Truly a loathsome breed of creatures.
Within the Necron ranks, an Immortal marched in silence while data-streams flickered through its mind-core.
The Gauss Blaster in its hands fired; a thick green beam lanced out and effortlessly reduced a military Servitor in the distant line to fine dust.
As the military caste of the Necrons, the Immortals had been soldiers and generals who served the Necrontyr nobility even before biotransference.
After conversion into Necrons, they—unlike the civilian classes—retained basic cognition, able to devise tactics and command armies like normal beings, even to indulge in idle thoughts much as in life.
The foes before them were so frail, yet so repulsive, arousing an inexplicable jealousy.
These red-robes still possessed flesh and could taste the world's pleasures, yet recklessly pursued mechanical might, replacing sinew with metal one piece at a time—squandering that rare and precious gift.
—Just as they themselves once had.
At the thought, the Immortal's revulsion deepened.
The Gauss Blaster fired again, wantonly ravaging the enemy line to vent this inexplicable fury.
Then it purged that emotion entirely through data-processing and resumed cold calculation.
Why could these frail beings not grasp an obvious truth?
They were mere parasites crawling from the ruins of a fallen empire, ignorant of who truly owned this galaxy.
Now, the Necrons would correct that mistake.
Wait.
The Immortal lifted its head slightly.
—Data analysis indicated a high-velocity object approaching.
What was it?
Its thoughts ended abruptly.
A Plasma Lance, shrieking as it tore the air, struck like an enormous javelin, hitting its mark before any Necron could react.
At temperatures far beyond the sun's core, all matter is equal.
—Dust in the air or the living metal of the Immortal's hard body alike were effortlessly dissociated.
When the aftershock faded, other Necrons looked over to find emptiness: not even a trace of the Immortal remained.
"..."
Clearly, even with Canoptek Scarabs and reanimation protocols, destruction this absolute left no hope of return.
Of course, this was far from over.
One after another, massive Plasma Lances cleaved the air, precisely eliminating key targets in the Necron host; each impact gave them no chance to respond.
A Triarch Stalker had just blasted a gaping hole in the line with its anti-matter particle projector when a lance fell from the sky, the lethal heat melting it into slag and total shutdown.
Even the charging Tomb Blades were no exception—before the Plasma Lances, all beings were equal.
One, two, three… every high-rank Necron melted away like snow under these pinpoint strikes.
Consequently, the Warrior line fell into disarray.
Some Warriors, still executing their slain Commander's last order, raised gauss rifles trying to intercept the descending lances; others mechanically carried on with different commands, advancing toward the camp's fortifications—formation logic collapsed.
Such was the flaw of the Necron race.
Most were rigid machines: once given an order they executed it 100%, and without further commands would charge headlong into a killing field until utterly spent.
Compared with Greenskin Clans that rout when their warboss dies, or tyranids that devolve into beasts once their Synapse Creatures are lost, their performance was slightly better—yet only slightly.
The Skitarii behind the defenses finally caught their breath; seizing the moment while the Necrons lost cohesion and heavy support, they counter-attacked and cut down the leaderless Warriors one by one.
Thus the unfavorable situation was completely reversed.
"Astounding combat."
Watching through a Servo-Skull, Cawl could not help but marvel, "Your might has truly left me deeply impressed."
Indeed, a blasphemous notion even rose within him.
—Come to think of it, this seems closer to the title "Omnissiah" than the Emperor during the Great Crusade.
Yet what he never expected was that Adam's next words scattered Cawl's thoughts.
"Want to learn? I'll teach you."
With a thought, the bow in Adam's hands dissolved into dust and vanished.
He turned to look at Cawl.
M-me?
Cawl was stunned.
Such power—and the other offered to teach him?
He immediately recalled Inquisitor Sibylla's ability to rewrite a machine spirit in an instant—was this that very power?
"Of course I want to!"
Afraid of losing this priceless chance, Cawl's attitude flipped one-hundred-eighty degrees.
Ridiculous—strength like the Machine God descending? If it could be learned, he would learn it.
Still… the notion felt unreal, so he pressed on.
"But why me?"
"Why not you, Archmagos Cawl?"
Adam countered at once. "You are the most unique Archmagos of the Martian Mechanicus, one of the few within the present Imperium who still upholds the ideals of the Great Crusade."
"Given the decree the Emperor entrusted to you and the task the Primarch assigned, have you no self-awareness?"
"What decree of the Emperor? What's so special about it?"
Hearing the topic, Leonardo—an Imperial Guard—finally could not hold back and spoke up.
"What exactly does it refer to?"
Oh no.
The subject made Belisarius Cawl shudder; a bad premonition surfaced.
And the premonition proved true an instant later.
"Oh, nothing much. Archmagos Cawl merely buried a hundred thousand Astartes in Cryo-Pods beneath the surface of Mars."
In the same casual tone one might use to suggest lunch tomorrow, Adam spoke with wicked amusement.
"Oh, a hundred thou—wait, a hundred thousand what?"
The Imperial Guard's voice shot up sharply.
Hearing such an absurd claim, even the others present stared in shock.
"A hundred thousand Astartes."
Adam went on, adding a tiny detail.
"Along with enough guns, ammo, and vehicles to keep them all in action—everything included."
At this very moment, feeling the anger, awe, dread, and lingering fear pouring from every gaze in the room,
Archmagos Belisarius Cawl was drenched in cold sweat.