, they scooped up the bone dust accumulated on the ground and shoved mouthfuls into their mouths.
If they did not want green mushrooms bursting from their bodies, this was the only way!
Swallowing the bone dust mingled with soil, the warriors consciously shut their Preomnor stomachs, allowing the mysterious factor of the Blank to circulate throughout their bodies, suppressing the growth of mushroom spores.
Batch after batch, they finished ingesting the bone dust in an orderly fashion.
Once the situation was relayed through the joint operations system, the Luna Wolves immediately followed suit, swallowing the ashes of the Blank.
"Fall back five hundred meters!"
Realizing the peril of getting too close, Horus issued a command ordering the Legion to withdraw: "Raise Psionic Shields, defend against paranormal threats."
"Damn it!" The Wolfmaster cursed under his breath, casually picking up a rusted Ork weapon and hurling it toward the barrier.
The Legion Warriors watched helplessly as the steel weapon flew through the air, transformed into a cluster of mushrooms, and crumbled to dust.
Hiss— The Astartes drew in sharp breaths; if they hadn't swallowed the bone dust in time, that weapon would have been their fate!
What should they do?
The warriors looked to their left and right, gazing toward those towering figures, hoping to receive orders from their Primarchs.
"Legions, fall back five hundred meters," Blazkowicz's voice sounded over the comms. "Brothers, bring your elite honor guards and assemble with me."
Silence fell over the communications channel; the warriors knew that the battle of the Primarchs was at hand.
With strict discipline, the Legion Warriors' perimeter pulled back five hundred meters, establishing a heavy firepower defensive line supported by armored units.
Hearing their brother's call, the Lord of Iron and the Wolfmaster did not hesitate, bringing their most elite warriors and honor guards to gather with their brother.
At the front of the battlefield, Blazkowicz rested the super shotgun in his left hand, while his right hand reached out and grasped empty air.
Dorn was puzzled, not understanding his brother's actions.
The next moment, Realspace tore open a Warp rift, and a hilt spun out through the void, landing squarely in Blazkowicz's hand.
The instant he laid eyes on that hilt, Dorn felt a chilling, sinister malice wrap around his soul like a venomous serpent!
When Blazkowicz gripped the stone hilt wrapped in cords of strange creature leather, Dorn felt a surge of completeness welling within his heart.
Yes, a chill ran through his soul, and his eyes burned as if scalded by the hilt, yet an unshakable instinct arose within him—he could sense that only when his brother grasped that hilt did he truly become whole.
Blazkowicz, ever calm and composed, was about to reveal another facet of himself as a warrior—an unmatched, peerless ferocity!
"Brother." Horus had already arrived, the Wolfmaster backed by a rigid formation of a thousand Justaerin Terminators standing solemnly in ten ranks.
Ezekiel Abaddon, the Commander of the Terminators, and Falkus Kibre, their practical Commander, flanked the Wolfmaster to his left and right.
This was the elite of the Luna Wolves, warriors who had braved life and death alongside Horus, and the mighty fighters the Primarch trusted most.
"Brother." Blazkowicz sheathed the Crucible Sword at his waist, concealing its edge.
Horus nodded, his gaze drawn uncontrollably toward that hilt, his biological instincts as a Primarch screaming wildly as they resisted an unspeakable, primal dread.
Yes, fear.
Deep down, Horus refused to acknowledge such cowardice, yet he could not deny the palpitations in his chest.
The chill of the stone hilt seeped into his soul along his line of sight, gradually dissolving the hardened shell of a transcendent being and gnawing at the fragile humanity within him.
He looked at the dark red mark on the hilt, identical to the one on his brother's chest, imbued with some unique significance.
Horus maintained a humble expression, though deep down, a faint twinge of jealousy surfaced.
He had reason to believe the hilt in Blazkowicz's hand was one with his brother, an embodiment of his very will.
This had to be a gift bestowed by their Father—
To conceal his emotions, Horus quickly shifted his gaze toward the other side of the cocoon's perimeter.
Perturabo was towering by nature, and now, clad in heavy armor, he resembled a walking, humanoid war machine.
Behind him, four hundred Legion Warriors clad in Cataphractii Pattern Terminators advanced with heavy steps—clearly the Primarch's Honour Guard of the Iron Warriors.
"Brother." Perturabo strode over, his gaze sweeping past Horus to settle on the hilt at Blazkowicz's waist.
The Crucible Sword radiated a chilling aura, its curse upon divine beings making even these mortal demigods sting with unease.
Not just the demigods of man, even the Space Marines who had inherited the Primarchs' divine prowess wore taut expressions beneath their helmets.
Their bodies were stiff, every muscle coiled tight.
The blade of the Warrior King made their Gene-seed tremble, as if exuding a bone-chilling terror.
"Let us go."
Blazkowicz pointed toward the cocoon of light. "We end this war."
With that, he strode toward the green cocoon of light, Ork spores withering in his wake and turning into pale gray dust of death.
Behind the Primarch, First Company Commander Atum followed, leading a thousand Legion brothers.
Junior watched the Primarch and Captain of the Adeptus Custodes Odysseus depart. As the Legion's Archon, he could not charge into the fray; he had to coordinate the broader war from outside. Although the encirclement of the Ork command center was complete, the battle was far from over.
Orks surviving the orbital bombardment trickled in like countless rivulets, forming a counter-encirclement around the human coalition.
Nor was it only Junior.
Across the other participating Legions, with their Primarchs detached from the chain of command, the leadership of the vast battle groups had been entrusted to their most dependable sons.
Among those they led into direct combat, there were few tacticians—only ferocious, battle-hardened brawlers.
"Move out."
Dorn led the Templar Knights and the Huscarl Guard, marching behind the ranks of golden-armored warriors toward the green cocoon of light.
His golden eyes narrowed slightly.
It was exceedingly rare for the Adeptus Custodes to leave The Emperor's side and take an active part in the Great Crusade.
Ever since the Imperial Fists assumed part of Terra's defenses, Dorn had interacted frequently with Constantin Valdor, well aware of the mission and purpose the Adeptus Custodes bore.
Unless absolutely necessary, they would never leave the Throne World to join the Great Crusade.
"Legion Warriors, mind your positions. Do not drift away from the Adeptus Custodes and the Doom Marines."
Though Dorn was as unyielding as stone, his mind was exceptionally meticulous: "This battle is unprecedented; even I cannot guarantee emerging unscathed."
Across the Imperial Fists' comm-channels, no one replied to the Primarch's warning, yet a heavy silence descended upon the marching column.
In the eyes of the Legion Warriors, their Primarch was a fearless, near-invincible symbol.
For a Son of the Emperor to be uncertain of survival spoke volumes of the impending peril.
Not a single member of the Templar Brethren spoke; the formation merely tightened around their Primarch, declaring through silent action their resolve to protect him.
"Keep up." Perturabo's heavy tread crushed the ash beneath his feet as he led the Dominator Guard forward.
His mind was linked directly to each warrior through neural interfaces, ensuring that his will was executed with absolute perfection.
Clatter—
Four hundred iron-gray warriors moved in unison, the grinding scrape of their Cataphractii Power Armor blending together. Adorned with black-and-yellow hazard stripes, the Legion advanced like a shifting hazard line tightening across the field.
Bringing up the rear, the Luna Wolves followed closely behind.
Their tactical role overlapped with that of the Doom Marines, and with no need for two frontline assault formations, they conceded the spearhead, deploying their ferocious firepower to secure the flanks and rear.
The elites gathered from each Legion, their armors of diverse hues blending together, wove into a flowing, mottled river of ceramite.
At the head of the column, four Primarchs marched side by side.
The greatest beings of the Imperium, flanked by legendary heroes, advanced toward the perilous path cloaked in phosphorescent green radiance.
Blazkowicz strode forward, his suppression field clashing invisibly against the emerald Waaaaagh! energy, producing erratic flickers of light.
The suppression fields of a thousand Doom Marines and their Gene-Father converged, repelling the green Waaaaagh! field and keeping it from nearing the advancing ranks.
Riiip—
As his foot fell, an opening parted slowly in the green curtain of light. Within it surged an intense emerald radiance, casting forth countless rays; beyond that, nothing else could be seen.
"They are inviting us."
Blazkowicz pressed down Dorn's sword arm. "Inviting us into their realm."
With that, Blazkowicz marched forward, and the radiance receded before him, retracting like the tentacles of a sea anemone.
Dorn followed immediately behind, while Perturabo and Horus exchanged a glance before falling into step behind them.
A dark void surged forth, dispersing the green light and "melting" a tunnel through the luminous barrier.
As the Primarchs crossed the threshold, their surroundings spun in dizzying upheaval, utterly alien to the outside world, as though they had stepped into another realm entirely.
"What is this...?"
Horus let out an exclamation of awe, Dorn knitted his brows in silence, and Perturabo's face darkened to an ashen grimace.
In all their lives, they had never witnessed so fantastical a sight.
Inside the green cocoon of light, space and distance no longer adhered to reason, completely defying the laws of physics.
Beneath the Legions' feet lay a landmass suspended midair.
As far as the eye could see, greens of every shade churned together, forming a surreal sky wherein depth and distance could not be discerned.
It was a spectacle beyond the comprehension of ordinary mortals.
Beneath the emerald canopy, beyond the isolated island where the Legions stood, the air was filled with the boisterous laughter and roars of Orks.
They varied wildly in size: the largest stood as tall as Imperial Knights, hulking, savage, and brutal; the smallest were as tiny as grains of rice, drifting along the currents in the air.
Yet every Ork phantom shared a single trait—they existed in pairs.
Regardless of form or size, every Ork was paired with another, frolicking, brawling, and wrestling with abandon, utterly lost in an eternity of joy.
Perturabo took a few steps toward the edge of the floating continent and pointed into the depths of the green realm, his voice gravelly: "Disorientation of spatial sense."
He pointed toward a vortex spewing myriad green motes of light, coalescing into another scene.
The green vortex spun, surging with shimmering streams of light that formed a kaleidoscopic vista.
Every angle depicted Orks brawling without a care in the world, alongside glimpses of the floating continent.
And then—
The entire green realm churned with a roar, turning into a massive drum. The kaleidoscope spun and refracted, mirroring every move made by the Legion Warriors.
They were as though plunged into a sea of mirrored shards, countless refracted images cascading over them until even the Space Marines could no longer discern where they truly stood.
The Legion Warriors instinctively lowered their stances; in this ever-shifting world, fragile though the continent beneath their feet might be, it was the only real and stable ground they could rely upon.
The reflections continued to shift, warriors and Greenskins blurring together until it all culminated in sheer, ultimate violence.
In the mirror images, the Orks ceased fighting one another and charged toward the Legion Warriors!
The Primarch led the troops into the cocoon of light.
Outside, the various Legions performed their respective duties, conducting continuous extermination against the Orks in accordance with the strategy left behind by the Primarch.
"I have heard of your legend."
Inside the joint command center, Sigismund's voice sounded slightly hesitant. "The Eldest Son of the Doom Marine, Archon Junior."
Hearing the words of the Templar Brethren Master, everyone in the command room pricked up their ears, eager to listen to that legendary past.
The sheer weight of being the Doom Marine's Eldest Son would make anyone an unprecedented legend in any Legion.
Kydomor Forrix of the Iron Warriors and Hastur Sejanus of the Luna Wolves both spared inquisitive glances while directing the battle.
Both were steady, wise Commanders left behind by their Primarchs to maintain continuous operations for their Legions.
Amidst methodical combat, hearing a legend speak of legends with one's own ears was indeed a rare pleasure.
With his helmet tucked under his arm, Sigismund gazed intently at the man before him with his blue eyes, filled with anticipation.
Wastelands and slums were fertile soil for legends and heroes to be born.
As a Templar Knight hailing from the wasteland, he harbored a natural longing for such stories.
Now that the living legend stood before him, Sigismund could not resist asking, seeking the truth behind the rumors.
He raised the tactical terminal in his hand. "Right now, the average success rate for the Doom Marine modification surgery is roughly out of one hundred and twenty million—"
"Ninety-nine."
"Back then, after the first one hundred thousand failed, you were the very first Legion Warrior to be successfully modified."
"So—" Sigismund remarked half-jokingly, "the success rate record you set is one that almost no one can ever break."
Junior looked up, watching the warrior who was far younger than himself, and a smile surfaced on his handsome face. "What legend is there to speak of?"
He made no effort to embellish, speaking the plain truth: "Just a lucky, unfortunate wretch."
"I was very unlucky." Junior raised an eyebrow, recalling that past filled with unforeseen events. "I heard they were conducting gene-sequencing at the conscription square. The Adeptus Custodes—I didn't know they were Adeptus Custodes back then—were distributing congee, so I went."
"After getting a mouthful of food, I gave thanks to the generosity of the masters in the shadow of a wall, sheltering from the radioactive dust and the scorching sun."
"And then—" He shook his head, speaking with a touch of helplessness, "Inside the laboratory, all the prime test subjects died.
"The Adeptus Custodes came out to find another subject, and that unlucky wretch just happened to be me. They dragged me straight into the laboratory."
Heh~
The absurd and helpless tale revealed by the man himself made everyone in the command room stifle their laughter.
They could almost picture it: a scrawny drifter being dragged into a laboratory by gold-armored Adeptus Custodes, kicking frantically with both legs.
The warriors could never have imagined that a high-and-mighty Legion Archon, a paramount figure revered and celebrated by mortals, had a past that was so uniquely cruel and comical.
"You passed the trial."
Sigismund wore a solemn expression. "And then you became the Eldest Son, existing as the symbol of the Legion."
"That in itself is a legend. One only lives once, yet with the single chance granted by your life, you seized that one-in-a-hundred-and-twenty-million probability and survived in the end."
"Indeed, I survived." Junior let out a reminiscent sigh. "Though I know not whether it was fortune or misfortune."
Curious, Sigismund asked, "What kind of journey was it?"
Realizing that it was improper to pry into another Legion's core secrets, he quickly changed his tune: "When I underwent the Astartes modification, what carried me through the surgical procedure were the people and events from the wasteland worth remembering."
Junior's dark eyes narrowed slightly as he recalled the countless deaths and despair in the blood-stained wasteland.
He merely shook his head with a faint smile. "An endless cycle of being torn apart, reshaped, torn apart, and reshaped again."
The Archon spoke lightly, yet the heavy weight behind his words was palpable; the journey had been filled with unimaginable torment.
Sigismund said no more. Meeting a legend today and hearing the untold truth directly from him was already an experience worth treasuring for a lifetime.
Ding~
Just as the ice had been broken in the command room and the atmosphere was gradually relaxing through conversation, a chime sounded from the massive holographic sand table.
The additional information drew the attention of the Commanders back to the sand table projection.
Junior unfolded the data; it did not seem to be anything major.
A void recon vessel had transmitted a message: an abnormal seismic wave model had been detected in the Xenos Coalition capital.
Recalling that a massive battle was raging there—with Greenskins attacking the remnants of the Rangdan and Madam Clara's allied forces—Junior assumed both sides had deployed high-yield weaponry, triggering world-spanning shockwaves.
Just as he was about to add a note to the log and await further developments, a sudden anomaly erupted!
BEEP~ BEEP~ BEEP!
A piercing alarm sounded!
Within a ten-thousandth of a second, the holographic sand table zoomed out to encompass the entire Star System!
"What happened?" Sejanus growled, clicking open the anomalous data as he watched the graphics shift.
He was a step too late after all.
The anomalies were fully displayed upon the holographic sand table with absolute clarity.
The Commanders saw the icons of every planet in the Star System glowing red, while unusual vibration waveforms rippled through the void like waves.
[Synchronized tremors detected!]
The synthetic voice of the cogitator intelligence echoed through the command room with palpable urgency.
"Tremors detected!" Forrix of the Iron Warriors raised his hand; the tactical terminal of his Cataphractii Terminator armor displayed abnormal readings.
"The entire world—"
"No!" The iron-willed warrior's face suddenly turned pale. "The data isn't wrong! The fleet reports that every world in the Star System is experiencing synchronized earthquakes."
Inside the command room, the cascading alarms sparked a commotion as each faction used their own means to verify the source and authenticity of the report.
"Silence!"
With a crisp, low growl, Junior raised his hand, suppressing the room with his sheer personal authority. "I know."
"Do not panic." His cold gaze swept over the room. "We carry a heavy responsibility: to await the return of our Primarchs."
"First ascertain what has transpired, then formulate adjustment plans and countermeasures."
"Panic and anxiety are useless in the face of war and sudden emergencies. They will only rob us of our judgment."
At his shout, the unrest in the command room died down. The staff leaned over their feedback consoles, awaiting responses from the Auspex.
"Dispatch Legion lieutenants or leave trusted subordinates behind, then return to the void to closely monitor planetary changes."
"An anomaly spanning the entire Star System means this battlefield will never be confined to a single world or localized theater."
Junior pointed to the trembling worlds on the holographic sand table. "We designate the war world as our core and deploy accordingly around it."
"The Iron Warriors support this!"
"The Luna Wolves support this!"
The Legion leaders declared their support one after another. The Legion Warriors then turned to look at the accompanying personnel from the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Adeptus Administratum.
"Supported."
Tech-Priest Magos bowed slightly in assent, and the Adeptus Administratum officials naturally raised no objections.
Junior nodded silently. Suppressing the stray thoughts in his mind, he reached out via psychic link to his brother aboard the void ship: "Use my authorization code to open the Primarch database."
A response soon came over the psychic link: "What data do you wish to retrieve?"
"X-1 Necrontyr."
"Data transmitted."
Inside the war world command room, Junior stood before the holographic sand table as his Power Armor's intelligence translated the data into biological signals and fed it into his mind.
While he reviewed the files, the entire decisive battle Star System was undergoing a tremendous transformation!
Across the Star System, the earth of every world cracked open, and a sickly green radiance surged forth from the subterranean depths—
Rumble!
The skies trembled, and the ground split asunder.
Every planet within the Star System shuddered beneath high-frequency vibrations as tectonic lines ruptured, gouging out endless networks of jagged chasms and canyons.
From deep within the canyons, magma surged outward like scalding blood fountaining high from the planet's wounds.
And in the deepest heart of those wounds, through the churning rivers of molten blood, a sickly green brilliance gleamed.
This sickly green radiance was heavy with ill omen. It bore none of the savage, life-fueled ferocity of the Orks; rather, it was bleak and deathly pale—an ashen green like an ancient curse, steeped in the putrid stench of death.
Deep within Planet Three, mechanical scarabs scuttled everywhere, their mandibles emitting dimensional rays as they labored in unison to haul a pocket of hyper-dimensional space back into Realspace.
"O Great Lord!"
Deep underground, chanting had arisen at an unremembered hour. Cold, mechanical voices overlapped, sounding like the recitation of an ancient epic.
Green light burned fiercely along the fringes of the hyper-dimensional space as it forced its way into Realspace, returning from the unknown reaches of higher dimensions.
"O Bronze Prophet!"
The mechanical voices swelled ever louder, chanting the title of a great monarch, offering homage and welcoming the return of this ancient being with archaic rites.
In the depths of the hyper-dimensional tomb, the Living Metal floor slid apart, and an ornate, upright sarcophagus engraved with dynastic crests slowly ascended.
"Sakh-Nehru!"
The mechanical chorus called out the Phaeron's name, rousing him from sixty million years of slumber to once more rule the galaxy that belonged to the Necrons!
"Great Lord, Bronze Prophet, Sakh-Nehru!"
At last, the mechanical voices chanting the great name merged into a resonant chorus. The sigils upon the upright sarcophagus flared with light, and the lid slowly slid aside.
The Phaeron inside remained asleep. Noble glyphs were etched into his mechanical chassis, and his ancient headdress was ornate and elegant, embodying the culture and glory of that primordial race.
"Awaken!"
Before the sarcophagus, dynastic Overlords and Crypteks knelt in vast numbers, their voices ringing out as they summoned their slumbering emperor.
Hummm—
The moment the cries subsided, the atmosphere in the tomb plunged into dead silence. From within the sarcophagus, where hands were folded across a mechanical chest, sullen green light flared inside hollow eye sockets.
Clack!
With the hiss of mechanical joints flexing into motion, the tomb hall fell completely silent. Even the Canoptek Scarabs bowed toward the casket, rendering homage to the dynastic Phaeron.
Within the sarcophagus, Sakh-Nehru's eyes burned bright. His hands lowered to his sides, and his gaze descended upon the dynastic ministers prostrated before him.
The Phaeron did not speak. His majestic gaze swept across them as his mechanical core began organizing telemetry.
[Remember the fastest novel site across the web: 101 Kanshu, complete library, 101𝔨𝔨𝔰.𝔠𝔬𝔪 at your leisure]
The chassis forged of high-grade Living Metal was stirring to wakefulness, his cogitations growing clearer. Yet he sensed an incongruity—his will was no longer bound by any invisible tether.
"The Command Protocols?"
The Phaeron's voice was measured and elegant, bearing the poise and wisdom of an ancient aristocrat, interwoven with the self-scrutiny of a sage.
Rousing from his slumber, the very first thing Sahh noticed was that the Command Protocols, once used by the last Silent King, Szarekh, to bind all Necrontyr, were gone.
"Ten thousand years earlier than the appointed cycle."
The Phaeron slowly voiced his second question. Clasping the ceremonial staff interred beside him, he stepped onto the Living Metal floor, fixing his gaze upon the Crypteks in expectation of a rational explanation.
Crypteks. Before the Necrontyr underwent biotransference into the Necrons, most of them had served as scientists and statesmen.
After attaining virtually immortal metallic vessels, the duties of the Crypteks began to overlap, and they assumed multifaceted mantles.
Advisors to the Phaeron, technicians of esoteric sciences, political philosophers—aside from the primary military officers, they oversaw the vast majority of responsibilities across the Tomb World.
"Phaeron above."
Kneeling at the head of the ranks, the Chief Cryptek tilted his head up. His simulated, aged voice was calm and deliberate; he had evidently devised his answer long before.
"Concerning the dissolution of the Command Protocols, we do not know precisely what transpired."
Within the Cryptek's measured tone crept a faint note of disquiet: "Even if the Silent King slumbers, the protocols should still be operative. They ought not have vanished from our engrams entirely."
"Perhaps the protocols degraded under the erosion of eons, or perhaps the Silent King suffered some unforeseen catastrophe. The exact cause eludes us."
"That epoch of history was expunged by the Triarch. Chronomancers have peered into the past on countless occasions, yet could discern no definitive explanation."
In the middle of the Cryptek ranks, an artisan with a Chronometron hovering at his flank nodded, confirming that the Chief Cryptek spoke the truth.
No answer came from the dais.
The sarcophagus sank back into the Living Metal floor, and in its place rose an exquisite throne of iron-gray metal. Leaning upon his staff, the Phaeron took his seat upon it.
He rested his brow against his fingers, his metallic visage devoid of expression, green light flickering along the slit of his mouth as he spoke: "Is that so."
Sahh released a long sigh, the shoulders of his high-grade Living Metal frame slumping—a mannerism reproduced in pristine detail, just as when he had still been made of flesh.
Silent King Szarekh. He silently murmured the name. The synthetic sensation of 'worry' inflicted something akin to a 'headache' upon his mechanical cognitive core.
Sakh-Nehru was a resolute unificationist; the Nehru Dynasty had always championed the sovereignty of the Triarch.
Even if the Necrons' unity had been built on the unyielding compulsion of the Command Protocols, the species was at least no longer fractured.
Unity was always a virtue, regardless of how it was enforced.
If the Command Protocols were gone, tens of thousands of dynasties pursuing their own discordant wills would spell an unmitigated disaster for the Necrons from within.
Recalling how the Necrontyr had descended into endless civil warfare fueled by rampant factionalism prior to the War in Heaven, the neural logic loops within Sahh's head twitched with unbearable stress.
He unconsciously pressed a finger between his brows, hoping to smooth away his distress, only for his fingertips to register the unyielding coldness of metal.
Sahh lowered his arm in a self-mocking gesture, the light in his eye sockets dimming as though he were closing his eyes.
Beneath the throne, the dynastic dignitaries kept their heads lowered in silence, waiting for their sovereign to assimilate the data.
After a protracted silence, a slow inquiry drifted down from the dais: "Why was the dynasty roused ahead of schedule?"
"It is the Krok," replied the First Overlord, standing at the fore of the military officers, his voice resonant and deep. "Their war with another species triggered the tomb's perimeter defenses. Following threat assessment protocols, the tomb sentinels resolved to enact the Awakening Protocol."
Such was an Overlord's duty: to wield military authority over the Tomb World and ensure the dynasty's martial deterrence against outside forces.
All external military threats fell entirely under the charge of dynastic Overlords, including the prerogative to interpret warfare.
Rising at the Phaeron's gesture, the Necron Overlord turned his palm upward, projecting a holographic display of the two species waging chaotic war across the surface.
"These are Krok?"
The Phaeron straightened upon his throne, first asking in stunned disbelief, then shaking his shoulders in booming laughter: "These are not the Krok I once knew!"
In Sahh's recollection, the Krok stood over six meters tall, encased in heavy, fully sealed Power Armor, capable of meeting the attacks of the Necrons head-on.
They were mighty, sagacious warriors—not these primitive brutes bellowing 'Waaaaagh!'
"The passage of eons has transformed everything."
The Chief Cryptek possessed no ocular lenses upon his face; instead, an orb upon his forehead projected quantum hololiths into the air.
Floating before him were multiple genetic double helices, visibly warped by irreversible damage: "Without the Old Ones to stabilize their genetic sequence, the Krok underwent inevitable degeneration, degrading into the wretched form they bear today."
"As for the species engaging them, we have detected blatant traces of an 'uplifting' ceremony. The Old Ones modified the simian genome, elevating a primitive beast into the sapient species designated as 'humanity.'"
As the Cryptek spoke, another strand of genetic helix materialized within the light, its shimmering bands highlighting the exact sequences engineered by the Old Ones.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"
Loud laughter echoed from the throne, so exuberant that not even the chill of a synthesized voice could stifle its mirth, laden with unmistakable schadenfreude.
"You mean to say," the Phaeron said, raising a slender finger and pointing toward the Chief Cryptek in high amusement, "that two creations of the Old Ones are locked in civil war against each other?"
"Indeed," the Cryptek affirmed. "They have betrayed the Old Ones' grand design for harmony and co-prosperity, turning their blades of malice upon each other instead."
"How utterly ironic!" The Phaeron sneered, then raised his voice to summon his dynastic Overlord: "Memnar Kheb! My regent!"
"At your command." The Overlord knelt, martial zeal pulsing through his mechanical frame.
The Necron Phaeron sat enthroned in regal splendor: "Order the full awakening of the Nehru Dynasty!"
"Cleanse the vermin from our Tomb World, and discipline these ungrateful creations on behalf of the Old Ones!"
"By your command!" The Overlord bowed low, then turned and raised his staff high, bellowing orders to the other Overlords: "Enact the Awakening Protocol! Awaken our battlefleets and soldiers! Neutralize the threat, scour clean the verminous spawn of our eternal foes, and purge them from our Tomb World!"
The Necron Overlords shouted in unison: "Understood!"
The Tomb World trembled. A terrible armada that had once terrorized the Material Universe was about to awaken from its slumber, ready to cleanse the young races and ancient adversaries alike!
The earth tore apart, and the stars trembled.
Humans, Rangdan, Madam Clara, and Slaugth all detected the abnormal tremors spreading across the Star System.
Only the Orks were still Waaaaaagh-ing, still charging forward!
On the war world, the expression of the Eldar envoys hiding in the cave shifted—they realized what was happening!
The unusual tremors across the Star System had only one explanation: a Necron Dynasty had awakened.
Over the past sixty million years, aside from ruling the galaxy, the Eldar's primary endeavor had been finding and destroying Tomb Worlds to prevent the Great Awakening of the Necrons.
As one of the two races whose destinies were tightly entwined during the War in Heaven, the Eldar fully understood the terror of the Necrons.
"What do we do?" The Troupe Master donned his mask, fully prepared to enter the fray.
The Eldar warriors followed suit, concealing their countenances behind masks to shield the gaze of the Eldar gods from the slaughter.
They were completely ready to intervene in the battle against the Necrons.
"This is an opportunity!" The Great Harlequin stood up in excitement, pointing toward the fractured ground in the distance. "An exceptional opportunity to forge a friendship."
Facing the bewildered gazes of his kin, The Great Harlequin explained slowly, "The Godslayer and demigods entered the divine realm, taking away
humanity's elite forces."
"Humanity is now more vulnerable than ever."
"Honored Messenger," the Harlequin turned toward a shadowy corner of the cavern, summoning the warrior lurking in the dark, "we trouble you to brave the perils, enter the Webway, and muster our host."
The Messenger raised his head, the cavern's dim luminescence washing over his helm: "Are we to engage in all-out war?"
Remember our 101 Reading Website
"No," the Harlequin shook his head. "Facing the Necrons head-on bears an unbearable price."
He raised his hand to conjure starlight of Psionic Energy, weaving a crescent-shaped mechanical construct: "Necron aircraft. At this stage, they are Necron constructs that humanity cannot resist."
"This is a critical juncture. By providing vital support, we shall earn their favor and lay the foundation for friendship."
"Only our Eldar Nightwings can contest the Necrons' Night Scythes."
"Understood." Having heard the instructions, the Messenger answered in a low tone. As his silhouette faded, an echo remained: "I shall return with the pilots and their wings."
Just as the Eldar made their move, in another corner of the battlefield within a pocket dimension, Trazyn rubbed his hands in excitement.
He keenly sensed that a precious collectible was calling to him.
"The Nehru Dynasty," the Necron Overlord murmured. "Sakh-Nehru, that insufferable fellow, that meddler of...
...history."
The moment the Necron device activated, Trazyn knew which dynasty had awakened.
The Nehru Dynasty opposed his ideology, so naturally, Trazyn held no affection for it.
Trazyn considered himself a collector, a preserver of history who bore witness to historical events in their authentic and primordial state.
Sakh-Nehru was different. The Nehru Dynasty under his command was well-versed in temporal mechanics, traversing the past and future to alter the course of monumental events.
With their ideologies diametrically opposed, amicable feelings were out of the question.
To Trazyn, the awakening of the Nehru Dynasty merely paved the way for him to acquire rare additions for his collection.
As for the rise and fall of the dynasty itself, he could not care less.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Even as Trazyn the Infinite plotted in his mind, another anomaly overtook the planet.
An obelisk radiating an eerie green luminescence slowly rose from the shaking mountains, manifesting grandly upon the battlefield.
Pitch-black all over, it was inscribed with sickly green runes—a fractured solar disc encircled by six geometric polylines, symbolizing an endless cycle of realignment and absence.
One obelisk after another plummeted to the ground with deafening crashes, leveling mountain peaks and carving out a secure landing zone.
Then, portals opened on the face of the obelisks, revealing swirling green teleportation vortices.
A chilling clatter echoed as warriors formed of lead-gray metal, wielding green firearms, stepped through the vortices in a cold, rhythmic cadence.
Death was on the march: Necron Warriors deployed straight onto the battlefield through their advanced teleportation technology.
The Necron Warriors had once been the lowest tier of the Necrontyr race; cast into Biotransference Furnaces, their souls were devoured by the Star Gods.
In their industrial-grade Living Metal bodies, they had not even retained complete memories.
No longer Necrontyr, they were reduced to metallic wraiths, their mechanical shells entombing a boundless, frigid hatred toward all living things.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
Upon witnessing these mechanical combatants, the Orks felt rage flare from the depths of their souls, longing for nothing more than to tear these metal skeletons apart on the spot.
During the War in Heaven, the Old Ones had etched this hatred into the genetic code of the Orks' forebears, passed down through bloodline generations until awakening in this very era.
They abandoned the humans, pivoting instead to attack the metal skeletons.
"Metal Humies!" the Warboss roared, brandishing a massive choppa as he charged toward the foes that had abruptly joined the battlefield.
[Purge]
Faced with the Orks' frenzied onslaught, the Necron Warriors processed trillions of calculations in a single second, formulating the most optimal tactical response.
The Necron Warriors squeezed their triggers, and emerald beams erupted from the barrels of their Gauss weapons, unleashing the terrifying pinnacle of physical science upon Realspace.
When a Gauss weapon fired, it first produced a focused bipolar magnetic field resembling that of an asynchronous induction motor.
Rather than launching a solid projectile, this magnetic field locked onto the target and exerted an immense pulling force on target matter at a subatomic scale, dragging it toward the muzzle.
Thus, what appeared visually to be a striking green beam was in fact a spatial-temporal tractor effect.
Enveloped by this magnetic field, the Gauss weapon discharged a pulsed electrical current packing megawatt-level energy.
This energy could instantaneously shatter the chemical bonds between the target's atoms, peeling away resilient armor, flesh, and even bone, reducing them layer by layer into basic molecules and atoms.
The charging Warboss was struck simultaneously by several beams. His impenetrable armor crumbled into dust and sloughed off, green luminescence permeating his flesh.
The savage grimace on his face turned to sheer bewilderment as skin and muscle peeled away in layers, his physical form drawn back at extreme velocity...
...toward the gun muzzles.
The Warboss collapsed.