Outside the camp perimeter.
Behind the Aegis Defence Wall, Omega-234 clutched his Arc-Rifle.
A Skitarii rebuilt by bionics, he was—for the first time—feeling fear welling up from the heart.
From his earliest memory, the day he was decanted in the Adeptus Mechanicus Vat-Banks on Mars, Omega-234 had served the Omnissiah faithfully, devouring holy lore.
Too limited to become a Tech-Priest, he had still earned a place among the Skitarii rather than being recycled into a Servitor.
Yet he had never imagined facing a foe more machine than himself.
Omega-234 looked around.
The once-solid line was shattered, gaping everywhere.
A wrecked Kastelan Robot lay beside him, most of its body reduced to fine dust.
An alien weapon of unknown make.
He would not let the glory of the Omnissiah be stained.
He drew a breath, thoughts near-boiling, and performed a perfect mechanical drill, edging out behind the wall.
His bionic eye locked the target instantly, beaming the image straight into his cortex.
The crystal clarity only tightened the suffocation in his chest.
The things Archmagos called Necrons—skeletal machines—marched like the dead.
Slow, yet each step crushed the air, pouring toward the camp.
No war-cries, no frenzy, no charge—only silence like death.
The warriors advanced in lines so rigid even the dimmest Astra Militarum general would call it suicide.
Omega-234 swallowed his fear and squeezed the trigger; a bright arc flashed and struck.
The hit warrior staggered—nothing more.
Swarming Canoptek Scarabs veiled it like a black cloud, repairing the damage in seconds.
The shot was useless.
This time Omega-234's luck ran out.
A thick green beam lanced through the wall, carving a molten breach straight at him.
The light swallowed him; a life ended.
No one would mourn the Skitarii—such deaths happened every heartbeat along the line.
Death, death, and still more death.
In the Necron ranks an Immortal raised its Gauss Blaster, choosing the next prey.
Their line marched on, unbroken, unstopped.
"Salvo Four complete. Poor effect; enemy attrition 11.6%. No suppression achieved."
"Endeavor-class Light Cruiser repositioning—nine minutes to orbital bombardment. Too late."
"Skitarii casualties at sixteen percent."
"Enemy Flayer squads still roaming the camp, disrupting operations."
Archmagos Cawl processed the torrent of bad news and grimly admitted:
With no prior experience against these xenos, his forces had walked straight into a massacre.
Whether volley-fire or plasma-arc weapons, their lethality against the Necrons proved minimal. The ancient formation mocked every counter he had.
"Sir—designated Night Scythe is moving."
"What?"
Cawl snapped his gaze to the hololith projected by a hovering Servo-Skull.
The craft was sliding toward the camp in a manoeuvre that defied physics.
"Leave it to me."
Sibylla glanced skyward and spoke.
At the front she lifted her eyes to the clouds.
"Careful,"
Adam warned through their psychic link. "That Night Scythe's Tesla Destructor can turn an entire company to ash."
"Understood."
Calmly she raised a hand toward the oncoming craft.
The Night Scythe sensed danger, flipped a zero-radius one-eighty—and froze. For an Alpha-level Psyker, it was already too late.
Sibylla clenched her fist; raw Warp-force erupted.
The fighter hung like an insect in amber, then twisted into scrap and rained down as shards.
This time she focused on its core, vaporising the data-node instantly.
The wreck bled a pulse of energy as its caged wormhole collapsed.
On the ground the Immortal's mind stayed cold.
Updated data from the Death-mark confirmed: raise the psychic threat by one level.
It forwarded the revision and continued the advance.
Its calculations still showed victory possible before the cruiser arrived.
Did Necrons fear casualties?
A fine joke—save it for another day.
Since the Great Biotransference, noble Necrontyr had become lords, kings, and phaerons, memories intact.
Commoners were mindless tools, cheap to spend and easier still to waste.
If one high-value Psyker died with them, the Tomb World below would sleep safer—an excellent trade.
"Out of options."
After 1,313 simulations Belisarius Cawl admitted defeat.
The enemy had exceeded all projections; resistance was broken.
Yet he was not bereft of choices.
He could spend every Skitarii as delay-units until orbital fire scoured the xenos away.
But Belisarius Cawl could not.
Ten millennia old, the Archmagos still—miraculously—kept his humanity.
Very well.
No more hesitation.
He sighed and turned to Sibylla. "Call for help. Let me meet the Emperor's contractor."
She nodded, produced a Warp-teleport beacon, and dropped it.
White light flared; Adam and his team stood before Belisarius Cawl.
"Greetings, Archmagos. We meet at last."
Adam spoke first, smiling at the Archmagos who stared, momentarily lost for words.
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TL: Alas we reach the end. If you ask "Ainz, why post such a short fic that has such few chapters?" I'll answer, peak is peak no matter it's length, we will be patient with the cook."