Half an hour later.
"This is truly... power akin to a miracle."
Even Belisarius Cawl—who, deep down, had always harbored a certain disdain for the various fanatical and ignorant religious practices of the Cult chanicus—couldn't help but murmur to himself, his single organic eye revealing profound awe.
Before him, a stone sphere condensed from thin air hovered, orbiting back and forth dictated entirely by Cawl's thoughts.
An inexplicable intuition allowed him to clearly perceive that the "reality" anchoring this matter was like clay in his chanical hands, capable of being perfectly and freely sculpted to his absolute will.
After Rowan finished his little joke, he didn't leave the Archmagos hanging in an awkward predicant for too long. Instead, he took the initiative to explain Cawl's actions to the others.
Following a persuasive explanation emphasizing that "this is the Emperor's will" and "a secret mission personally entrusted to Cawl by the Primarch Roboute Guilliman ten millennia ago," the gathered retinue finally lowered their guard, ceasing to glare at the poor Archmagos with the murderous intent reserved for heretical traitors.
Following that, Rowan had imdiately drawn the Ceremonial Sword of Solomon, converting Cawl into a brand-new Reality Bender.
However, at this mont, Cawl was entirely too distracted to appreciate the miraculous sight before him.
He turned his massive head, a trace of concern visible in his eye. "Your... sacred sword of the Omnissiah. Is it undamaged?"
"Of course it's fine."
Waving off Cawl's concern, Rowan explained, "In order to convert you into a Level 2 Reality Bender, I had to forcefully drain the ontological intensity anchored within the blade. It simply needs a little cooldown period. It will recover shortly."
"...I am grateful for your trust."
Through their prior data exchange, Cawl had learned the specific details regarding this so-called "reality-bending dominion" from Rowan, and fully comprehended the monuntal honor he now bore.
He cast his gaze back to the stone sphere, silently centing his resolve.
I am Belisarius Cawl.
A scientist representing reason and progress—an ancient word rarely used in this grim dark era.
Just as I did ten millennia ago, I shall never fail the glory of the Machine God.
He slowly extended a chanical arm and gently tapped the small sphere.
The sphere instantly began to transmute. Guided by Cawl's will, it shifted into countless forms, its material composition constantly fluctuating between plasteel, auramite, adamantium, and wood. It even began to coalesce into incredibly intricate, hyper-complex micro-structures, only to rapidly dissolve and revert back to a simple sphere.
"Well? How does it feel?" Rowan asked.
"Exquisite. However, I have one inquiry," Cawl said thoughtfully, seemingly intent on verifying a hypothesis.
With a focused thought, he summoned the image of the most profound, deeply ingrained object he had studied over the past ten thousand years.
The next second, the sphere's form violently shifted.
The forrly inorganic matter transmuted into vibrant, crimson organic tissue. A fleshy, biological node materialized in mid-air, silently displaying its highly unique morphology.
Aside from Commissar Yarrick, who was slightly baffled, everyone else present wore expressions of absolute shock.
Was that... an Adeptus Astartes Gene-seed?
This unique genetic material was used to elevate a baseline mortal into a Space Marine, fundantally altering human physiology to allow the subject to endure Astartes augntation surgeries and organ implantation.
Gene-seed was the most precious resource within any Space Marine Chapter. Its origin was exceedingly rare, and in the vast majority of cases, it could only be harvested from the progenoid glands of a mature Astartes.
It was blindingly obvious. Combining the vast knowledge repositories of an Archmagos Dominus with the power of reality bending, Archmagos Cawl had just acquired the ability to fabricate Gene-seed out of thin air.
Doesn't that effectively make you a Primarch?!
Recalling that Cawl was a completely unorthodox radical who possessed the sheer audacity to bury a hundred thousand Astartes beneath the Martian surface, the Inquisitor and the Custodian paled dramatically. A genuine surge of terror gripped them, and their hands involuntarily drifted toward their weapons.
They cast deeply worried glances at Rowan, as if silently screaming: Is this truly safe?!
Having verified his hypothesis, Cawl bowed his colossal chanical chassis slightly, offering Rowan a profound salute.
No flowery rhetoric was used; any further words were now entirely unnecessary.
Upon witnessing the glory of the Machine God, a fool would rely throw themselves to the floor in prostration, utilizing hollow words to praise His greatness, choosing the path of self-intoxicating peace because it was the simplest and easiest route.
A wise man, however, would decisively spring into action. He would beco a blazing torch in the absolute darkness, illuminating all ignorance, and properly wield the tools bestowed by the divine. This was the most arduous, yet undeniably the most glorious path.
"However, I must offer my apologies at this mont. A torrential flood of inspiration is currently cascading through my cogitators, and I am compelled to return to my laboratory aboard the cruiser to imdiately put it into practice," Archmagos Cawl said with earnest sincerity.
"The ability you have bestowed upon is a master key to universal truth. It is more than sufficient for to realize every single one of my wildest theories."
"Go," Rowan waved him off. "I eagerly anticipate your results."
The roar of a shuttle's engines approached from the distance. Archmagos Cawl offered a hurried nod of farewell, boarded the transport, and blasted off toward the Dauntless-class Light Cruiser in orbit.
Rowan didn't linger to watch him leave. Instead, with piqued interest, he walked to the side and raised his hands. An invisible telekinetic force dragged the slagged remains of the Deathmark over to him.
He crouched down, his fingertips lightly tracing the heavily lted, barely recognizable Necron chassis, his eyes brimming with intense curiosity.
At this exact mont. Deep beneath the surface, within the Necron Tomb World.
If any living mortal had the misfortune—or profound fortune—to set foot within this space, they would be absolutely paralyzed by the sheer, imposing majesty of the sight before them.
It was an unimaginably cavernous hall. Beneath one's feet lay colossal slabs of stone radiating a pale, sickly green light, forming sweeping plazas and grand processional avenues so impossibly wide that the most massive of war engines could march abreast. Flanking these avenues, towering cyclopean walls housed countless thousands of tallic skeletons, densely packed and slumbering in the dark.
—They were interred within translucent stasis crypts, silently hibernating, patiently awaiting the day of their great awakening.
A Cryptek, gripping a Staff of Light, strode slowly down this magnificent, silent avenue.
No emotional expression could be discerned upon his tallic death mask. He kept his head slightly bowed, seemingly lost in deep contemplation.
As the equivalent of a 'spellcaster' caste within the Necron hierarchy—though fundantally different from the warp-based psykers of the galaxy's other species—Crypteks were the master technologists and engineers of the Necrons. They were responsible for researching, preserving, and maintaining the archaic, god-like technology of their Dynasties.
They relied upon hyper-advanced scientific principles to directly manipulate the fundantal forces of the physical universe, thereby generating effects every bit as miraculous and devastating as warp sorcery.
Suddenly, a rapid, skittering sound broke the Cryptek's silent reverie.
A Canoptek Spyder scuttled to a halt before him. Its dorsal carapace projected a crisp holographic feed that hovered directly in his field of vision.
Within the projection, visual teletry from the surface battlefield played at high speed. The searing plasma spears raining down from the heavens, surgically eliminating the Necron forces with impossible precision, were clearly visible.
Staring at the holographic feed, the Cryptek fell into an even deeper, more profound state of processing contemplation.
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