The Paradis star system was once a prosperous galaxy ruled by humanity. Merchant ships by the dozens arrived at this voidport along stable warp lanes, passed through or rested for a while, before heading to their destinations.
Today, this place has become the boundary of Silent King Szarekh's grand and sinister plans—known as the Exorcised Dead Zone.
The humans who once lived here have now become walking corpses, soulless, their bodies used as expendable material for the galactic necron's experiments—or, if not, they're forced to remain as mere humans awaiting a similar fate. Either outcome was pure tragedy.
The Dead Zone, also called the Anti-Aether Nexus, is essentially a technological augmentation of the Blackstone's warp-suppressing powers, forming a hyperspatial necromantic suppression region.
Under the effects of this exorcist's death domain, the warp is forcibly contained, reduced to stagnant, murky water.
Daemons, unable to maintain their existence, instinctively flee the area. Psykers feel their connection to the warp sever; their souls and minds feel fettered, and even a slight attempt to use psychic powers brings severe headaches or even mental collapse.
Within these zones, ships traveling via warp jump can do so relatively safely without activating protective Gellar fields—since the malice and warp distortions are dramatically dampened. Of course, attempting to enter the warp at all might still be impossible.
Rituals performed here slowly and irreversibly erode souls, like invisible, voracious termites eating away at a living being's core, transforming them into mindless, living dead.
The zone does nothing to the necron—souls already sacrificed, minds replaced by cold machinery.
But for humans, whose existence is fueled by soul and emotion, it is a slow, silent genocide targeting the soul itself.
At this moment, across several planets in the Paradis system,
towering blackstone obelisks rose like gigantic black fangs piercing the sky.
Their surfaces glowed an eerie green, resonating and forming the physical nodes of a network cleansing the death zone.
Most striking of all were the asteroid-sized blackstone structures—like silent black pyramids floating in the abyss, radiating a chill that made every living being's spine freeze.
At the start of the war, King Szarekh had assembled massive armies here, establishing impregnable defenses to ensure nothing interfered with his central experiment: inverting the relationship between reality and the subspace.
But now, the priorities of this ruler of galactic necromancy had shifted.
The energy powering the dead zone network was being redirected. No longer was its power used only to suppress the warp—it now focused on providing battlefield support and military energy supplies.
All these changes were made to snatch a miraculous transformation technique from that mysterious person.
This technique was the key—dawn itself, a cure to the wounds that had kept humanity trapped in terror.
Their greatest desire for eons had been to regain flesh, blood, and soul. Now, that possibility beckoned.
Yet it also represented an existential threat—one liable to shatter the ruling Triarch Council and even topple the foundation of Emperor Napoleon's rule over the Imperium.
Faced with this temptation and threat, the ancient mind of Szarekh moved with irrational speed:
These techniques must be ours.
To restore the terrible glory of our deathly lineage, to ensure our place as the last of the Three Saints,
even if it means sparking a new celestial war that shakes the galaxy—we will not hesitate.
The ancient saints had refused to liberate the deathbringers from their inborn cancers and fatal curses, choosing war instead. Now, even with a human in possession of technology capable of changing the race of the dreadful dead, they will not hand it over.
Very well. We shall continue the war—we will fight again, even in the heavens! Using pure violence, we shall bring the flames of war to Terra.
Let terror seep into the marrow of these pitiful, inferior humans, forcing them to kneel and give everything.
Deathbringers are the galaxy's greatest race, and all lesser species must submit to them and serve their interests.
Silent King Szarekh's orders blasted through the necromancy network across Paradis like wildfire.
The next instant, the void was torn apart.
Countless necron warships of all shapes and sizes erupted without warning around the Imperial fleet:
slender, swift harvesters; heavy, fortress-like burial ships; and even Arkcrafts of Doom, long and terrifying as the scythe of Death, armed with doomsday cannons.
Their overwhelming numbers formed an endless crimson sea on the fleet's sensors, swallowing the green blips representing the Imperials.
Worse still, gigantic black rock structures, now fully powered, blazed with eerie lights. Visible ripples rushed out across the battlefield at faster than light.
Within the Imperial fleet, psy-navigation officers, comms operators, and combat psykers cried out in pain as if struck by invisible hammers.
Their tenuous link to the warp was snapped, blood flowing from nose and mouth as agony shattered their minds. Even ordinary crew were wracked by dizziness, nausea, their life force draining away.
"There are… too many enemy ships! They're everywhere!"
"Navigation error! Warp readings zero!"
"Void shield generators overloaded! Some unknown field is draining the energy!"
The bridge was a chaos of panicked shouting and deafening alarms.
Imperial commanders stared white-faced at the spreading red markers on their tactical displays. They knew the match was already lost.
The necron warships ignored the constraints of normal physics, making ghostly short-range phase jumps. One moment distant, the next moment their salvoes rained destruction.
The battle reached a fever pitch in seconds.
Emerald annihilation rays, deadly particle streams, searing las-blasts from Imperial light lances, macro-cannon shells—all clashed in the void's darkness.
Ship armor tore. Bulkheads vented air to space, fire and oxygen blooming in brief but spectacular cosmic fireworks.
Imperial vessels were swallowed by dazzling fireballs, reduced to debris raining on nearby planets or drifting like metal grains into deep space.
As the Imperial defense line collapsed—and carnage peaked—a ghostly green apparition intruded through psychic force upon the glory-filled Grand Strategy Room of Macragge.
The figures of the last three Saints appeared, with Silent King Szarekh at the head, standing quietly.
His voice, cold and disdainful, issued from the necromancer king Hapsatra:
"Our Lord is merciful. In view of your ignorance, he offers you a last chance—a final chance for your race itself.
Refuse again, and only absolute ruin and eternal despair await."
Guilliman's face was ashen, sword of the Emperor in hand.
"What is your meaning?"
"Hand him over to us," Hapsatra pointed at Datch, who stood ready to resume command, waiting for the operation to end.
"On this condition, the Fear of Death and the Imperium of Man can form an alliance and co-rule the galaxy.
We will open a treasure trove of knowledge to vastly advance your technology, share secrets and truth—a token of our utmost sincerity.
All you must do is surrender the man who has insulted our Lord."
Guilliman's answer was adamant. "Dream on. Absolutely impossible."
Leaving aside the historical betrayals of the necromancers, their unreliability had been proven beyond doubt.
It was equally out of the question to hand over that nameless individual.
Humanity cannot lose its nameless ones, any more than the Imperium can lose Terra. Both would be unendurable sacrifices.
"Your refusal only brings more needless death and suffering," Hapsatra's tone went cold as she activated another projector, casting the battlefield's carnage before them.
"Your fleet is collapsing. Your soldiers are dying.
Delay even a second, and the cost you pay will become irrecoverable."
Guilliman raised the glowing imperial sword. "Then we shall fight to the last drop of blood, to the bitter end."
All the other commanders shared his steely resolve. They would fight at his side to death.
"In that case, let our people destroy your armies, and watch as you beg for our mercy."
With those words, Hapsatra's image flickered and vanished.
Guilliman frowned and turned to the nameless man, wondering if he had a way to break their current crisis.
If not, the only choice would be to retreat from the Exorcist Dead Zone's lethal influence.
Datch dove into the room, standing before the Primarch. Before Guilliman could even open his mouth, Datch asked eagerly:
"My Lord Regent, is there anything I can do to help?"
A slight smile tugged at Guilliman's lips.
He hid the smile and composed his face.
"Nameless, we need your help.
The Necromancer's blackstone constructs in space are emitting anti-aether waves, drastically weakening the Imperial fleet—especially our psyker units.
Unless we eliminate them, the fleet won't last long."
The quest began immediately:
[Mission: Aid Lord-Regent Roboute Guilliman in destroying the Blackstone constructs of the Paradis system.]
Silent King Szarekh has launched a fierce attack, with many warships and, more dangerously, Blackstone structures radiating anti-aether waves.
Help Lord-Regent Guilliman destroy them.
[Quest Rewards: 1500 EXP, 1500 points, reputation +500, skill: Chain Jump]
Datch nodded and accepted the mission, gazing up at the massive real-time star chart at the center of the strategic chamber. The red dots of the enemy boiled like a sea of lava, swallowing the blue of the beleaguered Imperial fleet.
There was no way he could break through this dense enemy blockade and destroy the core blackstone constructs with his current strength. He'd need auxiliary tools…
If only I had a Super Saiyan transformation card—I could fire a universe-shattering blast...
Drooling at the idea, Datch opened his online shop, only to be hit by the cruel reality: the Super-series required a staggering number of points.
It's not cost effective. It's far better to summon an invincible "godlike" fleet from a fallen empire…
All available items were just as astronomically expensive for the current crisis.
Then he remembered: Oh, right — I have one random summon card left.
Let's take a gamble…
Datch pulled the card and prepared to summon a powerful helper. The Sparklence could transform him into a giant of light, but Tiga's normal form was insufficient for such a vast galactic battle. To unlock a stronger form required massive points.
Not to worry—the higher forms would cover the cost themselves.
Whether you're tremendously lucky or unlucky depends on this one pull. Come on—give me something awesome! Mysterious Four, Noah, Legend—any of them would do!
Datch quietly resolved to use the item.
The card transformed into a shining phantom roulette, with images of countless Giants of Light flashing by.
Father of Ultra, Zero, Orb… even the stately Ultra King and Legend appeared briefly.
The roulette slowed and finally stopped on an elegant, powerful statue banded in blue, silver, and red.
Miracle Form: Ultraman Dyna.
A desne beam burst out, piercing the armor of the Glorious Macragge and rapidly taking shape in the void.
In a flash, a giant of light—tens of meters tall, with a streamlined body shining in soft brilliance—appeared in the vast gap between Imperial and Undead fleets.
From above, the Song of Oblivion, observing the battlefield from the depths of the void, caught the scene instantly.
Summoning a physical being—a living entity of pure energy? How intriguing…
Silent King Szarekh smirked. Humans had greater tricks than he'd anticipated. They should never be underestimated.
"But still, what can change? Even a star god, a manifestation of reality's laws, was defeated, torn apart, and caged by our race.
Powerhouses like this are but fleeting lights in the war…"
"Now is the time to remind these proud creatures again of the absolute despair ruled by those who fear death."
Dyna, summoned, obeyed Datch's order to charge the enemy and prepare to destroy the Blackstone structure.
The necron fleet surged like enraged wasps, pressing in from all sides, bombarding with Gauss beams, high-energy particle streams, spiral beams—earth-shaking attacks pouring like a storm. Dyna dodged, counterattacked with Solgent Beams, Lipolium Beams, sweeping away enemy warships and sending the shattered up for recycling in the forges.
But the enemy was simply overwhelming—too dense, too skilled in spatial dimension tech to be contained.
The colossal blackstone structures periodically unleashed beams strong and malevolent enough to wipe out asteroids, harrying Dyna at every step. Most critical of all, Dyna had to intervene repeatedly to protect Imperial ships from destruction.
After withstanding countless focused attacks to shield a crumbling Imperial cruiser,
Dyna's color timer on his chest shifted rapidly from blue to red, its blink speeding up.
Then, as he was pinned by withering fire, a mighty disintegration ray shot from a blackstone structure, striking Dyna's chest dead-on!
Drip… drip… drip…
The timer went dark.
Dyna's massive form froze in place, light fading abruptly as his body turned an ashy white—a lifeless stone giant slowly rotating amid the void.
Just when it seemed the giant summoned by the nameless one had fallen,
a serene yet resolute voice rang out in the depths of every human soul.
"Friends. The enemy is far stronger than we imagined… But I feel your thirst for victory, your hope for the future, your faith in the light—none of these have faded.
So, please… lend me your light!"
Before the echo faded, a miracle began.
Whether in command bridge or a muddy trench, a maintenance deck or even as they lay dying,
as long as humans still harbored the slightest faith in beauty, miracles, or hope, a warm golden light shone from their bodies.
Like stars soaring upward, millions of points of light drifted from every part of the Paradis system and every ship, forming a sparkling river flowing toward Dyna's statue.
Just as the stream was about to touch the statue, though—
Buzz!
A magic wand in Datch's possession began to vibrate violently, then shot forth with a whoosh, streaking ahead and blocking the golden river.
"What—the Sparklence just flew out on its own?!"
In the next instant, from within the brighter-than-the-sun glow,
an even more majestic and divine figure emerged:
Ultra Tiga—in Shining Form, radiating with platinum light, descending like a god.
Shining Tiga spread his arms, absorbing all incoming streams of light.
The radiance that burst from his body was denser and more dazzling than ever—pure light incarnate.
He raised his hand and fired a slender but pure beam at Dyna's statue,
the beam piercing the ashy surface, restoring blue, silver, and red, and reigniting the chest timer's blue glow.
Ultraman Dyna was revived.
With surviving miracle-light and the hope infused by Tiga, Dyna underwent a further transformation—his ultimate form awakened.
Freshly revived, Dyna gazed in confusion at his hands, then up at his shining rescuer—Ultra Tiga.
Where is my light? The light of billions of people's faith, the brilliance of a galaxy—where has it gone? You stole it! This is bullying! I need to find Gaia and Agul, and really scold you!
Shining Tiga offered no explanation. Without turning, he faced the dense fleet of necron.
The next instant, he transformed into a platinum meteor and charged directly at the enemy.
Zeperion Beam!
Dyrashium Light Stream!
Rampard! Light Bullet!
From Tiga's hands, rays of power far beyond his normal strength sliced through enemy forces, destroying warships by the score.
Dyna, unable to complain, steeled himself: even if he got no credit, he had to do his part.
He was the embodiment of miracles—he could not fail those who hoped for him.
Ultimate Solgent Ray!
The Lipolium Optical Stream was supercharged!
Ultimate Dyna battled alongside Shining Tiga, unleashing astonishing force.
Like twin blades of burning light, the brothers tore through the necron's fleet, soon spotting the largest Blackstone structure in orbit.
Clearing away the last obstacles,
Shining Tiga aligned his hands in an L-shape, while Ultimate Dyna gathered energy in his arms.
Blazing Zeperion Beam.
Ultimate Lipolium Light Stream.
Together, the two beams fused into a sheer-white torrent of inexpressible light,
tearing through the void and striking the core of the blackstone structure.
Its dark shield—strong enough to defy the main batteries of warships—shattered like papier-mâché.
Cracks spiderwebbed from within, until, with an earsplitting roar, the entire construct exploded—raining fiery fragments in all directions.
Relieved by the destruction of this crucial installation, the unbearable psychic oppression lifted for Imperial soldiers.
The soul-sucking horror faded noticeably. Psykers still couldn't connect to the warp, but the crushing headaches eased at last.
"What… power?!"
Within the "Song of Oblivion," Silent King Szarekh—who had been quietly observing—displayed shock on his metallic features as he saw the performance of the two Light Giants. Their energy and combat ability matched those of true star gods.
"How does humanity possess such trump cards? Has the Imperium already struck a pact with these mighty energy beings—perhaps become their slaves?"
This thought chilled Szarekh to the core, confirming that the situation was spiraling out of control.
Clearly, the humans had already become slaves to these powerful entities—no wonder they scorned the offer of necromancer surrender.
As Shining Tiga and Ultimate Dyna smashed through enemy lines and destroyed two more blackstone constructs,
the necron fleet's formation showed inescapable signs of chaos and collapse.
With clinical quickness, Szarekh made the call:
The current forces could never hope to face two "full star-god" level beings. Further resistance would only waste precious ships and resources.
Only forbidden weapons, just as in the legendary battle against the star gods, could tip the scales—but for now, the only wise action was strategic withdrawal.
"I will not forget you. I will return soon, to bring ruin and despair upon you all."
At that, he issued the retreat order.
The Song of Oblivion was swallowed by shimmering ripples, vanishing without trace.
All remaining necron warships, whether in combat or waiting, instantly blipped away in flashes of spatial light, gone under the gaze of the Imperial fleet and the two Ultramen—phased out by advanced teleportation tech.
In mere minutes, the void once clogged with warships became eerily silent, leaving only battered Imperial vessels and the two radiant titans standing sentinel like cosmic guardians.