Chapter 489: Abaddon, Your Days of Squandering Human Heritage End Now!
Whenever the name Ramesses was invoked, whether by the legendary Shadow-seer Sylandri or by the nameless Eldar who lived in the margins of history—from the silver-haired seers to the youths newly embarked upon their Paths—every face was a mask of profound reverence.
Within the corridors of their new labors, feeling their souls harmonizing with the energies of the Empyrean and basking in a sense of security they had not known since the Fall, they whispered amongst themselves.
What is Lord Ramesses truly like?
It was said that many of their greatest projects were born of his singular inspiration. The venerable Eldrad Ulthran and the Seer Council of Ulthwé had publicly declared, on more than one occasion, that Lord Ramesses was the most enlightened mind in the galaxy.
What does the future of Mankind look like?
It was whispered that within the Warp, beneath the shifting veil of the Formless Lord, lay a realm flowing with milk and honey. It was a world for the dead that anchored all souls; even daemons were powerless to resist its pull. There, the weight of every soul was measured, and every deed—virtuous or vile—was met with its just reward or retribution. It was the Promised Land of Man.
"The Dawnbreakers shattered the claws of Slaanesh and the Dark Gods, leading our branch of the human family back into the Light. He is our leader, and the most powerful of us all."
"This age has birthed the greatest Dawnbreakers in history. We are blessed to walk in their shadow!"
"For the Dawnstar! For Loyalty!"
Overcome with emotion, the more sensitive Aeldari could not help but weep.
"Are you interested?"
Ignoring the tearful displays of the Eldar around him, Trazyn the Infinite's ocular sensors flared at Ramesses' inquiry.
Finally, my turn?
"Just asking for a friend," Ramesses replied casually.
He was primarily inquiring on behalf of his partners. Necron technology dominated the material universe: production techniques, material sciences, theoretical physics, and C'tan energy manipulation. But currently, the most pressing interest for the group was the Blackstone arrays capable of sealing the Eye of Terror.
As for himself?
Ramesses glanced at Guilliman, who was hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously as he attempted to climb back to the apex of the Imperial food chain. Ramesses tilted his head back.
I am one of the Four Wings of the Dawnstar. The Formless Lord. The Tutor of the Regent. The Architect of the Human Pantheon. I live the life of a Warp-tier Sovereign. Why would I conspire with a museum thief?
"Currently, I have no specific targets. I go where the wind takes me," Trazyn replied instantly.
Translation: I rob whatever isn't nailed down, and nothing is safe.
"Fair enough," Ramesses nodded. Seeing Trazyn cede the initiative, he realized the Necron Overlord was being exceptionally measured.
Or perhaps Trazyn understood power more viscerally than humans or other xenos. He knew he could joke with the Dawnbreakers, but he must never attempt to influence their strategic trajectory.
In a universe defined by hierarchy, no race was more rigid than the Necrons.
Ever since Szarekh, the Silent King, had "altruistically" destroyed the command protocols—rendering him unable to directly control the Dynasties—the actual result was simply that the protocols had been decentralized to the Phaerons of each Dynasty. Within those realms, the hierarchy remained absolute.
The Phaeron was the master of all. The rest were either mindless automatons or slaves who merely believed they possessed free will.
History recorded a terrifying incident: two Dynasties clashed, deploying "Deathmarks" to assassinate each other's leadership. The Phaerons died, the Dynastic protocols collapsed, and two entire star-empires ground to a total halt. Because the Phaerons were gone and the succession protocols had failed to initialize, the Overlords were trapped in their specific functions, unable to issue or receive new commands. The Dynasties simply rotted into stagnation.
This had caused a panic within the Necron tiers, leading to a mandatory decree from the Triarch: Phaerons were not to be assassinated by their own kind.
Trazyn's status was unique. He reported primarily to his own Phaeron, but no matter how special he was, he was still just an Overlord. Above him sat a dozen tiers of Phaerons, Generals, and the Triarch themselves.
Furthermore, Necron technology was fragmented. The repair and maintenance of planetary-scale "Megastructures" required specialized Crypteks from specific Dynasties. Because of the protocols, they were often forbidden from sharing technical lore. The apex technologies were scattered like shards.
Without a Phaeron to lead them, the Necrons couldn't even build a proper Tomb World from scratch anymore.
Trazyn, an Overlord, couldn't make grand decisions. He had already "donated" most of the Blackstone stockpile during the Battle of Cadia. Over the years, he had transferred the assets of the Overlords he had possessed to the Dawnstar. He had no production lines of his own, and any further unauthorized transfers would earn him the title of "Xenos-Traitor" from the Triarch.
In truth, Trazyn had little left to offer the Dawnstar.
If he didn't possess a free soul, he wouldn't even be able to resist his Phaeron's recall order.
Trazyn looked at the notifications from his "Boss" on his internal display. He felt lucky his master was reasonably pragmatic, but he also felt a sting of frustration at the Dynasty's stagnation.
The Nihilakh Dynasty was the wealthiest in the galaxy, yet its Phaeron had lost all ambition. He preached isolationism, held no interest in the "Biotransference 2.0" project, and cared nothing for the outside world. The Overlords moved occasionally, but the Dynasty lived in a state of: "Being alive is fine, being dead is also fine."
While the Silent King returned to the galaxy, the Nihilakh refused to talk. they didn't fight in the civil wars; they didn't offer opinions. They just slacked off, occasionally swatting a Chaos warband that got too close.
Sigh...
Trazyn let out a long, metallic sigh. He watched the Eldar—armed with manuals and their innate racial talent—gradually mastering their posts. He saw Imperial scholars studying with wide-eyed intensity, some with a golden glint in their eyes that suggested a certain "Entity" was peering through them.
The Blackstone Fortresses required the Warp to function. No wonder they were abandoned after the Fall.
But now, the Eldar were reclaiming their heritage. They had handed the Webway to Humanity. They had latched onto the "Thighs" of the Dawnstar. And the Blackstone Fortresses were literally beginning to glow with Imperial gold.
Sometimes Trazyn felt the Eldar were biologically engineered to be the galaxy's premier backer-seekers.
The Necrons are a mess of internal bickering, Trazyn mused. But what of Humanity?
Mortals, Astartes, Custodes—they all held onto things they cared for with a desperate intensity. Even as they walked divergent paths, they struggled with the same contradictions, the same internal wars of the soul.
Man's most fascinating trait was their desire. A single individual contained a universe of complex thoughts. Though their floor was low and their ceiling high, Trazyn loved the duality that defined them.
And the Eldar?
A race whose collective desire had birthed Slaanesh... what was left of them now but the raw instinct to survive?
Trazyn found himself envying the xenos. From the War in Heaven to the present, their ability to pick the winning side was unparalleled in the galaxy.
Ramesses sensed Trazyn's "humility" and introspection.
His plan was simple: the Eldar had already produced significant archaeological results. It was time to start digging up Necron tombs.
His projection shifted its gaze to Eldrad, signaling for an opening.
The old Farseer, a master of reading the room, caught the hint instantly. He was desperate for "Progress."
"The primary function of the Talismans of Vaul," Eldrad began, "is to act as a platform for projecting Warp-energy into the material realm."
"During the War in Heaven, they allowed the Pantheon to manifest and strike at the C'tan. One of their greatest achievements was the wounding of the Void Dragon. This is why our historical records speak of summoning Warp-entities without the need for blood sacrifice."
"The C'tan who mastered the essence of science—the Void Dragon—replicated the mineral properties of Blackstone after being struck. He gifted the Necrons the technology to use Blackstone arrays to stabilize reality, a technique used to suppress the Warp. Currently, only the largest Dynasties possess the resources for such large-scale deployment."
"I see," Ramesses murmured.
So, Blackstone—famous for isolating Warp-energy—was originally designed to serve the Warp. But the Necron technical masters were so proficient that they flipped the script, using the material's connection to the Empyrean to suppress it.
And the Eldar could initialize Warp-rituals using the fortresses to draw energy from the Warp itself? As long as they had a God in the Empyrean to anchor the link, the risk was near zero.
The Eldar were eating well back then, Ramesses thought.
He offered a silent prayer for the "loot drop" of the Old Ones. Why weren't humans born sixty million years earlier?
"After the Fall," Eldrad continued, "the Talismans were scattered. Their exact numbers are unknown. Stripped of the Pantheon's protection, we lost the ability to operate them. Three were destroyed during the Gothic War. We believe we can retrieve eight more. The rest... depends on Fate."
The old seer sighed, mourning the inevitable decline of his race.
So, there are eight more platforms like this out there.
Ramesses ran the numbers. Excluding Romulus and Guilliman, who didn't need to be in the front lines, nine such platforms would be enough for the team.
"We can support the Dawnbreakers' Warp-development policies," Eldrad said. "But establishing Blackstone arrays in specific sectors to stabilize realspace... our current population and influence cannot support such a monumental engineering project."
Ramesses turned his gaze back to Trazyn.
"I can assist with that. But I will require the Lords to... 'intervene' in certain areas."
"I can lead the way," Trazyn added quickly, seeing the opportunity.
He had at least two names on his list of Phaerons who could be convinced—or coerced. But it would require the Dawnbreakers' heavy hitters; an Overlord's word carried no weight in the high courts of the Necrons.
"Very well. Trazyn, provide the list. We'll discuss it at the next plenary session."
Mission accomplished. Ramesses didn't linger. He checked the progress on the Blackstone Fortress's systems and hurried toward the Harlequin quarters.
He wanted to see the show.
"Thank you," Trazyn said sincerely, finding himself at leisure.
He truly wanted to "Progress," but the opportunities were rare. A lack of weight in the hierarchy was a recurring obstacle.
"Each of us has our path," Eldrad remarked. "We handle the Empyrean; you handle the material. It is a fair trade."
The old Farseer moved with a surprising lightness. The crystallization of his body seemed to have reversed; the weight of his duties had not aged him, but rather, his new purpose had infused him with a second youth.
"Do not look at me like that, Overlord. With every gain comes a loss. I have the protection of the Gods now, but I have lost something in return."
"What?" Trazyn asked.
"I have lost my worries," Eldrad smiled.
"Damn you," Trazyn muttered. He kicked a Blackstone wall, forgetting for a microsecond that he now possessed a soul. He immediately clutched his foot and hopped on one leg as the psychic feedback of the impact registered.
As he moved, a hidden panel slid open, revealing a groaning daemonhost.
An Eldar technician, who had been studying a manual with a look of extreme frustration, saw his opening. He lunged forward, ripped the daemonhost from its housing, and tossed it into the Warp like a piece of trash. Then, he climbed into the control seat himself.
The ownership of the Blackstone Fortress was shifting, silent and absolute.
The Black Legion garrisons within the fortress were beginning to notice the intruders.
The Eldar had manifested near the primary cell-blocks. The younger, less experienced Legionaries stared in confusion at the unannounced guests. Because the Eldar moved with such practiced familiarity through the corridors, many warriors couldn't determine if they were friends or foes.
Until someone raised a bolter.
The moment a finger touched a trigger, the body was torn apart.
Agile shadows moved through the dark, systematically silencing the guards.
Reports reached the command tier that a Warp-entity claiming to be the "Daughter of Abaddon" was attempting to halt the takeover. But when the report reached Eldrad, the anomaly was handled as casually as a skin irritation. The "Daughter" followed the Black Legionnaires into oblivion.
The Vengeful Spirit — Bridge
Abaddon was waiting in a cold fury for his opening. Slaakshia and Khayon were still engaged in their silent, mutual scrutiny. Haarken was attempting to extract his personal warbands from the surface of Badab, primarily by dropping mass sacrifices to open Chaos Gates.
No one dared look at the Warmaster.
The change in their leader was so profound that any who met his gaze froze in shock—only to be torn apart by the Despoiler's rage.
In the heavy, oppressive silence of the bridge, a transmission arrived.
The Blackstone Fortress.
Cursed stars! If the order isn't being followed, what more is there to say?
Noticing that the Blackstone Fortress remained firmly behind the veil of reality, Abaddon's bald, pulsating head throbbed. An unbidden surge of irritation rose in him. He keyed the link.
They had better have a god-tier explanation.
The Warmaster glowered as the feed connected.
?
Abaddon saw the figures standing behind the Ultramarine. Ancient xenos. Eldar.
He recognized the leaders: Harlequins of the Laughing God. And at their head stood Sylandri Veilwalker.
Abaddon knew these creatures. He knew the legend who had once breached the Palace on Terra and walked away free. Though they lacked the sheer numbers of the Drukhari, who flooded the galaxy from the Webway at will, the Harlequins were always there at the nodes of destiny. Their place in the prophecies of Chaos was eternal.
They appeared at the tipping points of history—sometimes as saviors, sometimes as executioners. Only they knew their own script.
"How did you enter?!" Abaddon snarled.
"Through the Webway," Sylandri replied, her silver mask reflecting a mocking light.
She stood beside Titus, her voice a clarion call of defiance.
"Traitor to Mankind! Your days of squandering the ancient heritage of Humanity end now!"
HISS—
The Warmaster's mutating skull bulged violently as his blood pressure spiked. He nearly forgot how to breathe.
He replayed the Harlequin's words in his mind, his mangled hand clenching into a fist.
Xenos—
Do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth?
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