"Is it a blessing or a curse?"
The giant, called Budo by the unknown transcendent being suspected to be a Star God, slowly strode toward Trazyn. His towering figure enveloped Trazyn's entire living metal body and shadow.
Behind the giant, tangible streams of Honkai particles blossomed like liquid light. This strange power formed a frenzied vortex within the hall, tearing the space apart and revealing another face of reality itself.
Various radiant arcs of particles circled and flickered at the center of the vortex, emitting a dreamlike glow.
That was the source of the Honkai Energy invasion—another world, the interface of the extradimensional Honkai super-spacetime network. From within, iron-gray, heavily armored warriors surged forth in endless ranks, each bearing the twin-headed eagle banner and the insignia marked with the sequence 'Ⅱ', alongside Teigu: Adramelech.
They were immense, powerful—each one larger, thicker, stronger, and fiercer than any Space Marine Trazyn had ever encountered.
Even masked, their spiritual bearing differed greatly from the Space Marines Trazyn remembered. Their powered armor appeared smoother, newer, more efficient, more advanced—without the chaotic inscriptions, prayers, or purity seals that cluttered the Imperium's kind.
Without glancing aside, the Punishers marched past their Legion Commander and directly advanced toward the scarred battlefield beyond the fortress.
Several squads of Punishers bearing engineer insignia remained behind. They approached the unstable spatial rift and, with intricate techniques that amazed Trazyn, stabilized and refined the crack until it became controllable.
"An obvious question—approach in reverence, heed the divine words… Fearful of death, this is your eternal honor."
Budo's dark-golden eyes gazed down upon Trazyn's skull-shaped visage. In their depths, lightning seemed to explode, penetrating straight into the soul.
At first, his speech was slightly halting, as if adjusting to the High Gothic tongue's trilled cadence, but soon, with the utterance of a few more words, his fluency matched that of the most eloquent scholars and orators upon Holy Terra.
"Hmm… It is my honor."
Retracting his gaze, Trazyn—ever the most active and informal of the Necron Overlords—was long accustomed to dealing with Imperials. He did not argue, but rather emphasized calmly:
"Provided that She—your 'Emperor'—can truly fulfill Her promise."
Trazyn lifted his glowing green optic lenses, gazing upward at the giant before him, and continued: "Such a matter, I shall report to my King—the Silent King."
After witnessing Selene's overwhelming reversal and amplification of an entire Cadian-scale blackstone structure, using it as a coordinate to tear through reality itself—shifting heavens and earth with godlike might—Trazyn was inclined to believe her words.
He did not even need Selene's continued threats; shrewd as he was, Trazyn readily agreed to her proposal. He would deliver her fragmentary consciousness to the Celestial Orrery, and bring her Honkai Cube core to the Silent King.
Of course, before that, Trazyn intended to consult his old nemesis—the Diviner, Orikan—to confirm the truth of the matter.
Though Trazyn delighted in sabotaging Orikan's schemes, making his prophecies fail, and even luring Imperial Space Marine Chapters to 'poke Orikan's rear', he still admitted his old foe was a masterful chronomancer.
He could divine the future through stellar motion. It was through this method that Orikan, tens of millennia ago, had predicted the fall of the Aeldari, the rise of humanity, the Horus Heresy, and countless other galactic upheavals.
The impact upon the galaxy rivaled that of the War in Heaven itself… For my kind—will this be salvation, or poison?
Trazyn was eager to know.
"As you wish."
To this, Budo simply replied in a deep, confident, commanding tone, "The process is irrelevant. What matters to this general is only the result you deliver."
"Do not let our Empress' grace be shamed."
"Fearful one, remember—restrain your kin. Any hostile acts committed during the Great Crusade will result in total annihilation. This will affect the evaluation of your treatment."
"Please yourself. I will fulfill my duty. Once I report this matter to the Silent King, you may regard each Necron dynasty as an independent entity. Their destruction, in principle, is of no concern to me."
Trazyn replied leisurely, his attitude catching Budo slightly off guard.
Facing the fearful giant's stare, Trazyn tapped his scepter with his fingers and shrugged. His tone was filled with indifference toward his own kind as he explained:
"Sixty million years of slumber, the Silent King's self-imposed exile, the absence of supreme authority, the fall and succession of the Phaeron, the fragmentation of dynasties—many of my kin are not as friendly and peace-loving as I am. They are like rusted relics with corrupted data—stubborn and dull."
"I am rather curious—when the Silent King once again issues commands to all Necrons without the restraint of the 'Supreme Control Protocol,' just how much cohesion and unity will remain within our race?"
When it came to amusement, even if it involved his own kind, Trazyn was always enthusiastic.
Do not assume the Necrons are united. After the last Silent King, the Fearless One, ended the War in Heaven and destroyed the 'Supreme Control Protocol' that granted him absolute control over all Necrons—choosing self-exile instead—countless internal conflicts and civil wars broke out among them.
To say nothing of the distant past, the wielder of the Staff of the Destroyer whom Trazyn had coveted for so long—the current Phaeron of the Sautekh Dynasty, the Stormlord Imotekh—is a prime example of a victor born from Necron civil strife.
After the previous Phaeron of Sautekh perished due to wear and deterioration from sixty million years of dormancy, the dynasty's overlords, leaderless, waged brutal wars among themselves for the throne. During this internal war, the awakened Imotekh fought his kin with as much bloodshed as any external foe to seize the crown.
"Interesting. A fractured race of galactic overlords—this general understands the situation."
Budo chuckled softly, though his laughter carried no warmth.
What had he not seen before? Feudal fragmentation? Fine—if that house fights this one, accountability lies with the dynasty or the ruling Phaeron. No collective punishment. He understood perfectly.
"Let's move."
He nodded knowingly.
"The Celestial Orrery… an ancient artifact. Let us hope it lives up to its name and is not exaggerated."
As he spoke, his deep voice resonated, "If it is real, it will surpass all conventional fleets of the Imperial Navy, outshine the Shield Worlds, the star roads, the Chaos Mechanicum constructs, and Cybertron itself… comparable to the Halo Ark Array, perhaps even possessing the world-script characteristics of the [Rongo Rongo]—a true artifact."
"Does your kind still possess the means to forge the Celestial Orrery?" he asked.
"Unclear," Trazyn shook his head. "I am but an Overlord, not a Phaeron, much less the Silent King… But if resources are sufficient, it should be reproducible."
After speaking, the photonic conductors forming Trazyn's eyes flickered violently. He paused, then said, "Those things you mentioned… hmm, all those fascinating-sounding items—might I have a look?"
Nothing more than his old habit acting up.
He had originally planned to depart immediately to consult that old riddler Orikan for counsel, but upon hearing the string of special names from Budo's mouth, Trazyn's curiosity was instantly piqued like a mouse catching the scent of grain.
Reporting urgent matters to the Silent King? Not urgent—let me first see what treasures are worth collecting and remembering!
"You will know soon enough…"
Budo, fully in control, waved his hand slightly. Yet when his gaze shifted toward the center of the hall—to the distinctly feminine, half-metal, half-flesh body—his expression froze for a moment.
Murmuring a short prayer, he walked slowly toward the powered-down living metal figure. The storage device at his waist unfolded, and he carefully drew out a large red cloth to cover her body.
He knew well of Selene's peculiar collecting habits—and her fondness for leaving her mark.
This one must be guarded carefully.
...
Not far away, with Selene's departure, the stasis field she maintained slowly faded. The group of Space Marines who had been frozen in place like statues were now filled with disbelief.
Every one of them, even the most unruly Space Wolves officer or the most feral veteran of the Blood Angels' line, wished to hear the final judgment of this towering giant. Their faces showed a variety of emotions—shock, astonishment, excitement, and fear.
Just moments ago, they had witnessed the rending of reality and dream—a true divide between the material world and the impossible.
Another Primarch had appeared in the world of the living.
A Primarch leading his own legion.
And not one recorded by the Imperium—one of the Lost Legions, the Second Legion!
This giant was a true god. The difference between him and a Space Marine was like that between a Space Marine and a mortal child.
His armor was heavy and solemn, its bright iron-gray surface gleaming with a cold, intimidating light, like the dawn's first ray or the last glint of sunset. It was adorned with intricate golden details, masterfully crafted.
Its surface was covered in elaborate, delicate sigils. The most striking among them was the massive emblem upon his gorget—two interlocked iron fists like hydraulic presses, and beneath them, the symbol of his sequence: 'Ⅱ'.
A crimson cloak with golden trim billowed behind his proud, majestic form.
Upon seeing this figure, Ursakar E. Creed forgot even to consider the strange anomalies occurring on Cadia. He felt his blood surge, his very being ignited.
Finally, with the dispersal of Selene's stasis field, Ursakar E. Creed—first among those to regain movement—worked his parched throat, struggling to find his voice.
"Are you… truly a Primarch? The Lost Legion—it must have been part of the Emperor's grand foresight and wisdom! When calamity threatening all mankind arises, you appear, answering His divine will to redeem the world."
"The End Times… the Emperor has finally heard the cries of His children! Is He now to end this endless war against heretics and traitors?"
Creed gazed upon Budo's titanic form—colossal even among Primarchs. As a faithful believer of the Emperor, as a veteran of the Imperium, his lifelong wish had come true once more. The Imperium would triumph over the darkness that devoured humanity day by day.
First Sanguinius, and now an unknown Second Primarch!
Even for him, to receive such overwhelming, exhilarating news in so short a time was nearly too much to bear. His thoughts reeled in disbelief and awe at the magnificent vision before him.
A Primarch—none in the Imperium could refuse the leadership of a loyal Primarch. Any who dared would be a heretic, a traitor… or one of those verminous High Lords of Terra!
"Thank you…" Creed began, eager to express his gratitude.
Thud, thud—
Heavy, resonant footsteps echoed through the hall.
"General, giving the honor of the first strike to Horus—what's the meaning of that?"
The voice came before the man. Angron's thunderous roar cracked the air itself. His towering figure—taller than most of the Punishers around him—stepped into view.
The insignia of the World Eaters blazed upon his armor: a symbol of gnashing jaws, flanked by olive leaves, and the Roman numeral 'Ⅻ' beneath.
The World Eaters!
The reaction was immediate—most violently from the Ultramarines and their successors, the so-called 'sons of blue,' who still bore the scars of the World Eaters' betrayal on Calth. Without hesitation, they drew their power swords and chainswords, stepping before Budo as they roared:
"Traitor—!"
"What could have enraged Sanguinius so much? Hard to imagine. They say my methods are brutal, but he's no better… hmm? What's this?"
Instinctively, Angron nearly backhanded the yapping "blue gnats" before him into paste—Astartes or not, even a Dreadnought wouldn't survive a full strike. The blast of air from his restrained swing became a gusting hurricane within the command hall. He lifted one of the furious "lesser" Astartes by the collar and growled irritably:
"Little one, did I dig up your ancestor's grave or burn down Roboute's old home?"
"Perhaps this is Her Majesty's true intent. As the Empress once said—whatever anomalies we witness in this world, we must not be surprised."
Long black hair, dark as ink and flowing like death's shadow at midnight, framed the pale face of Konrad Curze as he emerged from behind Angron. His obsidian eyes glimmered with a ghostly phosphorescence beneath the deep blue glow of his resplendent armor.
"They are like us—yet not. The history that circulates here seems intertwined with our own."
"The Night Lords!" The unmistakable figure—rumored to be the greatest creation of the Officio Assassinorum—drew gasps of horror from the Inquisitors present.
"Do not fear, brave children," came another voice, filled with compassion and mercy. "I believe my good brother is not the monster of your memories. Rejoice, for our descent is the God-mperor's salvation! She shall deliver you from pain and chaos—this is but a trial."
The voice, radiant with holy light, belonged to Lorgar Aurelian, ever the same pious believer—known more bluntly as the zealot.
Yet his words brought no comfort. The moment he appeared, the crowd erupted in furious outcry.
"The Liar! The Arch-Traitor!"
Lorgar Aurelian (Honkai-corrupted version) froze in confusion. "?"
Liar? My legion were the Word Bearers of the Emperor's faith, were we not?
"Silence!"
Budo's stern and commanding tone resounded through the hall, his presence radiating an undeniable authority. His gaze hardened, leaving no room for dissent. "Soldiers—obey your orders."
Without further explanation, he turned and strode out of the now-useless command center. The gathered Primarchs followed behind him. The shocked and furious Space Marines exchanged looks, swallowed their disbelief, and followed Ursakar E. Creed toward the fortress's scorched and battered outer walls.
...
Only then did they realize—none of these 'Primarchs' bore even the faintest trace of Chaos corruption. Even Angron—his infamous Butcher's Nails and dreadlocks—were gone.
Gritting their teeth, the warriors followed Creed out into the open air, past the fractured fortifications.
The sight that greeted them was enough to shake the soul.
Vast legions of Astartes surged like tidal waves. Tens of thousands of heavily armored Space Marines poured from the countless massive fissures that had split open across Cadia's surface. Figures in every color of warplate moved as one, a living flood of transhuman might.
It was a gathering unseen since the proclamation of the Codex Astartes itself.
Armored vehicles, auxiliary warframes, and Titan Legions filled the ranks. The echoes of cleansing battles still reverberated through the air. The thunder of engines and cannons was like a hymn—a hymn sung to the annihilation of heresy, accompanied by the dying screams of daemons.
The unending roar shook the heavens. Then, as if to bring this symphony to its climax, a cataclysmic explosion shattered the sky. The atmosphere tore apart under a blast of unimaginable force.
A fragment of doom cut through the heavens.
A razor-sharp prow, a bloodstained and cruel hull, and the colossal, blasphemous sigil of the eight-pointed star with its singular, glaring eye.
"The Vengeful Spirit!"
A guardsman leaning against the battlements gasped in horror.
It was the flagship of Abaddon the Despoiler—the Warmaster of Chaos, Lord of the Black Legion!
A symbol of death itself.
Among all the countless warships that had glorified the Imperium's history and conquered the galaxy, none were more feared or revered than the Vengeful Spirit. It embodied both humanity's highest virtue and its deepest sin.
But today, all of that was past—for it had fallen.
The silver claws of the Luna Wolf tore through its damned armor. The massive, jagged boarding cables of the Luna Wolves pierced its hull, burning away its warped decks piece by piece, each fracture proclaiming—
The wrath and fury of the Wolf-God belonging to Selene!
—
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