"The enemy invading our territory is a powerful Nemesor. He is not someone the Holy Soul Cult can contend with…"
Fahra was deeply worried.
She knew exactly how terrifying a Nemesor could be, both in his personal might and in the tomb legions and fleets under his command.
The title alone represented mountains of enemy corpses.
Even after the Holy Soul Cult had absorbed this dynasty's territory, it would still struggle to withstand a Nemesor's conquest.
"If the enemy is Zahndrekh, this will be much easier to deal with."
Eden was not particularly worried.
He knew the exploits of that Nemesor well. Zahndrekh was a formidable figure, whether within the Infinite Empire or across the galaxy as a whole.
After all, the old general had once captured Kor'sarro Khan, the White Scars' Master of the Hunt, only to release him because he admired the Space Marine's valor.
Kor'sarro Khan regarded the incident as an unbearable humiliation.
He had Zahndrekh and his bodyguard, Vargard Obyron, entered into the White Scars' Scrolls of Vengeance. Even now, he was still waiting for an opportunity to take revenge and wash away the disgrace.
Zahndrekh might be powerful, but he had a fatal weakness.
He possessed a strong sense of honor and continued to conduct himself like a Necrontyr noble from before biotransference.
The old Nemesor also suffered from something resembling senility and severe cognitive dissonance. He frequently mistook members of other species for fellow Necrontyr.
More importantly, he most likely shared Fahra's desire to recover his flesh and soul.
That meant Eden's emotional virus could work on him.
If Eden could bring the Nemesor over to his side, the Holy Soul Cult would gain a powerful Necron army.
The cult already possessed a base of operations. What it lacked was a battle-hardened army to make up for its shortage of military force.
"My love, what should we do? The defenses on the edge of the system have fallen. I don't want those crude fleets barging into our home."
Fahra was growing increasingly anxious.
After recovering her emotions, the young Phaerakh had begun acting more like a woman seeking reassurance from her lover.
"There's something strange about their fleet movements…"
Eden studied the star chart. The enemy tomb fleet appeared to be converging and surrounding a central region, while even more vessels continued pouring into the system.
He could not understand what they were trying to accomplish.
Even in the face of such a troublesome situation, Eden remained perfectly calm.
His Tyranid hive fleet and Steel Tusk Ork fleet had already reached the outskirts of the system. Both were ready to enter the core tomb world and defend him at a moment's notice.
They were elite xenos fleets, formidable even by the standards of the entire galaxy. Even if they could not defeat Zahndrekh, they could hold him off long enough for additional reinforcements to arrive.
Eden had been so alarmed before because he feared the invading force belonged to the Silent King's Triarch Praetorians. Even if he survived their initial assault, he would have struggled to withstand the attacks that followed.
If this was merely a Nemesor's army with no further reinforcements, however, Eden was more than capable of turning the conflict into a war of attrition.
Of course, that was only his worst-case plan. His primary objective was to use the emotional virus to deal with Zahndrekh and happily acquire an elite Necron army for himself.
"You don't need to worry. I know how to stop this war."
Realizing that he had neglected the young Phaerakh beside him, Eden pulled her into his arms before she could react and whispered softly into her ear.
He was beginning to like this young Phaerakh, even if she was technically a Necron xenos.
He did not know whether it was due to his Authority of Pleasure or simply because she was beautiful, affectionate, and extremely clingy.
To be honest, even living metal could feel surprisingly soft.
Fahra collapsed into Eden's arms and nearly let out a lovestruck squeal. Her data modules were beginning to overload.
The emotion responsible was called love.
Eden merely held her for a moment, however, without doing anything else. He quickly returned to the matter at hand.
Zahndrekh's tomb fleet was closing in, and Eden needed to resolve the situation immediately.
He ordered a Canoptek Spyder to prepare a table and writing materials. Then, under Fahra's puzzled gaze, he patiently began composing a letter.
It was written according to aristocratic etiquette, using the ancient script of the Necrontyr.
Such a thing was exceedingly rare. Modern Necrons communicated through quantum data transmitted via communication protocols.
Once he finished writing, Eden picked up a seal that the Canoptek Spyder had somehow dug up, pressed it into damp tomb clay, and sealed the letter.
With that, a proper missive in the style of the ancient Necrontyr aristocracy was complete.
"Tch. This is far too human. It even feels a little ancient Egyptian. I suppose humanoid carbon-based civilizations tend to develop along similar lines.
"The greatest differences lie in their technological paths and ways of life."
Eden could not resist making the observation.
Whenever he saw the pyramids constructed by the Necrons, he was reminded of the ancient Egyptian pyramids from his original home.
The only difference was that these xenos built them much larger and from entirely different materials. Many of them could even float.
"Give this letter to your finest Deathmark and send him as an envoy to Zahndrekh's flagship.
"No matter what method he has to use, he must deliver it directly into the Nemesor's hands!"
Eden handed the letter to Fahra, brimming with confidence.
"As long as the Deathmark gets this letter in front of him, this war will inevitably come to an end.
"Make preparations to welcome the Nemesor. We'll show our guests what true Necrontyr nobility looks like."
Eden had spent all this time reviving and reconstructing Necrontyr culture. Now it was finally time to unveil his work and put it to the test.
He wanted to see how the Necrons would react—and show them who truly represented the rightful legacy of the Necrontyr!
Even more importantly, he hoped the Holy Soul Cult could absorb Nemesor Zahndrekh and make the old general one of his most trusted lieutenants.
Zahndrekh was a being comparable to a Primarch and commanded a powerful army of living metal. Eden had to win him over and bring him firmly under his control!
I hope everything goes smoothly, Eden thought.
…
The Yama, a Cairn-class tomb ship.
Banquet hall.
The hall's decorations were a haphazard mess.
Living metal had been combined with ancient furniture and relics, making everything look shabby and dilapidated.
Yet there could be no doubt that this was a banquet hall. Luxurious tableware had been arranged upon a battered table, filled with sticky food whose original appearance was impossible to discern.
A banquet was underway.
More than a dozen Necron Overlords and Lords were in attendance.
These beings, any one of whom could easily destroy a star system or civilized world, sat obediently around the ancient table, raising their cups to one another and stuffing food into mouths that did not exist. They even offered unanimous praise for every dish.
Despite their strenuous efforts to recreate the atmosphere of a banquet, they still resembled cold machines executing a predetermined program.
They had no emotions or feelings.
They were merely imitating them.
The banquet's host appeared far more animated and invested in the proceedings.
He wore formal robes so tattered that their original appearance could no longer be discerned. Upon his head rested the metallic crown symbolizing his rank, and he drunkenly entertained his guests.
He was Nemesor Zahndrekh, an impeccably mannered Necrontyr noble who observed every rule of ancient etiquette.
"Ah, what a splendid feast!"
Zahndrekh poured the thick, murky liquid from his goblet into his mouth and savored it carefully.
A moment later, the liquid flowed straight through his living-metal rib cage and splashed onto the floor, forming a puddle at his feet.
"What is going on?
"Is there a battle taking place outside? Why have I received no reports?"
Zahndrekh seemed to hear the violent thunder of weapons beyond the hall and found it rather strange.
His question made the atmosphere around the table grow even colder.
None of the Overlords or Lords under the Nemesor's command answered him.
They quietly exchanged glances as if plotting something, then activated some form of containment field.
The thunder of weapons from outside quickly vanished, leaving only the faint mechanical hum of the banquet hall and the clinking of tableware.
"Ah, it seems I misheard. Let us continue the feast…"
Zahndrekh noticed nothing amiss. He returned to his wine and appeared to grow even more intoxicated.
He began rambling about his glorious achievements as a general during the Wars of Secession.
"Oh, my honored guests, it was a perilous situation.
"The separatists were too numerous. They occupied every corner of the planet and had spread throughout the entire star system.
"Much like the Fourth Battle of Vindakh, they attempted to surround me.
"They painted their bodies green and bellowed like savage beasts, believing such theatrics would somehow alter the result. How absurd."
The Nemesor spilled liquid from his goblet as he gestured dramatically. Then he delicately picked up a charred lump and placed it inside his mouth.
"Ha ha ha ha! It became merely one more glorious victory for Zahndrekh.
"Our tomb ships devastated the separatists' territory and tore apart their enormous vessels in space, along with the colossal statues of their generals mounted upon them—
"Those two fellows called Gork and Mork, if I recall correctly.
"I could barely understand what they were saying. The languages of these separatists are always so peculiar. They are an insult to our glorious culture!"
Zahndrekh remained immersed in his memories of past victories.
In his recollection, he had defeated green-skinned separatists, captured sharp-eared Necrontyr traitors, and destroyed their spacecraft.
Afterward, he had even chastised several willing degenerates with rotting skin and curved horns.
The Nemesor suddenly remembered something and shouted:
"Obyron, invite the prisoners to join us at the banquet. It is only proper that a noble should extend such courtesy."
In Zahndrekh's eyes, wars between nobles were still governed by rules.
That was why he never employed Deathmarks or Canoptek Wraiths as assassins, nor did he resort to dishonorable ambushes and underhanded conspiracies.
Whenever possible, he captured enemy commanders instead of killing them. He would even entertain them at his banquets so host and guest alike could enjoy the occasion.
At least, that was how Zahndrekh perceived it.
"He has gone mad.
"We cannot allow a being who has completely lost his reason to continue ruling over us."
The Overlords and Lords in the banquet hall whispered among themselves, their dissatisfaction growing by the moment.
The situation had simply become too ridiculous.
The Nemesor even entertained accursed Orks, Aeldari, Chaos Daemons, and all manner of other bizarre creatures.
The last time, he had dragged a powerful Tyranid bioform—a Norn Emissary—into the banquet hall. He forced the creature, which stood more than six meters tall, to join in the toasts and then demanded that everyone dance with it.
The Norn Emissary had struggled violently, injuring several Lords. A few unfortunate Lychguard had even been torn to pieces and sent directly into their Reanimation Protocols.
The Nemesor's corrupted memory engrams had already begun seriously interfering with the dynasty's affairs.
"Does anyone know where Obyron has gone? Where is my tall and loyal bodyguard?"
Zahndrekh turned his gaze toward the nobles and questioned them.
At some point, his only bodyguard had disappeared.
"Your Vargard is pursuing an assassin," one of the Overlords answered concisely.
Not long ago, an elite Deathmark assassin from another dynasty had infiltrated the Cairn-class tomb ship, posing an enormous threat to everyone aboard.
"And what of my guests?" Zahndrekh continued.
He remained concerned about the prisoners and hoped they would attend the banquet.
"My lord, have you truly forgotten?
"Your guests already attended the banquet. The food you provided was so delicious that they ate too quickly and choked to death."
Another Overlord offered the explanation.
Because the Nemesor frequently released prisoners whenever he was in a good mood, causing endless complications, his subordinates always invented excuses to execute them.
The prisoners might fall to their deaths while attempting to escape, choke after eating too quickly, become lost and disappear, or meet any number of similarly unfortunate ends.
"What a pity. The royal kitchens prepared so many delicacies, yet now we must enjoy them by ourselves."
Zahndrekh sounded genuinely regretful.
His fractured and confused mind completely accepted the claim that the prisoners had choked to death after eating too quickly at the banquet.
This remained true even when the supposed prisoner was an unfortunate Great Unclean One trapped beneath a blackstone shroud.
In reality, that Greater Daemon of Nurgle had been sterilized with high-temperature energy beams and burned alive in an exceptionally gruesome fashion.
To Necron armies that had mastered blackstone technology, Chaos Daemons were hardly formidable opponents.
As the nobles spoke, low-ranking Necron servants carried in a fresh course. It appeared to consist of some unidentified viscous substance.
This was the latest creation of the Necron chefs.
Unfortunately, no one had informed Zahndrekh that the supposed chefs he had hired were actually a group of Grots.
Worse still, thanks to the Grots' reproductive habits, their numbers continued to increase. They frequently crawled into the ship's pipes and hid throughout the vessel.
Of course, warning Zahndrekh would have accomplished nothing. He might even have declared the accuser insane and sent them to a Cryptek for treatment.
The low-ranking Necron servants moved with dull, mechanical stiffness. They carried the food to the foot of the stairs, then stopped and remained motionless.
Beings of their lowly station did not possess permission to ascend the steps.
Few commoners among the ancient Necrontyr had retained their consciousness after biotransference.
They were much like human servitors, except they possessed far greater combat capabilities. Their living-metal bodies could also be resurrected and repaired, allowing them to return to the battlefield.
When Zahndrekh realized that his meal had still not been delivered, he looked down at the servants in displeasure.
"Where are the food tasters? Why have they not brought me my delicacies?"
Under normal circumstances, every meal served at a royal banquet was supposed to be tested for poison before being presented to the nobles. This prevented anyone from using food to murder such exalted beings.
Zahndrekh strictly adhered to the ancient traditions and had employed no fewer than forty royal food tasters.
Yet now, every last one of them had disappeared.
"My lord, the food tasters appear to have eaten something that disagreed with them. For the moment, there is no one available to serve your meal.
"According to tradition, it is my duty as your vassal to assume the task of testing your food and safeguard your life."
A cold and sinister-looking Necron Lord stepped forward.
His etiquette was impeccable, and his attitude appeared entirely sincere.
What he said was technically correct. As a member of the royal court, a Lord truly did have a duty to serve his master.
"Very well. I leave the task to you, my loyal Lord," Zahndrekh said carelessly.
He failed to notice that the emerald gazes of the Overlords and Lords had begun to change.
(End of Chapter)
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