The ancient Necron race was born billions of years before humanity, their history stretching so far into the past that it is incomprehensible to mortal minds. Once fragile beings, the Necrontyr suffered under the relentless assault of stellar radiation, their short, painful lives defined by suffering and inevitable decay.
At the same time, the Old Ones moved among the stars—beings of immense power, wisdom, and immortality. The contrast between the Necrontyr and the Old Ones bred resentment, and so the Triarchs declared war upon them, igniting the devastating conflict known as the War in Heaven.
For generations uncounted, the Necrontyr fought, but against the superior might of the Old Ones, their losses were catastrophic. Desperate for victory—and eternal life—they turned to the C'tan, the Star Gods, who offered a solution: the biotransference. The Necrontyr shed their frail bodies, encasing their essence in undying necrodermis shells.
But when Szarekh, the Silent King, saw the C'tan feast upon the life energy stripped from his people, he realized their terrible folly. Though they had attained immortality, it had come at the cost of their very souls. The Necrontyr were no more. In their place stood the Necrons—soulless, undying, and forever bound to an existence of cold metal.
Yet even in their mechanical forms, echoes of their former selves persisted. The Necrons clung to their past identities with an almost obsessive fervor, mimicking the behaviors and customs of their lost civilization. They sought to prove—to themselves and to the galaxy—that they were not mere machines, that they were still something more.
Trazyn the Infinite was no exception.
His endless hoarding of historical relics was more than mere obsession—it was an act of defiance against the void. He occupied the bodies of his fellow Necrons, molding them to resemble his original self, as if fearing that he might be forgotten. His collection was his anchor, the proof that he still existed, that he was still Necrontyr in spirit. Without it, he was nothing more than a mindless automaton, just another piece of walking metal.
And so he searched. Among the stars, among the ruins of fallen empires, for anything of historical value—anything to add to his grand gallery.
The pursuit of his latest target, however, had proven... frustrating.
Dukel and his expeditionary force had woven a vast psychic matrix, an impenetrable veil that obscured their movements from prying eyes. Even with fragments of C'tan essence at his disposal, Trazyn found tracking them to be a maddening challenge.
Yet he relished the hunt.
Perched upon his throne atop his grand pyramid, Trazyn reflected on his latest pursuit. The chase had been anything but dull, and in the silent corridors of his mind, he offered a rare sentiment of gratitude.
"For that alone, I suppose I should thank you."
The Necrons knew no joy, yet Trazyn felt something akin to satisfaction. As long as he continued his pursuit, as long as he added to his collection, he was still himself. He still existed.
"But I will find you," he mused, calculating the Primarch's route. "And when I do, what should I offer as a proper greeting?"
The question was not merely rhetorical. The timing of the ambush had to be exact. The weaponry deployed had to be precise—powerful enough to subdue the Primarch, but not so destructive as to ruin the prize.
Then, a voice crackled through the Necron comms.
Meanwhile, in the Immaterium...
"Your Highness Dukel, the Soulfire has detected anomalous spatial readings."
Dukel, seated in his command chamber, paused. "Have you found the Lion?"
"It is unlikely to be His Majesty the Lion, but after careful analysis, we deemed it necessary to report."
At first, Dukel paid little heed, but as the communicator elaborated on the nature of the disturbance, his battle-hardened instincts flared to life.
Three details stood out about this mysterious fleet:
It was neither large nor small—an uncommon size for most factions.
There was an absence of psychic resonance, suggesting its occupants were either shielded or utterly disconnected from the Warp.
It was shadowing Imperial Fleet movements with an evident hostility toward the Imperium.
These factors ruled out most known entities, leaving only one plausible conclusion.
Dukel's eyes burned with recognition. "The Yngir."
The realization struck him with force. For all his battles and conquests, he had never personally engaged the soulless Necrons. But now, fate had placed them in his path.
"Captain, transition to realspace. Disregard any threats from the Warp."
"By your will, my lord."
The fleet veered off its course through the Immaterium, pulling away from the Astronomican's guiding light. The moment they did, the Sea of Souls raged in protest.
The Warp convulsed with wrath. Waves of madness lashed against the fleet's shields, jealous tempests howled with unnatural fury, and unseen horrors stirred from the abyssal depths, hungering for the souls aboard.
Even the sturdiest Imperial vessels trembled before the chaos. The decks groaned, force fields flickered, and a thick, corrupting mist threatened to engulf them all.
Yet no fear took root in the hearts of the fleet's warriors. They gazed into the roiling madness of the Warp with unwavering resolve, awaiting their salvation.
And it came.
From the prow of the flagship, a golden radiance burst forth, growing until it eclipsed even the nightmares of the Immaterium. The light of the Emperor—unyielding, undeniable—sliced through the darkness like a thousand burning swords.
At the heart of this brilliance stood Dukel, his banner raised high, defying the Warp's fury. The mist recoiled, the sea stilled, and the howling void-beasts let loose screams of agony as they were driven back into the depths.
With a final, earth-shattering impact, the Heartfire rammed through the veil, breaking into realspace in a cascade of divine light.
Realspace, Trazyn's Domain
Dukel emerged from the Warp with fire in his heart, ready to confront the Tau commander who had previously humiliated him.
"Shadow Sun, I'm—"
His words died on his lips.
Before him, atop a great pyramid, sat not the xenos commander he sought, but a metallic figure. Dark green eyes burned within a skeletal frame of necrodermis.
Trazyn the Infinite regarded him with equal surprise, a pause lingering between them. Though his metal visage showed no expression, Dukel could sense his hesitation—shock, perhaps even an echo of guilt.
A deep silence settled as the golden light of the Imperial fleet bathed the void, illuminating the Necron constructs scattered across the battlefield. The reflection of the Imperial Aquila shone upon necrodermis, as if anointing the undying with a layer of gilded reverence.
Dukel's lips curled in frustration.
"No. Who the hell are you?"
Why Not Yingyang?
Trazyn the Infinite had not yet finished contemplating his previous questions. He hadn't even decided which artifact to use for his ambush on the Primarch when a brilliant golden light tore through the barriers of the domain. In an explosion of psychic energy, the Primarch burst forth from the warp, cursing loudly.
Though his expression remained unreadable, the Necron Overlord's processors were already overclocking.
Wait, I was still planning how to ambush you—why did you charge out on your own?
And… why does this fleet's composition seem wrong?
His intelligence reports still indicated the Primarch only had a single frigate at his command.
Even under those outdated assumptions, Trazyn had little confidence in his victory—after all, the Primarch wasn't alone. Alongside him were a Daemon Primarch, a so-called Goddess of Life, a Mechanicus Archmagos, and a Living Saint. An encounter like that would be… problematic.
But now?
Jianima's fleet stretched across the void, nearly blotting out the stars. Among the armada were not one but two Queen of Glory-class battleships of the Imperium.
Two of them!
How was he supposed to fight this?
Even if he sent his true form, along with his entire collection, the battle would be a pyrrhic nightmare at best.
Could it be… the Primarch had planned an ambush of his own?
Wait.
The Primarch didn't seem to recognize him.
Trazyn's processors whirred as he rapidly recalculated his approach. The cold, pragmatic logic of the Necrons, combined with the insidious cunning inherited from the Deathmark assassins, finally yielded a strategy.
He settled into his throne, gripping his staff as it glowed with an eerie fluorescence. His emerald optics gleamed with calculated detachment.
"You do not know me," he intoned, his voice ancient and resonant. "You are a fleet of the young human race, are you not? Inexperience is to be expected."
A long pause.
"I am Orikan the Diviner, master of the cosmic tides, augur of destiny."
The deception was effortless. Trazyn had no qualms about borrowing a friend's identity, especially considering Orikan's past transgressions against him. A minor act of vengeance, really. Long ago, Orikan had refused to return an artifact Trazyn had… temporarily loaned him. It had been rightfully claimed as part of his collection, yet the Diviner stubbornly kept it.
Trazyn had, of course, expressed his dissatisfaction in the most civil way possible—by mailing several Genestealers and a Catachan Devil to Orikan's sanctum.
Dukel, the Primarch's companion, narrowed his eyes. There was a flicker of recognition.
"An astrologer?" Dukel murmured. "That explains why you seemed familiar…"
To him, all Necrons looked the same—soulless metallic husks. But the name Orikan was known to him.
"Then explain," Dukel demanded, his voice edged with suspicion. "Why were you tracking my movements?"
"This must be a misunderstanding," Trazyn replied smoothly. "I merely measure the dance of the stars. I have no quarrel with humanity or any being. Time itself is my weapon—if left undisturbed, I need only wait for my enemies to rot."
The charade was flawless. Even Dukel seemed to waver.
Necrons lacked souls, and thus, psychic interrogation was useless against them. Even the Lord of the Mind could not discern truth from falsehood when speaking to them.
Moreover, Orikan was known to be neutral. His only obsession lay in divining the future, sometimes ensuring his prophecies came true through questionable methods. But ultimately, he was harmless. More importantly, he was impossible to kill. Even if the Primarch reduced his body to molten slag, Orikan's essence could reform elsewhere.
A powerful, unkillable being with no tangible benefit to killing?
No sane commander would provoke such an entity.
Dukel hesitated—then, for the first time, ordered his forces to withdraw.
Trazyn's processors finally cooled. Crisis averted.
He leaned back in his throne, musing to himself. It seems I will have to find a better time to reclaim my lost collection.
Then, the laughter began.
Loud, shrill, and utterly deranged.
Magnus the Red, still slung over the Primarch's waist like a particularly large trophy, erupted into uncontrollable mirth.
"Hahahaha! I'm dying!" The Daemon Primarch wheezed between fits of laughter. "Duke! You've been deceived! That's not Orikan—it's Trazyn the Infinite! The very same Trazyn whose vaults you obliterated!"
Trazyn stiffened.
Magnus continued, gleeful. "And you! You came here to reclaim your stolen treasures, yet instead of fighting, you lied! Hah! What a pathetic, craven little thief you are, Trazyn! Do you even realize how ridiculous you look right now?!"
The air grew thick with tension. The fires of the warp burned in Dukel's eyes as realization dawned.
The Necron Overlord's deception had been undone.
Trazyn rose from his throne, abandoning all pretense. His voice, now laced with cold fury, rang out through the chamber.
"Magnus! You wretched thing! You betray your own kind at every turn! You butchered your brothers in the past, and now you expose a former ally! I have traveled the galaxy far and wide, and never have I seen anyone as shameless as you!"
Magnus sneered. "And you, Trazyn, are a parasite—a dishonorable wretch who twists every alliance to his own advantage. You steal from friend and foe alike! Your very existence is an affront to fair dealings! Never in my life have I encountered a creature as deceitful as you!"
His laughter had vanished, replaced by seething indignation.
Dukel's anger cooled. He regarded the Necron with calculated scrutiny.
"So you are Trazyn the Infinite," he mused. "I have heard of you."
Then, his tone turned imperious, righteous even. "A most unexpected bounty! Now then, would you care to explain why we recovered so many stolen Imperial artifacts from your vault?"
Trazyn's mind stuttered.
Dukel continued, undeterred. "As a duly appointed representative of the Imperium, I hereby demand the immediate return of all remaining stolen relics in your possession. These are sacred treasures of humanity, and they will be restored to their rightful place."
The declaration was delivered with such unshakable conviction that it almost sounded reasonable.
Trazyn was stunned into silence.
Even Magnus turned to stare at Dukel in disbelief.
A moment ago, they had been trading insults over who was the greater deceiver.
Yet somehow, against all odds, Dukel had emerged as the heaviest heavyweight of them all.