"If some charlatan claimed he could restore the Necrontyr's bodies and souls—and actually convinced our people to believe him—
"Then he would undoubtedly be a deceitful fraud and an ambitious schemer."
Zahndrekh's tone was grave.
"In such a situation, the best decision we could make would be to destroy him utterly, denying his followers any possibility of expansion.
"Such charlatans would quickly grow in strength, become our enemies, and continually provoke new wars."
At present, only the Silent King and the Stormlord possessed the authority and power necessary to claim the Necrons' sovereign throne.
If another ambitious contender entered the struggle, every dynasty would inevitably be swept into the conflict, causing even more strife.
That would only squander the strength of the Necron Empire and allow the galaxy's xenos races to reap the benefits.
Zahndrekh might ordinarily seem senile, but he never lost sight of matters that were truly important.
Anyone who underestimated him would ultimately pay with their life.
He was a Nemesor, one of the few beings who possessed the qualifications to contend for the supreme throne alongside the Silent King and the Stormlord.
Zahndrekh simply had little interest in doing so.
All he wanted was to help both sides end the war as quickly as possible and restore peace to the Necron Empire.
Then he could hold even grander banquets to his heart's content.
He despised the Silent King's so-called restoration plan.
Seeking victory by using the Contra-Empyric Matrix to extinguish all life throughout the galaxy was utterly devoid of aristocratic honor.
That was why he had chosen to support the Stormlord.
"My lord, are you suggesting that the Holy Soul Cult's Divine Emissary and Phaeron also harbor ambitions of conquest?"
Obyron considered the matter for a moment before suddenly understanding.
According to the intelligence they had gathered, the Holy Soul Cult continually proclaimed that the god it worshiped could restore the Necrons' bodies and souls.
Furthermore, the cult had already shown signs of expansion. It had taken root throughout the Fahra Dynasty.
He looked at Zahndrekh.
"You intend to visit Fahra's crownworld to determine whether they harbor ambitions of conquest—and whether their rapid expansion constitutes a threat?"
Even the Vargard understood how quickly a religion could spread under the right conditions.
Long ago, the cults devoted to the C'tan had spread across the entire Necrontyr Empire in only a few decades, profoundly altering the fate of their entire species.
In the end, every Necrontyr had been deceived. Even their flesh and souls had been devoured by the C'tan.
If a new religion succeeded in earning the Necrons' trust, it would undoubtedly pose an extraordinary danger.
A trace of razor-sharp awareness lay hidden beneath Zahndrekh's clouded emerald gaze.
He nodded.
"That is precisely what I intended to tell you next. You must remain prepared for battle at all times.
"If I determine that the Holy Soul Cult and its Divine Emissary pose a serious threat to our Necron Empire, I will issue an extermination order.
"When that time comes, you are to kill the schemer on the spot as quickly as possible. We cannot allow ignorant superstition to corrupt our species again.
"We must not repeat the mistakes of the past.
"Our tomb fleets must also remain secretly on alert, ready to enter battle at any moment.
"If necessary, we will disregard every code of honor and burn this entire star system to ash!"
Zahndrekh had never been more lucid.
His thoughts were keen, and he saw the implications of the situation more clearly than anyone else.
More importantly, he possessed the resolve to act decisively.
That was one of the reasons he had become a Nemesor.
He had eliminated countless threats over the ages. He had even exterminated several young species that might one day have endangered the Necrons, erasing them from history before they could rise.
No price was too great.
The Necrons had to extinguish every source of danger.
Zahndrekh had personally witnessed how the Necrontyr—once little more than newcomers to the galactic stage—had utterly destroyed the Old Ones, the former rulers of the galaxy.
The Old Ones had possessed opportunities to eliminate the threat, but they had been too arrogant.
They believed they had conquered the galaxy and mastered the Empyrean.
Nothing, they thought, could ever threaten their supreme position.
They were the gods who created life. The Necrontyr and every other species could exist only at their pleasure.
The result was the Old Ones' defeat.
Not even the smallest remnant of their bloodline had survived. The accumulated wealth of their entire species had been divided among the victors.
The Old Ones, once the supreme race of the galaxy, had turned to dust and become nothing more than a fragment of history.
Given enough time, even the history of their existence might be forgotten entirely.
Zahndrekh did not want the Necrons to meet the same fate, especially now that they had lost their flesh and souls and entered such a perilous period of their existence.
One day, a single careless decision might allow a younger species to destroy them and take their place.
"So long as I can get close enough, I can utterly destroy even a Phaeron," Obyron declared.
He accepted his master's command without hesitation.
The Vargard had fought beside the Nemesor for hundreds of thousands of years. During that time, he had slain several Phaerons.
They were ultimately no different from any other Necron. They merely possessed stronger defensive installations, superior weapons, and larger armies.
The title of Phaeron represented the authority a Necron possessed and the number of armies they could command—not their true individual strength.
Even Zahndrekh's personal combat ability fell far short of that of his Vargard.
Of course, that applied only to ordinary Phaerons.
Beings such as the Silent King and the Stormlord were also terrifying individual warriors.
Their armies were more terrifying still.
"In any event, you will wait for my command before taking action. At present, all I possess is suspicion. I have no conclusive evidence.
"Until then, we should maintain the courtesy expected of aristocrats."
Zahndrekh drained the wine in his goblet and spoke softly.
Rather than believe the Divine Emissary to be an ambitious schemer capable of influencing the entire Necron Empire, he preferred to think that the man was like him—someone trapped in the past.
Back then, the C'tan had still been among them. Their cults had flourished, and before the lies were exposed, the entire Necrontyr Empire had been filled with hope and excitement.
They had believed themselves capable of conquering everything.
They had even planned to expand beyond the galaxy until the entire universe fell under their dominion.
Every region containing material existence would become Necrontyr territory.
Unfortunately, that dream had shattered.
Their entire species had entered its darkest age.
Many Necrontyr nobles who could not accept what had happened either destroyed themselves or succumbed to madness, their minds forever trapped within the shadow of their loss.
"Obyron, we should dress properly. A noble must present himself with dignity before attending a banquet."
Zahndrekh rose and brushed at his torn, ancient formal robes, visibly irritated.
"Damn those traitors. They ruined my finest outfit. It is not easy to find craftsmanship of this quality anymore.
"And that miserly freak Trazyn refuses to trade with me more than a handful of times. Let him rot alongside his precious collection!"
Necrontyr culture had been almost completely lost.
No one produced anything except weapons anymore—and in truth, even new weapons were rarely manufactured.
The armaments left behind from the War in Heaven were already sufficient to drown every other species in the galaxy.
Only one being possessed a vast collection of relics from the Necrontyr Empire: Trazyn the Infinite.
Unfortunately, that wretched collector only acquired things. He almost never allowed anything to leave his possession.
Even a Nemesor like Zahndrekh could obtain little of value from Trazyn's tomb vaults.
Of course, Trazyn had once named his price.
The collector wanted Zahndrekh to sell him Vargard Obyron.
His collection of Necron specimens lacked a truly peerless warrior.
In truth, Trazyn also wanted to add the Nemesor himself to his collection. He had simply never dared to say so aloud.
Trazyn feared that Zahndrekh would give a single command and have Obyron, along with his elite Lychguard, chop him into scrap.
Before long, Zahndrekh changed into another set of formal robes—one that was at least less damaged than the last—and used it to conceal his metal ribs.
Unlike most Necron lords, he disliked wandering around the galaxy completely naked.
Then, escorted by Obyron and an elite formation of Lychguard, he departed for the Fahra Dynasty's crownworld.
…
Alama.
This crownworld, now the Holy Soul Cult's sacred world, had changed dramatically.
The lifeless stillness that had once pervaded it was gone. In its place was a faint but unmistakable vitality that distinguished it from every other tomb world.
"What a thriving sight. Everything is bursting with life…"
Eden gazed at the newly transformed city, now filled with far more color than before, and sighed with emotion.
When he had first arrived, the entire world had resembled an Egyptian tomb. There had been no trace of life anywhere, only the oppressive silence of a kingdom of the dead.
After his cultural restoration and reconstruction efforts, however, it finally resembled the home of an actual civilization.
As expected, the Savior's true competitive advantage lay in developing territory and building things.
It was far more interesting than war and conquest.
Every reconstruction project had followed the cultural traditions of the former Necrontyr Empire, recreating a small portion of the civilization's grandeur from millions of years ago.
Of course, Eden was not concerned that restoring Necrontyr culture would make the Necrons even stronger.
Quite the opposite.
The Necrons had reached the peak of their destructive power only after abandoning everything and transforming themselves into pure killing machines.
That mode of warfare was terrifying.
They had essentially gambled the future of their entire species on mutually assured destruction with their enemies. Even the Old Ones had been unable to withstand them, yet the strategy harmed the Necrons almost as much as their foes.
The price was the loss of virtually every desire except killing and conquest.
Even if the Necrons reclaimed the galaxy, such a victory would ultimately be meaningless.
In Eden's eyes, these mechanical Necron shells were little different from the all-consuming Great Devourer. They were nothing more than mechanical vermin—a tumor upon the galaxy.
Restoring their original culture was therefore another means of weakening them.
It could draw them out of the endless quagmire of war.
Furthermore, Eden had quietly incorporated his own ideas into the restoration, using the Holy Soul Cult's faith to reshape the Necrons' way of thinking.
That was unquestionably beneficial to humanity.
It was also something many Necrons desperately desired. For millions of years, they had longed to restore their lost civilization.
It was a victory for both sides.
"Darling, what do you think of my formal attire?"
Fahra emerged in her ceremonial finery, her data-logic filled with nervousness and anticipation.
It had been far too long since she had experienced a moment like this.
According to her memories, the Necrons had held no celebrations or banquets after biotransference. Their entire civilization had fallen into deathly silence.
Fortunately, the Holy Soul Cult—and this prince with his grand vision—had now come to them.
"You will be the most beautiful princess among all the Necrons."
Eden's eyes lit up as he gazed at Fahra in her ceremonial dress.
Who could have imagined that a Necron could appear so beautiful and full of life, bearing almost no resemblance to those skeletal machines?
If he did not look closely, he could almost believe she was a living being.
Fahra's formal attire resembled a modern, spacefaring interpretation of ancient Egyptian ceremonial clothing. Golden ornaments dominated the outfit, lending her a magnificent and noble appearance.
"Then, my princess, please accompany me to welcome our guests…"
Eden offered his hand with the practiced courtesy of an aristocrat.
His living-metal clone body was also dressed in a splendid robe, combining religious scarab motifs with the extravagant elegance of nobility.
"Of course, my prince."
Fahra stepped forward, kissed Eden, and linked her arm with his as they walked outside.
She loved hearing him call her a princess.
More than that, she loved being allowed to play the role again.
Before the horrors of biotransference and the wars that followed, she had indeed been a princess of the Fahra Dynasty—the favorite daughter of her Phaeron father.
Then everything had collapsed.
Every one of them had been dragged into war and slaughter. Their culture and relationships had vanished as though they had never existed.
Fahra had eventually become the new Phaeron, imprisoned within a body of living metal and an endless cycle of war.
"This is wonderful."
Fahra no longer spoke in the cold language of data.
Instead, she spoke as the noblewoman she had once been.
If she had a choice, she would rather remain a princess forever, accompanying her beloved prince from one banquet to the next and strolling through gardens filled with gentle breezes and sweet fragrances.
She did not want to command tomb fleets, fight wars, and destroy enemy worlds.
The young Phaeron rested her head against Eden's shoulder. She felt excited, yet beneath that excitement lingered a faint trace of fear.
She was afraid that all of this was merely a dream.
Perhaps it was only an illusion generated by corrupted data-logic, no different from the delusions suffered by so many mad Necron nobles.
"Darling, you… would never deceive me, would you?"
Fahra suddenly raised her head and looked into Eden's eyes as she asked the question softly.
The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them.
She feared that he might give her an answer she did not want to hear. Her expression became that of a frightened doe.
"No. Never," Eden replied without the slightest hesitation.
He could not help feeling somewhat moved.
Even Necrons, once they regained their emotions, became like every other intelligent life-form. They felt nervous and worried. They feared deception and betrayal.
Unfortunately, Eden truly was deceiving her—and doing so with complete confidence in his own righteousness.
He did not believe there was anything wrong with his actions.
Strictly speaking, he was practically a saint compared with everyone else in this galactic cesspit.
Whether dealing with humanity or the galaxy's other species, Eden made sure that everyone received the future he had arranged for them.
When Eden and Fahra emerged from the palace, the ceremonially dressed Lychguard and court officials who had been waiting outside stepped forward and bowed.
The high-ranking Necrons no longer wandered around without so much as a scrap of cloth covering them.
They now adorned themselves, developed personal interests and hobbies, and even enjoyed periods of leisure.
That was right.
Eden had given these living-metal beings vacations.
Every conscious Necron was entitled to time away from their duties.
Nothing like it had ever existed before.
Previously, the sleepless Necrons had been bound beneath layer upon layer of command protocols, without the slightest freedom.
When they possessed no active orders, most would simply remain motionless or patrol along predetermined routes, functioning in strict accordance with their programming.
Put simply, the Phaerons and Overlords treated the Necrons beneath them like intelligent machines—little different from human servitors.
It was the brutal enslavement of intelligent beings as mechanical tools.
After Eden issued his new protocols, the Necrons gained a measure of freedom. They could decide for themselves how to spend their time.
That freedom indirectly breathed new life into the entire tomb world.
For the first time, things unrelated to war began to appear.
(End of Chapter)
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