What a truly abhorrent species.
Within the rigidly ordered Necron phalanx, an Immortal marched forward in absolute silence, streams of data flashing rapidly through its cognitive core.
It fired the Gauss Blaster in its grasp. A thick beam of erald-green energy lashed out, effortlessly disintegrating a heavily armored Imperial combat servitor in the distant trench line into microscopic dust.
As the designated military caste of the Necrons, the Immortals had been the elite soldiers and commanders serving the Necrontyr nobility prior to the bio-transference.
Consequently, unlike the mindless civilian caste that comprised the Necron Warriors, they retained a fundantal degree of cognitive capability. They could formulate tactical counterasures, command subordinate echelons, and even indulge in stray, philosophical musings, much as they did in life.
The enemies before them were pathetically weak, yet they elicited a profound sense of disgust within the Immortal, tinged with an inexplicable, lingering trace of envy.
These 'Tech-Priests' possess flesh and blood. They still hold the capacity to savor the beauty and sensations of the materium, yet they foolishly pursue chanical power, systematically replacing their organic forms with crude tal, squandering the rarest and most precious gift the universe offers.
—Just as we once did.
Thinking of this, the disgust within the Immortal's core intensified.
The Gauss Blaster fired again, indiscriminately tearing through the enemy defensive line, venting this inexplicable surge of digitized rage.
Imdiately afterward, the Immortal executed a data-purge, entirely erasing this inefficient emotional subroutine to resu cold, objective tactical analysis.
Why do these fragile biologicals fail to grasp a blindingly obvious truth?
They are nothing more than parasites crawling from the ruins of their shattered Imperium. They are entirely ignorant of who the true masters of this galaxy are.
And now, the Necrons shall correct this error.
Wait.
The Immortal raised its head slightly.
—Data teletry indicates a high-velocity object rapidly approaching.
What is it?
Its thought processes were instantaneously terminated.
A plasma spear, screaming as it tore through the atmosphere, struck its target like a colossal javelin before a single Necron could even register the threat.
Subjected to a temperature vastly exceeding the core of a sun, all matter was rendered entirely equal.
—Whether it was the dust motes dancing in the air, or the hyper-resilient living tal constituting the Immortal's chassis, both were effortlessly, instantaneously dissociated at the molecular level.
When the blinding afterglow faded, the surrounding Necrons shifted their optical sensors to the impact zone, only to find absolutely nothing. The Immortal had been erased without leaving a single trace behind.
"..."
Evidently, not even the miraculous restorative capabilities of Canoptek Scarabs or Reanimation Protocols could recover an entity subjected to such absolute, localized annihilation.
Naturally, the onslaught had only just begun.
One after another, massive plasma spears scread through the air, surgically eliminating high-value targets within the Necron formation. Every single strike hit its mark before the target could even formulate an evasive protocol.
A Triarch Stalker had just blown a catastrophic breach in the Skitarii line with its Heat Ray when a plasma spear rained down from the heavens. The lethal heat instantaneously slagged its chassis, rendering it completely inert.
Even the Skorpekh Destroyers leading the vanguard charge were not spared; before the plasma spears, all beings were equal.
One shot, two shots, three shots... every high-tier Necron asset lted away like snow under a blazing sun beneath this ruthlessly precise bombardnt.
Consequently, the previously flawless formation of the Necron Warriors imdiately fell into disarray.
Due to the sudden localized chaos, a portion of the Warriors were still attempting to execute the final command of their now-vaporized commander, raising their Gauss Flayers in futile attempts to intercept the incoming plasma strikes.
anwhile, another portion rigidly adhered to their previous operational directive, continuing their slow march toward the encampnt, completely shattering the cohesion of the phalanx.
This was the fundantal flaw in the Necron military hierarchy.
The vast majority of their forces were mindless automatons. Once given a directive, they would execute it with absolute, 100% compliance. If no subsequent orders were issued, they would literally march single-file into a at grinder until the last unit was destroyed.
Compared to the Ork mobs whose morale shattered the mont their Warboss was decapitated, or the Tyranid swarms that devolved into mindless, feral beasts the instant their Synapse creature was slain, their performance was certainly superior, but still severely limited by its rigidity.
The Skitarii manning the battered barricades finally caught a breath. Seizing the opportunity created by the Necrons' sudden loss of command structure and heavy fire support, they imdiately launched a counter-offensive, systematically gunning down the disorganized Necron Warriors.
The previously catastrophic tactical situation was entirely reversed in a matter of monts.
"A truly astonishing display of martial prowess."
Witnessing the entire sequence through the visual feed of a servo-skull, Cawl couldn't help but voice his awe. "Your might is indeed profoundly impressive."
In fact, a highly heretical thought blossod within his cogitators.
Truth be told... this entity seems even closer to the concept of the 'Omnissiah' than the Emperor did during the Great Crusade.
However, he never expected what ca next.
Rowan's subsequent words completely derailed Cawl's processing cycles.
"Do you want to learn? I can teach you."
With a single thought, the bow and arrow in Rowan's hands instantaneously dissolved into dust, scattering into the wind until they vanished entirely.
He turned to look directly at Cawl.
M... ?
Cawl was montarily stunned.
He is offering to teach how to wield such apocalyptic power?
He imdiately recalled the terrifying ability Inquisitor Cybia had demonstrated—the power to instantaneously rewrite the fundantal root commands of Machine Spirits. Is that a manifestation of this sa power?
"I certainly do!"
Terrified of missing this unprecedented, miraculous opportunity, Cawl's attitude executed a flawless 180-degree turn.
Are you joking? If I can learn to wield power that perfectly mirrors the literal descent of the Machine God, I must absolutely acquire it!
It was just...
Cawl still found the situation profoundly surreal and felt compelled to ask:
"But, why ?"
"Why not you, Archmagos Cawl?"
Rowan countered directly. "You are unequivocally the most unique Archmagos within the Martian Cult chanicus. In the modern Imperium, you are one of the exceedingly few individuals who still genuinely harbors the progressive ideals of the Great Crusade era."
"Considering the explicit decree the Emperor granted you, and the monuntal task a certain Primarch entrusted you with, do you truly lack the self-awareness to see your own importance?"
"What decree from the Emperor? What makes him so special?"
Hearing this topic broached, Leonardo, as a Custodian of the Emperor, could no longer restrain himself and interjected.
"What exactly are you referring to?"
Oh, rust and ruin!
This topic caused Belisarius Cawl's chassis to violently shudder. A terrible, ominous premonition suddenly gripped his logic circuits.
And then, that premonition was imdiately validated.
"Oh, it's nothing major. Archmagos Cawl rely has one hundred thousand Adeptus Astartes buried in stasis crypts deep beneath the surface of Mars."
Rowan delivered this apocalyptic revelation with the casual, breezy tone one might use to discuss what to eat for lunch the next day, clearly relishing the chaos he was about to cause.
"Oh, one hundred thous—wait, ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND WHAT?!"
The Custodian's voice violently spiked several octaves.
Hearing such an utterly absurd, universe-shattering claim, everyone else present stared at Cawl in absolute, dumbfounded horror.
"One hundred thousand Adeptus Astartes," Rowan repeated, casually adding a few minor details.
"Furthermore, this stockpile includes a comprehensive, practically inexhaustible supply of the requisite bolters, munitions, specialized wargear, and armored transport assets required to fully deploy and sustain all one hundred thousand Astartes in active combat zones. He has everything perfectly prepared."
At this exact mont.
Feeling the intense, piercing gazes of everyone present—gazes radiating a volatile mixture of fury, shock, terror, and sheer, unadulterated disbelief...
Archmagos Belisarius Cawl was practically sweating prothium.
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