The engines of the Iron Faith spewed scorching plasma trails, carving a dazzling scar across the cold void.
The Imperial cruiser was pushing its engines to critical levels in a near-suicidal manner, its keel groaning under the immense strain of overload operation.
However, behind it, three Necron Tomb Ships' Giant Cannon resembled the fangs of colossal beasts awakening from their tombs Ship, their Gauss Weapons arrays flickering with an ominous green light.
"Void shield energy down to 43%! Third deck breached, slave gangs are sealing the gaps with welding torches and prayers!" an oil-soaked technician shrieked, his voice drowned out by the piercing alarms on the bridge.
Captain Casimir slammed his fist onto the command console, denting the metal surface.
"Route all reserve power to the thrusters! Tell those oil-stained Adeptus Mechanicus in the engine room to either make this pile of scrap 20% faster, or I'll personally shove them into the reactor as fuel!"
His roar even drowned out the static crackle that erupted when the void shield was struck by a phase cannon.
On the tactical holographic display, Grey Knights Captain Toren's magnetic boots gouged two scorch marks on the deck.
He stared at the Necron fleet, which clung to them like a shadow in the projection, his brow furrowed into the jagged teeth of a power axe.
"They were clearly engaging the Eldar, why did they suddenly turn their guns on us?"
Sister Sophia silently raised the geometric object in her hand, its surface glowing with the eerie light of non-Euclidean structures.
Tech-Priest Klaus, standing nearby, suddenly emitted a piercing mechanical trill, his bionic eye spewing data streams like a downpour: "Analysis complete… This object is a Blackstone Construct sub-component, its function is reality anchoring… but its core energy is lost."
Toren's pupils contracted sharply, and his power armor's servo system hummed faintly from his instantly tensed muscles.
Within the Imperium of Man, technology capable of interfering with reality's stability was exceedingly rare.
Each such artifact was enough to trigger an Inquisitor's extermination order.
He stared at the strange geometric object, his Adam's apple unconsciously bobbing.
"So these metal skeletons are pursuing stolen property…"
"There's no reason to return something once it's in hand."
In the communication channel, Knox's voice was unusually relaxed.
"Although it lacks core energy…" He paused subtly, "that doesn't mean it can't be activated and used."
In the holographic image, Knox had, at some point, appeared in front of the G-section armory, slowly attaching melta bombs to his tactical belt.
"By the way," he added without looking up, his finger gently tapping the safety pin of the last bomb.
"You have three minutes to decide whether to continue this boring chase, or let me have a friendly negotiation with our neighbors."
Toren's temples throbbed.
This Inquisitor always made "seeking death" sound as casual as "an after-dinner stroll."
He took a deep breath, the safety catch of his bolter clicking crisply under his fingers.
"Your so-called negotiation…" His voice trembled slightly with suppressed anger, "You're not planning to single-handedly board the Necron flagship, are you?"
"How could I?" King Yama suddenly grinned, and as his sleeve inadvertently slipped, the netherworld emblem on the back of his hand glowed with an eerie light.
"I carry the Emperor's honorable blessing!" His tone suddenly became solemn, yet with an indescribable hint of mockery, "I am never fighting alone."
Before his words faded, his figure was swallowed by a suddenly torn spatial rift.
The moment the rift closed, a blurry phantom of the Emperor flickered in the distorted Warp energy, causing all witnesses to instinctively make the Aquila sign—though that outline seemed… somehow more inexplicably sinister than what was usually seen in churches.
"Tsk, sorry, old man Emperor." Knox clicked his tongue, his fingertips casually tracing the neatly arranged melta bombs on his waist, "You wouldn't want to see your loyal subjects become exhibits in a Necron museum, would you?"
He quickly calculated the cost of this venture in his mind; soulless metal skeletons yielded no profit, making this a losing business.
But compared to having the entire warship dismantled by Necrons, this price was still worthwhile.
In an instant, a hideous spatial rift suddenly tore open on the bronze deck of the Necron flagship.
A tide of shadowy soldiers surged from the rift, their Gauss Weapons flickering with deadly green light.
However, those energy beams passed through the shadowy soldiers' bodies as if striking phantoms.
"Good night, tin heads." Knox figure fully materialized in the lingering glow of the teleportation, his bolter's muzzle already pressed against a Necron warrior's metallic skull.
With a deafening roar, scattered metal fragments traced sparkling trajectories in the vacuum.
Before the smoke of the explosion dissipated, Knox agilely spun around, a whip kick sending another Necron warrior stumbling backward.
He seized the opportunity to shove a melta bomb into the opponent's opened chest cavity, whistling casually: "Barbecue time."
A scorching explosion shockwave swept through the entire boarding pod, knocking over half of a Necron patrol.
At the same time, Ox-Head and Horse-Face materialized from the void.
Ox-Head's giant axe cleaved through the phase field, and Horse-Face's chains shredded an entire array of Gauss Weapons.
Piercing alarms blared throughout the ship's interior, their shrill frequency almost like the death shriek of an Eldar psyker.
"The core control room is on the deck below the bridge!" Knox Soul-Seizing Eye penetrated layers of decking, locking onto a sealed chamber surrounded by Blackstone Constructs.
The Necron Overlord's faint soul fluctuations were like a torch in the darkness, and its phase spear was plunged into a slot on the control console—clearly the command node of their fleet.
Toren's communication request suddenly cut in: "Inquisitor, the Necron fleet has turned, they seem to be… recovering their flagship?"
Knox kicked away an attacking Necron warrior, sneering: "Of course, why chase a others when your own house is on fire?"
Knox flashed into the control room, and the hum of the phase spear instantly locked onto his throat.
The Necron Lord's metallic face was inches away, its green eyes reflecting the netherworld emblem on the back of his hand.
"Lesser being." The Lord's synthetic voice crackled with electronic noise, "You have stolen the dynasty's…"
Knox pupils glowed intensely.
His Soul-Seizing Eye directly pierced the Necron Lord's remaining consciousness fragments, violently sifting through the Necron fleet's tactical data.
The Necron Lord stiffened for an instant, then its phase spear lunged out!
Clang!
The colossal impact shook the Blackstone Construct walls.
Knox hands had actually clamped down on the attacking spear, and the shockwave generated by the collision of two powerful forces caused the instruments in the entire control room to explode.
Using the recoil, he elegantly leaped backward, a melta bomb sliding from his sleeve to bite precisely onto the control console like a venomous snake.
"Farewell, old relic."
A spatial rift opened behind him like a gaping maw.
Just as the flames of the explosion were about to engulf the Necron Lord, Knox figure vanished into the distorted dimensional rift.
The control room disintegrated in a cataclysmic explosion, burning metal fragments like the final fireworks offered to this dance of death.
…
On the bridge of the Iron Faith, Toren stared at the suddenly appearing Knox, and the phase spear he carried on his shoulder.
"Inquisitor, this is…"
"Spoils of war." Knox tossed the spear to the Tech-Priest, "Dismantle it for research, or hang it at the Inquisition's entrance as decoration."
He turned to look at the holographic image on the tactical platform.
The Necron flagship slowly tilted amidst a series of explosions, and the remaining ships were swarming back like mechanical bees.
Sister Sophia suddenly pointed into the depths of the void: "Eldar!"
Through a Webway rift, Farseer Sal's cruiser flickered into view.
The Farseer's figure stood on the bridge, his psychic sight clashing with Knox across the void.
Their gazes met for an instant in the void, then the Eldar warship quietly retreated into the Webway, as if it had never appeared.
"Sensible fellows." Knox sneered, turning to walk towards the captain's chair, "Full speed back to base, and by the way…" He glanced at Toren's tense back, "When you write the report, remember to state—'The Emperor's grace allowed us a narrow victory'."
Toren's fists clenched, cracking his knuckles.
This Grey Knights captain suddenly understood what the Adeptus Mechanicus often said:
"Understanding is heresy, doubt is deviancy."
But if even Necrons and Eldar were chasing this saint… He secretly glanced at knox, a blasphemous thought surfacing in his mind:
Could he truly be the bloodline of some missing Primarch? The Emperor pities all beings, yet uniquely favors this grandson?
After all, he secretly mused, for a mortal to receive such "special attention" from the one on the Golden Throne, besides flowing with divine blood, there was simply no more reasonable explanation.
This thought made his throat tighten, as if merely thinking it was an unforgivable sin.
—
In the deepest prophecy hall of the "Eternal Dance" Craftworld, Farseer Sal's hunched body almost toppled into the churning well of souls.
Emerald psychic liquid cast strange light and shadows in his turbid pupils, reflecting a scene that suffocated even this ancient Farseer, who had lived for thousands of standard years.
Knox held a jet-black Netherworld's Seal, its ancient runes devouring the surrounding light.
Behind him, the phantom of the Eighteen Levels of Hell appeared layer upon layer, each level churning with terrifying instruments of torture and wailing souls that did not belong to this universe.
"By the Laughing God's jest…" The Farseer's cracked lips trembled as he squeezed out this ancient Eldar proverb, his spine, covered in psychically attuned bone armor, uncontrollably bending.
His fingers clutched the well's edge desperately, his nails scraping a grating sound on the ancient star-stone surface.
"Within that body… is something no human can bear…" Every syllable was squeezed through clenched teeth, "Is that… a 'deity' from another universe? Or something even more terrifying… a being we have yet to name?"
Ripples suddenly appeared in the shadows, and the Eldar Warlord Aralas slowly materialized as if from a nightmare.
On his magnificent Star-Weave Robe, ancient runes flowed with dim light as he moved, as if resisting the ominous aura pervading the prophecy hall.
Long, slender fingers elegantly stroked the blade of the Sword of Khaine, a drop of crimson Eldar blood slowly sliding down the masterfully forged blade.
"Or perhaps…"
The moment that drop of blood touched the well's edge, it suddenly vaporized into a wisp of scarlet smoke, twisting into a face of painful wailing in the air.
"This is the last chance… granted to us by the God of Bloody Hands."
His voice was incredibly soft, yet it caused the temperature in the prophecy hall to plummet.
"A blade capable of piercing both Chaos and reality simultaneously…"
Aralas suddenly used the tip of his sword to lift the wisp of blood mist, watching it hiss on the blade.
"It remains to be seen… if you and I have the courage to wield this weapon that will burn the wielder as well."