The Grand Strategy Room of the Macragge's Honour was steeped in a deathly silence. Even the word silence might not be wholly accurate. It was a stillness more dreadful than mere quiet—an absolute, time-freezing silence, as if time itself was held at bay. It enveloped the war room in an instant like a pyramid's peak extended overhead.
Hapsatra's expression, previously full of contempt and superiority, froze the instant this silence descended.
Go ahead and smile! Why aren't you laughing? Born with an inability to smile, perhaps?
At the highest tier of the throne, the Silent King, Szarekh, sat unmoving, his demeanor one of indifference. For the first time, a hint of emotion flickered across his eternally serene, living-metal face. A barely perceptible, soul-chilling pressure radiated from his projected form, casting even the virtual starlit backdrop into deeper darkness.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted his lowered eyelids.
Focus your attention on Datch, who often speaks without thinking.
His gaze was no longer that of indifference, like a man observing ants, but rather akin to an ancient god whose forbidden wounds and past failures had been prodded.
After long ages of slumber and forgetfulness, a terrible fury rekindled within him—an anger vast enough to snuff out stars.
On the Imperial side, commanders, strategists, even the Custodes and Primaris Space Marine stared at the Nameless One in stunned silence. How did he know all this?
Judging by the reactions of the last Necrons led by the Silent King, what Datch had said was likely true.
The impact of this secret on the Imperium overshadowed even their initial outrage at being disgraced by xenos.
At the very moment the Silent King's gaze fell upon Datch, Guilliman instinctively stepped forward, his imposing frame blocking Datch like an immovable bulwark. The Emperor's Sword was drawn firmly in his hand, sacred golden flames coursing along the blade and emanating a searing, majestic aura.
Though not yet raised to full height, the meaning was clear:
If you want to challenge the nameless, you must get through me first.
"Hey, what are you doing?!" Datch grumbled irritably, reaching out to shove aside Guilliman's mountain-like body.
"You're blocking my view. Move, let me see this old relic!"
A wave of helplessness swept over Guilliman and his composure failed him.
Brother, look at the atmosphere right now! Someone is about to kill you! They're planning to chop you into eighteen pieces, and you're complaining that I'm blocking your view of the show? How can your heart be this big? Wait, something's not quite right...
Suddenly, Guilliman realized a serious problem:
The nameless could seemingly revive infinitely, suffering not the consequences of death and appearing immortal. After perishing again and again on the battlefield, they would return, lively and energetic, to continue fighting.
Between the two of us, it is I who needs protection. I am a vulnerable Primarch who will truly die if killed.
Reflecting on this, Guilliman paused, then looked around with a gesture so exaggerated that everyone's eyes widened.
With a flourish of the Emperor's Sword, Primarch Guilliman retreated slightly—protecting the nameless standing before him.
Tribune Kurken, standing a short distance away and witnessing the entire scene, couldn't help but twitch his lips.
In all previous battles, they had always desperately fought to keep the Primarch safe. The enemy always charged first, and the honor guard, unable to adequately defend, dreaded the possibility of their charge being fatal.
Now it was the nameless's turn—was he hiding behind someone else?
Damn, does the Primarch really dislike me this much? I have to find a ship and return to Terra immediately. I can't be this bodyguard any longer. I must go back to polishing the Emperor's Golden Throne.
In the corner of the bridge, Eldar Farseer Natase was also experiencing a storm of emotion.
Originally, he had only considered the nameless to be a powerful and unpredictable being.
Now, he saw this was absolutely not the case.
Even the oldest extant Eldar histories are vague about the relationship between Necrons and the C'tans.
If the other could speak freely about such things, it was clearly something far beyond mere farseer or prophetic abilities.
This man is a god—100%. I swear by the fortune of Eldar's golden years.
He is almost certainly an ancient god who existed long before the Heaven War, personally experiencing or witnessing everything.
This realization instantly elevated Natase's awe and trepidation toward Datch to a new, nearly fearful level.
"Slander! This is slander born of ignorance and jealousy!"
Hapsatra's voice once again shattered the silence, full of force.
"You are nothing but brief-lived, lowly ants. You cannot even fully record the history of your own civilization—how could you possibly know the truths of millions of years ago, truths that have long vanished into oblivion?"
He regained his sense of superiority, speaking in a tone laden with scorn.
"Our astrologers have reconstructed your quantum orbits as humans long ago. We know every bit of your history."
"In the glorious era when our race fought the ancient ones and waged the Heaven War, your ancestors were still monkeys jumping and crying among the branches of Terra's tropical forests!"
His gaze swept across everyone in the strategy room, filled with pity and derision.
"Look at yourselves—what a pitiful species you are."
"Ten thousand years is as fleeting as a moment to our kind. Yet you cannot even end a petty civil war and still tirelessly slaughter each other in self-destruction."
He paused, contempt at its peak.
"You are prey, little more than playthings for the mindless, chaotic beings within the Warp."
"You have never truly faced beings like us—those who rule material reality. We are the true, eternal rulers of the galaxy!"
Hapsatra waved his hand.
In an instant, dozens of small projected images appeared throughout the strategy room. Each showed current or recent battles—every one depicting humanity at a disadvantage or being massacred.
A Space Marine had just poked his head out from behind ruined cover—only to be struck by a precise green beam, drilling straight through his helmet, his body crumpling silently.
Several Imperial fighters attempted to breach the anti-air network but were immediately blown from the sky by Necron craft, strings of tragically beautiful fireballs writing lines across the dark night.
An Imperial cruiser was enveloped in flames from bow to stern, its hull succumbing to corrosive green energy, collapsing as it slowly sank into a huge gas giant's atmosphere.
Within a grand bridge, pallid, tall, and ghostly Necrons scythed down Imperial officers and crew with ease, their blood splattering across control panels.
"Take a good look," Hapsatra said, his voice tinged with disdain.
"Are these your hallowed Kalides Battle Groups? How weak, how helpless!"
These images pierced the Imperial commanders' hearts like icy daggers.
Many clenched their fists so tightly that nails bit into their palms, teeth grinding as they silently wished for these space ghosts' destruction.
Guilliman forcibly suppressed his rising anger, meeting Hapsatra's eyes.
"And yet, they live. The Kalides Battle Groups are fighting still."
"Live?" Hapsatra sounded as if he had heard the most laughable thing.
Casually, he flicked on another projection in close-up.
On the screen, retreating Astartes were struck by green energy beams, their power packs rapidly disintegrating in a spray of molten metal.
Another beam lanced out, catching a helmeted head—leaving the body to topple, headless, to the earth.
"Our people can erase them any time, anywhere—as easily as crushing insects."
"That is impossible!" Guilliman's voice suddenly rang out, filled with unshakeable conviction.
"It is precisely because the Kalides Groups penetrated so deeply into your core territories and continue to fight tenaciously that your psy-network is under threat. That is why you are here—pretending to negotiate, feigning mercy, seeking to cow us into submission."
"But let it be said: the Imperium of Man shall never surrender—now and forever!"
As he advanced, the Emperor's Sword roared to life, wreathed in golden flame, his voice ringing like a bell throughout the strategy room.
"There is one true master of humanity—and that is the Emperor! He sits eternally upon the Throne of Holy Terra, guiding his children as they march towards the stars!"
(The Emperor: Son, the first part you said well, but please don't say the rest. I have no intention of sitting on the Golden Throne for eternity. Nor do I desire it. My dream is to revive Malcador and take him on a journey of stellar adventure; so long as we two old men can enjoy a happy retirement, nothing else compares. The future of the Imperium is now in your hands, and those of the nameless one.)
"You lowly creatures understand nothing of true power," Hapsatra's voice was full of agitation and anger.
"Ten thousand years is less than a single drop in the long river of time."
"Your Emperor is but a supernatural anomaly trapped inside a dying shell. Should my people wish, we could annihilate him entirely, at any moment!"
Hapsatra issued his ultimatum.
"This is your final chance. Roboute Guilliman, Regent of Humanity—will you surrender?"
"Absolutely not!" Guilliman's response was resolute, full of indomitable will.
"Humanity is the rightful ruler of the stars. Your age is past. Now is the time of mankind!"
The gaze of the three Necron Overlords all converged on Guilliman, the air freezing under their invisible psychic pressure.
Then, Hapsatra's metallic face contorted into a wicked, ice-cold smile.
"Then prepare for utter destruction."
"Roboute Guilliman, you shall be captured, and caged in the royal menagerie for all to see. All other humans shall be annihilated—reduced to stardust!"
"Oh, listen to yourself! You almost make it sound believable!"
Just as the atmosphere started to suffocate, Datch interjected with supremely irritating sarcasm.
"A legacy for posterity… as if you had any descendants left."
"Tell me—where do chrome-plated skeletons spawn their descendants? Mass production assembly lines, I suppose?"
Ignoring the ever-darkening faces of the Necrons, Datch continued to expose their past misdeeds.
"And how do you even muster the nerve to play tyrant here?"
"I remember: I used to envy the ancients' longevity. I begged for treatment, but got rejected, so I waged war. In the end, I lost, and could only kneel and beg for mercy."
"They manipulate others' morality—start wars themselves, but when defeated, cry and complain. That way, others hesitate to wipe them out completely."
"This was all just to be sent back to your home world—permitted to manage your own territory, forbidden to expand, but granted a second chance."
"When you begged the C'tans for help, you were unbelievably humble:
'If you would please help us, we will obey and do anything you ask.'"
Suddenly, his tone turned bitingly sarcastic.
"And what happened? As soon as the Heaven War ended, you saw the C'tan weakened and exhausted—and at once, you turned on him, playing your games of betrayal!"
"What a pity. After all that effort, you gained nothing. Lost your soul and body, left only with a shell of steel. Galactic supremacy went instead to the Eldar."
As Datch spoke, he grew more animated, the others listening in fascination.
Even Natase strained his ears. Was this what their ancestors experienced during the fall of the empire?
How utterly incompetent we must be! The empire the ancestors left is in ruins; only a few losers have survived.
"Tsk, tsk, what a disgrace. And after all this time, back you stroll—preening as though you rule the galaxy!"
"Honestly, it's your own embarrassment you should be feeling, not pride."
And as he talked, Datch hit upon a brilliant idea.
"Later, I'll write all this up as a book—call it The Jolly Rise of the Undead, divided into three volumes, and broadcast it on every starwide loudspeaker. I guarantee, every civilization in the galaxy will get to experience the Silent King's astounding wisdom. You're welcome—I'm merely a carrier of history."
Datch's words, venomous as ever, delivered volley after volley of precisely targeted damage to the Space Necrons, especially the Silent King.
Szarekh grew increasingly furious, his face twisted by rage, but his last rationality barely held the fury at bay.
Not long ago, the Sautekh Dynasty's Imotekh had publicly criticized him, accusing him of cowardice for abandoning the galaxy in chaos after causing disaster—leading many royal houses to rally opposition to his rule.
Now, here in public, this human was tearing open the same scars, leaving them freshly bleeding.
If I don't kill this mortal, I will lose my right to rule as Silent King, lose my right to rule the galaxy!
"You will pay for the slander and blasphemy you have committed today!" Hapsatra's voice was murderous.
"Slander?" Datch took out a monster ball. "It's not a lie. I have a witness."
"Come forth, Zarhulash!"
As soon as he finished, Zarhulash appeared, offering Datch a sycophantic smile across his silvery metallic face.
"O honored nameless one, may I ask why you call on me?"
This change in attitude was explained by the fact that Zarhulash had been severely punished over his contract with the nameless one—and, by healing his damaged origin, was slowly returning to his peak power.
The current strategy is secretly rebuild strength and, once ready, strike brutally from the shadows.
Someday, when the serfs are liberated and praised, they will surely chain the nameless in irons and enslave them.
Today's humiliation must be repaid a hundredfold.
Ha ha ha, hahahaha, hahahahahaha…
Zarhulash grew ever more excited and sycophantic as he fantasized.
His appearance immediately silenced the three remaining Saints—they could not comprehend why the ruler Zarhulash was now so submissive to this human.
This man's attitude toward their kind was never like this in the past—he was always arrogant, condescending, harsh, and never showed the fearful even a sliver of respect.
The three Overlords were awash in sorrow.
If only he had treated us like this back then! Why did betrayal have to come after all? Weren't we supposed to be a loving family?
Datch pointed at the three projected Saints, then at Zarhulash.
"Go on, tell them. Is what I said true? Didn't their C'tan get begged for help by these chrome skeletons, only to be betrayed?"
Upon hearing this, Zarhulash faced the projection. His sycophantic grin vanished, replaced by a typical C'tan's contempt and rage.
"If they hadn't begged for help back then, they'd have remained traitors and ingrates!
They dare still call themselves kings of the galaxy, even as they turn to cosmic dust!
I've never seen such shameless creatures!"
The speed of that mood swing, that stark contrast in attitude!
The Necrons were stunned, but quickly confirmed that this was, unmistakably, Ruler Zarhulash.
That voice, that expression, that aura—all a perfect match. This is exactly how the lofty C'tans, who once treated all who dwelled in the Milky Way as slaves, ought to behave.
Datch had half-suspected the Silent King would attempt to argue—he trembled with barely-constrained rage, his metal shell quivering—yet, instead, Hapsatra spoke in his stead.
"None of you will survive."
Hapsatra swept a deadly glare over Guilliman, the Imperial generals, and finally glared at Datch with utter intent to kill.
"Especially you."
He didn't wait for a reply. The massive projections shimmered and vanished without a trace.
Tribune Karken looked at Datch and, silently inside, gave him a thumbs up.
Anonymous, you truly are a professional when it comes to attracting hatred.
Sicarius and the other Astartes gazed at Datch in admiration.
Other senior commanders wore complicated expressions—relief mixed with deep worry.
Surely the Necron kings would now unleash mad vengeance upon the Nameless One.
"Hey… why'd they suddenly leave?"
"Couldn't they have chatted a bit more?"
Datch showed regret.
Allowing words to break NPC defenses was truly a wise design decision by the game devs—it made the gameplay so enjoyable.
Insulting others like this was truly fun. So fun.
Datch turned around—and immediately noticed a golden question mark gleaming above the Primarch's head.
A new story mission had appeared.
"Regent! Is there anything I can do to help?"
Guilliman, who had been frowning in thought over how the Silent King might counterattack, was snapped back to reality by this sudden question. Regaining focus, he quickly composed himself and recalled the urgent battlefield briefing he had just received.
"Yes, nameless one, I do indeed need your help," Guilliman said, activating a holographic projector.
"The High Sister Gracia of the Order of the Silver Shroud set out for Paladin II with her elite squad, originally to reinforce our embattled ground forces.
Unfortunately, she's fallen into a cunning enemy trap. All communications were lost; the last signal came from deep within an occupied zone, with no other Imperial forces in a position to assist."
"She is a highly experienced and decisive commander—her presence is critical for the situation and for morale. You must move out immediately and rescue her."
As soon as he finished, Datch's mission interface sprang to life.
[Mission: Rescue Order of the Silver Shroud, High Sister Gracia Paladin. Her unit is caught in an enemy ambush. As a high-ranking commander, she is imprisoned deep within enemy lines.]
Roboute Guilliman entrusts you with the task of rescuing the High Sister alive and returning her safely.
Quest rewards: EXP +1300, Points +1300, Reputation +300, Magic Beam Ray ×1
"Magic Beam Ray?" Datch's eyes sparkled as he quickly clicked for details.
[Item: Magic Beam Ray]
Description: A gun with a somewhat comical appearance. Fires magic beams with reversible effects. Can turn ordinary creatures into monsters—or monsters back into ordinary creatures.
Review: "With this, Mom doesn't have to worry about me getting slimed in the sewer when I go out to play."