"Him?"
When Thor heard the cold voice, he was stunned for a moment.
Who was he?
Thor was now completely cut off from the Imperium; he knew nothing of its situation, and vice versa.
In this state, it was impossible for him to have reinforcements, unless Saint Doraemon manifested.
But Saint Doraemon had fallen into slumber decades ago and no longer walked among mortals.
Just then, a crisp sound of a door opening suddenly echoed, strikingly clear in the empty ship's cabin.
Before Thor could even realize what was happening, a whooshing sound erupted.
A warhammer, too massive even for an Astartes, shot out from behind Imotekh, striking directly at his metal head.
Roaring thunder surged from the warhammer, almost like a horizontally streaking thunderstorm. Imotekh's instincts as a warrior were triggered; he immediately twisted around, raising his Staff of the Destroyer against the incoming warhammer.
Atoms themselves were torn apart in a blink, and scorching dark-green lightning collided with the warhammer.
But to Imotekh's surprise, the lightning unleashed by his staff of light, which condensed Necrons technology, could not stop the colossal warhammer. It was as if the technology used to forge this warhammer was superior to Imotekh's.
The dark-green lightning was shattered in a blink, and the warhammer, like a meteor, struck before the Stormlord.
The green light in Imotekh's hollow eyes flickered. The Necrons Phaeron displayed exquisite martial arts, wielding his Staff of the Destroyer to block the warhammer, instantly deflecting its force.
The warhammer grazed Imotekh's body, smashing into the metal floor and causing the entire ship to shake slightly.
Imotekh sharply looked towards the direction of the door-opening sound. He saw a pinkish-red wooden door, incongruously standing in the pitch-black cabin, appearing as if it belonged to a different layer than its surroundings.
Before Imotekh could react, a bright flash of teleportation light erupted beside him.
"Vulkan was right, hammers should have teleportation beacons."
A scent like a mixture of black datura, tuberose, and vanilla wafted through. A slender figure, interwoven with purple and gold, suddenly appeared in the corner of Imotekh's eye.
The figure grabbed the warhammer, and its hammerhead slammed towards Imotekh.
Imotekh extended his left claw, and the flaming gauntlet covering it glowed with an eerie green fire, colliding with the warhammer.
However, the warhammer condensed the wisdom of at least three Primarchs: forged by Fulgrim, modified by Ferrus, and improved over ten millennia in Perturabo's hands. Even the power of Necrons weapons seemed so feeble before that warhammer.
Imotekh's arm instantly deformed, cracked, and broke under the heavy hammer, turning into a twisted, shattered lump of metal beneath the hammerhead.
The Stormlord's logic circuits operated at high speed, allowing him to react swiftly. He tore off his own arm, immediately creating distance from the purple and gold figure.
His arm returned to its original state in the blink of an eye. This was a characteristic of Necrons living metal; the higher the grade of the Necrons body, the more advanced and sophisticated it was, and the faster its self-healing.
The Sotek Dynasty, to which the Stormlord belonged, was one of the strongest in the entire Necrons Empire. The strength of his body was among the foremost of all Necronss, perhaps second only to the Silent King.
Imotekh took a step back, and the space-time around him instantly blurred. In a blink, Imotekh created a distance of over ten meters from the tall, purple and gold figure.
But at that very moment, several Astartes appeared behind him, as if they had anticipated Imotekh's teleported position.
These Astartes wore power armor similar to Thor's, interwoven with purple, gold, and white, but they were all now-rare Tartaros pattern Terminatorss.
These power armors were ornately decorated, with layers of golden carvings of wings and Aquila, and glowing red or purple gems. The weapons they wielded were not common power swords, but rather power spears similar to those of the Custodian Guard.
Sharp spearheads intertwined, forming a deadly net, striking directly at Imotekh.
This sudden attack caused Imotekh's logic circuits to speed up even further. The cold, dark-green coolant within him began to flow fiercely.
How had these Astartes suddenly appeared beside him?
It wasn't some Pocket Dimension, nor was there a Immaterium reaction. It was almost like an entirely new technology, utterly different from all other spatial technologies in this universe.
But Imotekh still reacted swiftly. His metallic cloak vibrated violently, and a massive tide of Canoptek Scarabs converged into a silver wave, surging in all directions.
These nano-machine Canoptek Scarabs were originally used to subtly inject into enemies, luring Necrons Flayed Ones to surround and kill them, but at this moment, Imotekh used them directly as weapons.
The boundless silver wave surged towards the Astartes, briefly impeding their movements.
But just then, an Astartes wearing Mark IV power armor from the Great Crusade era suddenly appeared before Imotekh.
The power armor of that Astartes was also interwoven with purple and gold, but unlike the Terminatorss, it bore many symbols of phoenixes, threes, and laurels. Furthermore, his body was inscribed with numerous battlefield oaths; these oaths were sharp and glaring, like terrifying cursed scriptures.
And in his hand, he held a long blade as slender as a viper's fangs.
The swordsman's fingers moved slightly, and the blade struck, as devious as a coiled snake and as swift as an eagle.
Imotekh's logic circuits operated at such a high intensity that they became hot, and the coolant within him surged. He instantly calculated the swordsman's trajectory.
The Stormlord wielded his staff of light, parrying continuously. The clang of metal echoed through the cabin like rain on a rooftop.
This swordsman, in a short time, was evenly matched with the Stormlord, relying solely on a human body.
At this moment, the scent of black datura, tuberose, and vanilla, transformed into a hurricane, once again swept past the Stormlord.
The top note of the scent was as gentle and humble as an evening breeze, but what followed was a crude, arrogant, and sticky aroma—an aroma so ostentatious that one might almost suspect it was poisonous.
The accompanying attack was equally fierce. The warhammer roared, breaking through the air, carrying thunderclouds as it smashed towards Imotekh.
The tall, slender, white-haired figure's attack seemed simple and direct, yet it was even more lethal than the Astartes swordsman's dazzling swordplay.
Imotekh's logic circuits worked frantically, generating such high heat that even the coolant within him struggled to suppress it.
But Imotekh's logic could calculate the trajectory of that hammer blow; he could dodge that hammer blow—
Suddenly, a high-priority communication brutally cut into Imotekh's vision.
It was a communication from the Three Saints Council, giving Imotekh no power to refuse. The figures of the Three Saints Council appeared directly in Imotekh's eyes.
Hapsarath of the Radiance stood on a high platform, looking down at Imotekh:
"Imotekh, Phaeron of the Sotek Dynasty, our great Silent King Szarekh commands: the traitor Anrakyr seeks to conspire in grand rebellion; you are dispatched to suppress him."
Imotekh didn't even hear what that scoundrel Hapsarath of the Radiance was saying.
The Three Saints Council's forceful insertion of communication was completely illogical, almost as unreasonable as an Ork, causing Imotekh's logic circuits to overheat instantly, and the coolant was unable to suppress it in a short time.
At the same time, Imotekh felt a bone-chilling pain in his legs, causing his movements to suddenly slow down.
This was not, of course, due to Imotekh's metal body suffering from chronic cold legs.
It was because Imotekh had suffered from chronic cold legs for a long time in his life. That damned disease had left traces in Imotekh's consciousness and memory, coupled with memory module damage caused by ten millennia of slumber. When Imotekh's logic circuits operated at high speed, he would instinctively feel his chronic cold legs acting up again.
"Silent King, you bastard sired by the The Deceiver——"
Imotekh cursed, and his head subsequently deformed, twisted, and exploded into a mass of shattered metal under the warhammer.
The Stormlord's shattered remains fell to the ground with a thud, crushed to dust by the massive warhammer.
All of this happened so quickly that Thor was still somewhat bewildered, unable to fully react.
He first realized that this must be due to the great power of Saint Doraemon.
Then he immediately confirmed that those Astartes were his battle brothers, members of the Phoenix Son. Except for the tall figure and the swordsman in Mark IV power armor, Thor recognized all of them.
It was just that their power armor was somewhat different from what Thor remembered, with many more elements of the two-headed eagle and the phoenix, and he didn't know where they had acquired so many ancient Tartaros pattern power armors.
"Are you alright?"
The figure, much taller and more slender than a typical Astartes, spoke.
His voice was exceptionally pleasant, making one feel inexplicably close and trusting, yet without appearing obsequious.
"Your excellence is somewhat beyond my expectations."
"Although Imotekh lacks creativity and is obsessed with logic, he is still one of the galaxy's top commanders. He can even contend with Guilliman without being completely at a disadvantage."
"That you could endure six days at his hands is already worthy of honor… it's just that the number six isn't very good."
The figure said in a friendly voice, walking slowly towards Thor.
As he drew closer to Thor, Thor's heart, for some unknown reason, beat more and more intensely.
He felt his blood roar, a primal resonance, left deep within his genes since his very design, was now at work.
"Who are you?" Thor couldn't help but ask.
Thor felt that the two wills within him also reacted, influencing Thor's emotions, making Thor at times feel fear towards the approaching person, and at other times disgust, hatred, awe, and worship.
All sorts of complex emotions intertwined within Thor until that face clearly appeared before Thor's eyes.
That handsome face, enough to shame all the goddesses of beauty in human legends, bore a faint smile.
His lips were thin, appearing slightly sarcastic when slightly upturned. His skin was pale, almost translucent in the dim light. His hair, like Thor's, was silver, but Thor's silver leaned more towards gold, while his hair seemed woven from pure silver threads.
That face, that face… Thor felt a surge of anger erupt from the depths of his blood, genes, and soul.
"I am your gene-father, son," the handsome figure said softly.
"Fulgrim!!!!"