Upon the soil of the planetary system ruled by the Nokanel Dynasty, Yang Tao disembarked under the guidance of the Tech-Priest.
Before him lay a city steeped in exotic architecture, or more accurately, a monument to sheer, unadulterated madness.
Structures forged in the unmistakable geometric aesthetics of the Necrons were inexplicably draped with the banners of the Imperial Aquila. Living humans and Flayed Ones wearing crudely tailored human skin strolled casually down the thoroughfares, while various patterns of Canoptek Spiders and Scarabs scuttled alongside them, fulfilling the role of domestic "pets."
Yang Tao could no longer contain his bewilderment. "Tell me the truth—what in the Emperor's name is going on here?"
The Tech-Priest cast a cold ocular glint toward him. "Is this not entirely within parameters of normalcy?"
Normal? You call this heresy normal?
You mechanical zealots must have dug up a stasis crypt filled with irradiated, expired corpse-starch!
The Tech-Priest offered no further elucidation. He led Yang Tao directly into the "Planetary Governor's Palace" to grant him an audience with Planetary Governor Phaeron Smaichel.
Gazing at the living metallic skeleton seated upon a grand, ornate throne, clutching a magnificent Staff of Light, Yang Tao felt a psychic phantom pain in his teeth.
This seemingly ordinary Necron lord possessed unfathomable might—and within the galaxy, hyper-advanced technology was a terrifying form of power in its own right.
"Venerable Phaeron Smaichel, the asset has been delivered..."
Phaeron Smaichel raised a metallic hand, gesturing subtly. The Lychguard stationed throughout the grand hall, along with the Tech-Priest who had escorted Yang Tao, immediately turned and executed a synchronized departure.
The moment the heavy vault doors sealed, Phaeron Smaichel rose from his throne. Striding directly toward Yang Tao, he spoke in the cold, synthesized, resonant click-code unique to the Necron species:
"Utilize your methodology at once. Grant me the restoration of my soul!"
Yang Tao blinked. "Aren't you going to test it on a subordinate first?"
"That would be entirely devoid of strategic utility."
Though the Phaeron's vocal modulators lacked any organic emotional inflection, Yang Tao could sense an underlying, desperate urgency. Since the client was willing to gamble, Yang Tao had no reason to deny him.
Reaching into his inventory, he produced the Allspark and aimed it directly at Phaeron Smaichel. A torrential cascade of unique Spark energy surged violently into the Phaeron's living metal chassis.
A few standard seconds ticked by.
Phaeron Smaichel shuddered, his entire being undergoing a profound, metaphysical rebirth.
"***…!"
A stream of ancient, guttural Necrontyr curses erupted from the Phaeron's vocal arrays. The very first action he took upon regaining his emotions and soul was to thoroughly blaspheme his external guard retinue and a specific rival Necron Overlord named Leicester.
"Ahem..."
Utterly astounded by this display, Yang Tao cleared his throat, politely interrupting the Phaeron's beautifully articulated litany of curses. Some of the profanities he overheard felt so deeply unholy that they belonged in the depths of the Warp. He couldn't help but marvel that individuals who lived for millions of years truly cursed on an entirely different level.
Phaeron Smaichel appeared to have vented the worst of his ancient frustrations. He lowered his metallic cranium, staring intensely at Yang Tao and the Allspark held in his hand.
"What manner of entity are you... Never mind. At this juncture, even if you were a Chaos God, it matters not."
Turning back, Smaichel reseated himself upon his throne. "Sit. Perhaps we may engage in discourse."
A Canoptek Spider skittered to Yang Tao's side, adjusting its chassis to serve as a makeshift chair.
Yang Tao nodded slightly, resting his weight upon the metallic arachnid, before voicing the burning query in his mind: "Can you clarify your current legal designation?"
He had every rational reason to suspect that this Phaeron's engrams had suffered catastrophic corruption during the Great Sleep.
"Necron, Necrontyr, Planetary Governor... I possess a myriad of honorifics and designations in this millennium. However, presently, I find the moniker of 'The Forsaken' to be most appropriate."
Yang Tao: "..."
Why does this give me such a profound sense of déjà vu? Are you about to declare that the Forsaken will conquer Lordaeron, Sylvanas??
"As it stands, the other Dynasties of the Necron empire refuse all diplomatic channels with us; they have purged the Nokanel Dynasty from the galactic archives entirely. As for the mon-keigh... ahem, the Imperium of Man, they too have excised our coordinates from their star charts."
"Uh... the Necron Dynasties purging your records makes tactical sense. But why did the Imperium delete you?"
"They arrived to collect the Imperial Tithe... I am a Phaeron! How could a sovereign ruler of my station capitulate to paying taxes to lesser species?! Hmph... though to be fair, the Imperial Tithe Prefects never actually expected to extract resources from me. They merely ventured here out of morbid curiosity, to observe a mad Dynasty of Xenos—a host of undying machines who unironically believe themselves to be citizens of the Imperium."
Yang Tao: "..."
From Phaeron Smaichel's description, Yang Tao got the distinct impression that the Imperial Tithe collectors viewed this planet like an Adeptus Mechanicus zoo, populated by cybernetic monkeys wearing standard-issue Imperial clothing.
"Tell me, do you happen to know of Nemesor Zandrekh...?"
"Naturally! Yet since my awakening, I have received zero telemetry regarding his whereabouts. What has befallen him?"
"Nothing major... his psychological profile is quite similar to yours. His mind is somewhat..."
"Mad? Heh. In truth, I never suffered from the standard engrammatic degradation. I was entirely lucid when I first awakened from my stasis crypt. Of course, that was then. Now... I can no longer ascertain if my cognitive faculties are functional or fractured."
Smaichel extended a metallic finger, smoothing the contours of his opulent, custom-tailored Imperial robes as he continued: "By all protocols of logic, I should currently be commanding my legions to exterminate every biological organism on this world, launching a crusade to restore the ancient glory of the Necron empire... loop-locked in endless conquest. Yet, I feel an profound exhaustion. I felt this weariness even before you restored my soul. How ironical—that I could register the concept of exhaustion while entirely devoid of emotional programming..."
He shifted his glowing oculars back to Yang Tao. "Would you care to append your data logs with the chronicle of my past?"
"Hold that thought!"
With a sweep of his hand, Yang Tao materialized a lavishly laden banqueting table before him. An array of delicacies and fine amaseat filled the surface in a dazzling display. He snatched up a slice of Terran watermelon, taking a massive bite.
"Please, proceed!"
Phaeron Smaichel: "..."
At that moment, the Phaeron deduced that he might not actually be the craziest individual in the room.
Perhaps galvanized by the sudden influx of an actual soul, Phaeron Smaichel possessed an intense desire to vent. He rambled on, recounting his history to Yang Tao for a considerable duration.
The narrative was highly entertaining, and Yang Tao feasted happily throughout the briefing.
When Smaichel initially awoke from his multi-million-year slumber and broke the seals of his stasis sarcophagus, the first sight greeting his optical sensors was not a phalanx of loyal Lychguard. Instead, it was a gathering of bipedal mon-keigh draped in crimson robes!
His immediate processing thread concluded that his sacred tomb world had been defiled by primitive grave-robbers!
Worse still, the expressions on those humans' faces were utterly saturated with... pity!
He was Smaichel! A Necron Phaeron! The absolute ruler of the Nokanel Dynasty! He could tolerate hatred, hostility, terror, or absolute revulsion from lesser species—but what did this collective pity signify?
In a fit of absolute, unmitigated rage... he simply pulled the sarcophagus lid shut again.
Accompanied by the echoing, binary chants of Praise the Omnissiah filtering through the seams, he retreated back into the dark.
He reasoned that his ocular sensory arrays must have suffered a severe calibration error. After taking a few cycles to re-stabilize his logic cores, he opened the sarcophagus once more...
Finally, he beheld his loyal vanguard!
Except, the crimson cloaks, the metallic cog-wheels, and the stylized skull sigils adorned upon their living metal armor were blindingly conspicuous.
A Lychguard... serving as a Tech-Priest of the Cult Mechanicus!
Though he possessed no historical data on what a "Tech-Priest" was at the time, his processing units suffered severe shock.
This was flagrant, unmitigated treason!
However, the immediate tactical priority was to ascertain the current strategic landscape. Part of the reason he didn't immediately purge the chamber was the realization that the entire garrison of his tomb world had... altered.
Upon scanning the historical data logs, he finally unearthed the harrowing truth.
Because the C'tan known as Llandu'gor, the Flayer, had inflicted a dying curse upon the Necron race, the entirety of his subterranean population had succumbed to the Flayer Virus.
The curse drove them into a state of feral madness, dominated by an insatiable craving for flesh and blood, compelling them to drape themselves in the skin and severed anatomy of their foes to spread terror across enemy lines.
But here lay the catastrophic anomaly...
After these specific Necrons draped themselves in human skin, their glitched logic circuits came to a bizarre conclusion: they genuinely believed they were humans. Merely sick, metallic humans. As they fought against the local Imperial forces, they gradually managed to integrate into the local population through sheer, distorted familiarity.
Furthermore, the Imperium maintained a strict prohibition against the unsanctioned trade of biological organs.
As self-proclaimed loyal citizens of the Imperium, the infected Necrons naturally sought to abide by Imperial Lex. Thus, a stroke of utterly absurd techno-heresy occurred!
The curse demanded a relentless craving for biological flesh. To satiate this without violating Imperial law, the mad Crypteks utilized their borderline-magical, hyper-advanced science to engineer... synthetic human skin panels.
Presently, the entire Dynasty was divided into three distinct theological factions:
The cultists who worshiped the C'tan Flayer, Llandu'gor; the Tech-Priests who worshiped the Machine God; and the orthodox citizens of the Imperium—those who worshiped the God-Emperor of Mankind.
Even for a Phaeron like Smaichel, who remained completely untainted by the Flayer Virus, digesting this historical telemetry made him wish his stasis crypt had simply suffered a permanent power failure, leaving him to sleep for eternity.