The Orpheus Sector.
Mandeville point.
The forces of the Immaterium suddenly erupted into the void. The boundary between realspace and the Warp grew blurred and fragile, resembling a membrane repeatedly stretched to its limit before finally yielding.
A massive rift was violently torn open, spewing the iridescent light unique to the Warp into the void.
Out of the curtain of light emerged a massive Imperial Navy fleet.
Shortly thereafter, the fleet's sensor arrays completed an all-direction scan of the star system.
Yet the resulting readout rendered everyone silent.
It was a hellish vista.
An overwhelming expanse of metal debris and vast fleet wrecks blanketed almost the entire field of view, so dense that it completely obscured the backdrop of distant starfields.
These ruins loomed like countless twisted phantoms, tightly choking every navigable lane.
Evidently, this was an ancient battlefield from a earth-shattering clash.
Naturally, the Imperial fleet seemed well prepared for this.
Once dispatch directives were issued, smaller escorts surged forward from the formation. Cutting lasers at their bows hummed to life, their searing beams slicing straight channels through the ocean of metallic scrap, clearing navigable paths for the heavy capital ships behind them.
A few weeks prior, the battle for the Orpheus Sector had just concluded.
This war was originally supposed to take place a century later in the original timeline, marking the Imperial Navy's first full-scale conflict with a massive Necron Dynasty.
In the Orpheus Sector, the Necrons of the Maynarkh Dynasty had awoken from their long Great Sleep.
Unfortunately, this dynasty's command protocol cores had suffered damage during the millennia-long slumber.
They had fallen to the Destroyer Cult.
Under the influence of this psychological plague—frequently seen among the Necrons—the Necrons of the Maynarkh Dynasty had utterly lost all basic comprehension of living creatures.
They fanatically modified their own bodies, erasing every remaining trace of Necrontyr emotion from their conscious cores, until they harbored a pure, equal hatred for all organic lifeforms in the galaxy.
The Destroyers sought to slaughter all flesh-and-blood beings, including humanity.
They behaved like true, absolute exterminators.
Naturally, they met their ultimate defeat right here.
A monumental fleet under the personal command of Sanguinius had arrived in the sector, waging a drawn-out campaign lasting over a dozen days.
Ultimately, relying on an endless stream of Gloriana-class battleships, the Imperium secured victory.
Every tomb ship of the Maynarkh Dynasty was destroyed one by one. From their awakening to their total annihilation, barely a fortnight had passed.
And now, the negotiation site chosen personally by the Silent King happened to be set right in this very sector.
It was hard to say whether the Necrons intended a subtle implication by this choice.
Given that this was the site of their recent defeat—whether it signaled lingering discontent or a tacit sign of yielding—the underlying meaning was somewhat difficult to parse.
---
On the fleet's flagship, 'Macragge's Honour'.
On the bridge, Roboute Guilliman, serving as the Imperial representative for these negotiations, stood before the main viewport with a solemn expression.
It had been a very long time since he personally engaged in diplomatic negotiations at this level.
In fact, searching through the entire historical archives of the Imperium of Man would yield no precedent remotely comparable to this.
He was about to face a monumental entity whose scale was fully equal to that of the Imperium, possessing a civilization history tens of millions of years older than humanity itself.
The Necrons.
However, Guilliman had no intention—and no room—to step back.
As Lord Regent of the Imperium, it was his bounden duty.
"Lord Regent, the target has entered optical range," the bridge officer's voice drew him back to reality from his thoughts.
Guilliman raised his gaze beyond the viewport.
The Necron tomb ship was visible in the distance.
---
Half an hour later, Guilliman and his retinue set foot inside the tomb ship.
The blackstone hull, which appeared seamless from the outside, silently parted to reveal an entryway as their shuttle approached.
The interior space was far grander than its exterior suggested.
Eerie green energy lines flowed gently through every carved groove, pulsing like the blood vessels of an ancient organism.
Guilliman glanced briefly at his surroundings before turning his eyes directly forward.
At the far end of the hall, upon the raised dais:
A towering blackstone throne stood tall.
The throne was massive enough to accommodate an Imperial Titan, sheer black and imposing in majesty.
Upon the throne, a tall figure stood silently, maintaining a chillingly still posture.
Seated at the flanks of his dais were two Necron Phaeron, each holding a staff of office.
Their robes were embroidered with the ancient insignia of the Triarch, and their eyes projected straight beams of emerald light that settled upon Guilliman.
Then, the two Phaerons spoke in unison.
"Feel honored, envoy of the Imperium of Man," the Phaeron on the left spoke first.
"I am Hapsatra the Glorified, one of the three rulers of the Necrons, and servant to Szarekh, the Silent King."
The Phaeron on the right immediately picked up the thread.
"I am Mesophet, Hand of Shadow, one of the three rulers of the Necrons, and servant to Szarekh, the Silent King."
The two Phaerons raised their staves simultaneously.
"Here, in accordance with the traditions of the Triarch, we speak in place of the Shatterer of Gods, the Reforger of Worlds, the Sole Ruler of the Necrons—"
"—The Great Silent King, Szarekh."
The air in the grand hall seemed to freeze in that instant.
Yet, faced with this display, Guilliman was entirely unmoved.
His expression turned cold and severe.
Guilliman stepped forward, his strides resolute.
"I am Roboute Guilliman, Lord Regent of the Imperium, Master of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, and Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion."
His voice was steady and unwavering. "I speak on behalf of humanity to converse with you, the Necrons."
After a brief silence, Phaeron Hapsatra spoke.
"You make a mistake, human," he corrected coldly. "You are not qualified to represent humanity. Nor is it you whom our King wishes to see."
The Phaeron leaned forward slightly. "Where is the unknown deity standing behind humanity now?"
"I request his presence to speak with our King."
There it was.
Finally, it had come.
Guilliman responded with solemn gravity: "That is impossible."
"And why?" both Phaerons asked together.
Guilliman did not retreat a single step, his voice smooth and composed.
"Because your King—is he present here in the flesh at this very moment?"
He pointed it out directly.
"I believe that in the preceding battles, we humans have already proven that we are equals to you."
"That being the case, why does your King still refuse to appear in person, choosing instead to use a virtual projection as a substitute?"
Indeed.
Relying on a Primarch's unreasonable intuition, Guilliman had realized the moment he entered the hall that the so-called Silent King sitting upon the blackstone throne was merely a lifelike holographic projection.
A fake.
"Can it be that the grand Silent King, claimed as the master of all Necrons, Ruler of the Triarch, and Shatterer of Gods, is such a cowardly existence?"
As Guilliman's words landed, the hall fell into a brief, dead silence.
At this, Mesophet immediately spoke, a distinct chill in his voice.
"Cease your ridiculous provocation, human. The greatness of the Silent King is not diminished in the slightest by your words. Using such crude tactics is merely wasting your own time, as well as our patience."
Hapsatra chimed in right after: "Refraining from appearing in person before a god capable of walking freely in realspace is the action of a wise King. This is a lesson we paid for in blood and fire during the War in Heaven."
He paused, the light in his glowing eyes growing sharper.
"And such experience is likely something a species with as inferior a history as yours cannot truly comprehend."
"An inferior history?"
Unprovoked by the insult, Guilliman asked, "And how much do you truly know about humanity?"
"Heh, you know nothing of Necron technology," Mesophet let out a cold laugh.
"Our astromancers have already used quantum technology to reconstruct every quantum trajectory of your existence across the galaxy."
A hint of unreserved arrogance crept into his voice.
"At this very moment, I can assert right here—the Necrons understand your history better than you humans do yourselves."
Guilliman's brow furrowed slightly.
"From where I stand, you are nothing more than a band of primitive organisms dwelling on our former worlds. Your realm is negligible, appearing ever weaker when compared to a true interstellar empire."
"You are merely a declining race that refuses to accept reality."
At this, Guilliman smiled. "However, the reality is quite different."
"No matter how glorious your history was, it remains in the past."
He raised his head, looking straight at the two Phaerons.
"I have yet to see any noteworthy power left in your Necron race today. All I see is your Necron dynasties turning into ruins, one after another, before the main battle fleets of the Imperium of Man."
The Staff of Dust held by Mesophet struck the floor heavily, producing a dull boom.
Clearly, a nerve had been struck.
"That is merely because of the god standing behind you! Aside from relying on that deity's gifts, what do you have left?"
His voice carried a far stronger hostility now.
"Even at the absolute peak of human history, did you ever possess the capability to mass-produce so many of these so-called Gloriana-class battleships simultaneously?"
"Furthermore, you dared to steal our inertialess drive technology and turn it against the Necrons—unforgivable!"
The Phaeron's voice echoed repeatedly through the cavernous hall. "All facts indicate that you only sit at this negotiation table today because of that god's assistance. Without that unknown deity and that slab of dried meat sitting on the throne—you are nothing."
"Oh, is that so?"
Guilliman spoke as if mildly curious: "Then where are your gods?"
Hapsatra: ...
Mesophet: ...
An awkward, dead silence descended upon the hall.
"Insolent tongue!"
Only after a long moment did the Necron Phaerons finally react, shouting in anger in unison: "Gaining a verbal edge will not make you appear strong, human!"
'Still, it makes me feel quite pleasant,' Guilliman thought quietly to himself. He then raised his head and spoke earnestly.
"Then let us put an end to these riddles. So, what kind of assistance do you Necrons require from humanity—or rather, from that entity?"
To Guilliman's surprise, after a brief pause, the two Phaerons did not shy away from the question in the slightest.
They stated directly the answer that both sides were well aware of at this point: "We need that god to act and reverse our race's biotransferral."
Mesophet's voice was no longer heated, turning serious instead. "Given that you have already successfully installed inertialess drives onto your ships, I assume there is no need for us to explain biotransferral or our history to you, is there?"
"Naturally," Guilliman nodded.
Unsatisfied with this nonchalant response, Hapsatra's optic sensors flickered as he said, "Then, since we have stated our request directly, where is that god now? When can we expect a response?"
At this, Guilliman wore a strange expression.
"Have you really not noticed?"
???
Before the two Phaerons could react, a subtle shift occurred.
A figure stepped out from behind Guilliman.
'Wait, since when?'
The two Phaerons of the Triarch were utterly bewildered.
Right at this moment, after searching the logs in their memory cores, they realized that the figure had been standing right behind Guilliman all along, eyeing them up and down with great interest earlier.
It was just that neither Phaeron had paid any attention to him.
It felt like a subconscious oversight, nothing more than a momentary lapse of focus.
But how could that be possible?
No matter how closely they mimicked their living behavior, the Necrons understood their fundamental nature.
They were merely the living tombstones of the Necrontyr civilization—essentially strong AIs carrying the personalities of individual Necrontyr.
How could a machine suffer a lapse of focus?
It was illogical!
"Why so quiet? Weren't you looking for me?"
Adam waved his hand nonchalantly, as if nothing unusual had happened.
"Regarding the biotransferral of the Necrons... well, I shall answer your question in the most direct, unvarnished, and reliable way possible."
Ignoring the playful tone and well-concealed irony in the deity's words, the two Phaerons dropped their combative attitude from their exchange with Guilliman. They instantly focused their minds, hanging on every word the god spoke.
"Of course I can. Why not?" Adam said.