The vast emptiness of space shimmered with an eerie green glow as Overlord Amenhotep gazed out from the command deck of his flagship, the Eternal Dominion The Advex-Mors cluster hung before him, a collection of worlds ripe for the taking. His metallic fingers traced the edge of the holographic display, mapping out potential strategies for the coming conflict.
"The living approach, Amenhotep," came the silky voice of Overlord Nefertari from behind him. "Their crude vessels darken the void."
Amenhotep turned, his optics flaring with annoyance. "I am well aware, Nefertari. The question is not if they come, but how we shall break them."
The two Necron Overlords of the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty stood in stark contrast to one another. Amenhotep, broad-shouldered and adorned with ancient symbols of conquest, exuded an aura of raw power. Nefertari, lithe and covered in intricate glyphs that seemed to shift and change as she moved constantly a fluid grace that belied her mechanical nature.
"Our Phaeron expects results," Nefertari said, her voice carrying a hint of challenge. "Kha'resh Mek expects competent results not incompetence."
Amenhotep's hand clenched into a fist. "I have never failed our lord nor am I incompetent, and I do not intend to start now. The Advex-Mors cluster is ours, and these 'Imperials' will learn the folly of trespassing in Necron territory...but you and your everchanging and so called ever adapting perhaps"
Nefertari circled the holographic display ignoring Amenhotep's questioning of her abilities, her fingers dancing over the controls as she brought up tactical readouts. "Your brute force approach has its merits, Amenhotep, but these humans are led by beings of considerable skill. We must be prepared for... adaptability."
"Adaptability?" Amenhotep scoffed. "We are the Necrontyr. We have slept for millions of years, perfecting our forms and our strategies. What can these short-lived creatures possibly throw at us that we cannot overcome?"
Nefertari's optics flickered, a Necron equivalent of rolling her eyes. "It is that very arrogance that concerns me. Our long sleep may have perfected our bodies, but it has also made us rigid in our thinking. These humans, in their brief existence, have shown a remarkable capacity for innovation."
Amenhotep waved a dismissive hand. "Enough. I tire of your constant fretting. We will meet them head-on, crush their fleets, and grind their armies to dust. The Advex-Mors cluster will be a testament to the power of the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty."
"And if your straightforward assault fails?" Nefertari pressed.
"Then you may implement whatever devious schemes you've no doubt already concocted," Amenhotep growled. "But make no mistake, Nefertari. I will lead this battle, and you will play your part as support. Do not overstep."
Nefertari bowed, her movements fluid and mocking. "As you command, oh great Amenhotep. I shall remain in reserve, ready to salvage victory from the jaws of your potential defeat."
As the two Necron Overlords continued their bickering, unaware of the true scale of the threat approaching, the Imperial fleet moved through the inky blackness of space with grim determination.
Aboard the flagship Invincible Reason, Primarch Lion El'Jonson stood before a gathering of his most trusted officers. The Lion's piercing green eyes swept across the assembled Space Marines, each one a paragon of humanity's potential.
"Brothers," the Lion began, his voice carrying the weight of command, "we stand at the precipice of a great endeavor. The Advex-Mors cluster lies before us, a prize that will expand the Emperor's realm and secure a vital foothold in this sector."
A low murmur of anticipation ran through the gathering. The Lion continued, "But we face an enemy unlike any we have encountered before. The xenos that call themselves the Necrons are as technologically advanced as they are ruthless. We must be prepared for anything."
Leman Russ, the Wolf King, stood to the side, his massive frame dwarfing even his fellow Astartes. He grinned, showing his canines. "Aye, brother. These metal men may be tough, but they've never faced the fury of the Rout. We'll crack their skulls and melt them down for scrap."
The Lion's expression remained impassive, but there was a hint of exasperation in his voice. "Your enthusiasm is noted, Leman, but we cannot rely on brute force alone. This campaign will require precision, strategy, and above all, adaptability."
Russ laughed, a booming sound that filled the chamber. "You worry too much, Lion. Between your schemes and my warriors' might, how can we fail?"
"Failure is always a possibility," the Lion replied sharply. "One we must account for and prevent at all costs. The Emperor has entrusted us with this task, and we shall not disappoint him."
The Lion turned back to the holographic display, highlighting key points in the Advex-Mors cluster. "Our initial approach will be two-pronged. The Dark Angels will utilize our stealth technology to infiltrate the system's outer defenses. Meanwhile, the Space Wolves will launch a diversionary attack to draw the enemy's attention."
Russ nodded, his earlier joviality replaced by a predatory focus. "My wolves will give them a battle they'll not soon forget. We'll keep them busy while you work your magic, brother."
"Once we've identified key strategic targets," the Lion continued, "we'll coordinate our forces for precision strikes. The goal is to cripple their command and control structure before they can mount an effective defense."
As the two Primarchs discussed the finer points of their strategy, neither could shake the feeling that they were underestimating their foe. The coming battle would test them in ways they could scarcely imagine.
Back on the Eternal Scourge, Amenhotep and Nefertari had ceased their arguing and were making final preparations for the imminent conflict. Legions of Necron warriors stood in perfect formation, their soulless eyes glowing with eerie green light. Monoliths and other massive war machines hummed with barely contained energy, ready to unleash devastation upon the Imperial forces.
"The humans approach in two groups," Nefertari reported, her voice devoid of emotion. "One appears to be attempting some form of stealth maneuver, while the other advances openly."
Amenhotep's laugh was a harsh, grating sound. "Stealth? Against us? Their arrogance knows no bounds. Prepare the phase shifters and quantum shielding. Let them think their plan is working, then crush them utterly."
Nefertari inclined her head. "As you wish. But perhaps we should-"
"Enough of your caution," Amenhotep interrupted. "The time for planning is over. Now, we fight."
As if in response to his words, alarms blared throughout the Necron fleet. The Imperial attack had begun.
The void erupted in a cacophony of weapons fire as the Space Wolves fleet engaged the outer defenses of the Advex-Mors cluster. Leman Russ stood on the bridge of his flagship, the Hrafnkel, his eyes blazing with the thrill of battle.
"Push forward!" he roared, his voice carrying through vox channels to every ship in his fleet. "Let these xenos taste the fury of Fenris!"
Imperial ships surged forward, their guns blazing. Lance beams and torpedo salvos streaked across space, impacting against the Necron defenses. But to the Space Wolves' shock, many of their attacks seemed to pass right through their targets, or were absorbed by shimmering energy fields.
On the Hrafnkel's bridge, Russ growled in frustration. "What in the name of the Allfather is happening? Our weapons are having no effect!"
His second-in-command, Bjorn the Fell-Handed, stepped forward. "My lord, it appears the enemy vessels are using some kind of phase technology. They're shifting in and out of our reality."
Russ slammed his fist against a nearby console, denting the adamantium. "Daemon-cursed witchery! Find a way through their defenses. We must keep them occupied while the Lion makes his move."
As the Space Wolves pressed their attack, the Dark Angels fleet slipped silently through the outer reaches of the system. The Lion stood motionless on the bridge of the Invincible Reason, his mind racing through countless scenarios and strategies.
"Status report," he commanded.
"Our stealth systems are functioning at optimal capacity, my lord," replied a nearby officer. "We are approaching the first target with no sign of detection."
The Lion nodded, but his expression remained troubled. "It's too easy," he muttered. "They must know we're here."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the space around the Dark Angels fleet shimmered. Massive Necron vessels phased into existence, surrounding the Imperial ships.
"Evasive maneuvers!" the Lion shouted, but it was too late. Green energy beams lanced out from the Necron ships, carving through the Dark Angels' vessels with terrifying efficiency.
The Lion's mind worked furiously, adapting his plans on the fly. "All ships, execute Protocol Omega. Scatter and regroup at the designated coordinates. We'll turn their trap against them."
As the Dark Angels fleet split apart, each ship taking a different vector, the Lion opened a secure vox channel to Leman Russ. "Brother, the enemy was prepared for us. We need to change our approach."
Russ's reply came through a haze of static and background explosions. "Aye, I noticed! These metal bastards are tougher than we thought. What's the plan now?"
"Regroup at these coordinates," the Lion said, transmitting the data. "We'll combine our forces and punch through their lines. Look for patterns in their phase shifting – there must be a way to predict it."
As the two Primarchs coordinated their forces, the battle for the Advex-Mors cluster descended into chaos. Imperial and Necron ships clashed in a deadly dance, energy weapons and nova cannons lighting up the void.
On the surface of Advex-Mors III, Amenhotep watched the space battle with growing satisfaction, he did not need to be in Space to direct. "See, Nefertari? Your fears were unfounded. The humans break against our defenses like waves upon the shore."
Nefertari's response was cool and measured. "The battle is far from over, Amenhotep. These 'Primarchs' have yet to show their true capabilities. We would be wise to remain cautious."
Before Amenhotep could retort, a Necron Cryptek approached, bowing low. "My lords, we have detected multiple drop pods and assault craft entering the atmosphere. The humans seek to establish a beachhead on the surface."
Amenhotep's eyes flared with anticipation. "Excellent. Prepare our ground forces. I will lead the counterattack personally."
"Is that wise?" Nefertari asked, her tone laden with concern. "Perhaps it would be better to coordinate from here and-"
"I did not ask for your opinion," Amenhotep snapped. "You wanted to play a supporting role, so support me. Manage our orbital defenses and ensure no more humans make planetfall. I will deal with those who dare to set foot on our world."
As Amenhotep strode away, his war scythe materializing in his hand, Nefertari shook her head. "Your hubris will be your undoing, old friend," she murmured. "And I fear it may doom us all."
The void above Advex-Mors III erupted in a cacophony of destruction as the Imperial fleet clashed with the Necron defenders. Lances of energy sliced through the darkness, while torpedo salvos and nova cannon blasts illuminated the battlefield in brief, apocalyptic flashes.
Aboard the Invincible Reason, Lion El'Jonson stood stoically on the command deck, his piercing green eyes scanning the hololithic displays that surrounded him. The Imperial fleet was struggling, their guns often firing into empty space as Necron ships phased in and out of reality with terrifying efficiency.
"My lord," reported Captain Alajos, his voice taut with tension, "our weapons are having minimal effect. The xenos vessels seem to predict our firing solutions and shift out of harm's way before impact."
The Lion's mind raced, analyzing the ebb and flow of the battle. "There must be a pattern to their movements," he mused, more to himself than to his subordinates. "No technology, no matter how advanced, is without its limitations."
As if in response to his words, a Necron cruiser materialized mere kilometers from the Invincible Reason's port side. Green energy lanced out, carving deep furrows in the battle barge's adamantium hull. Klaxons blared as damage reports flooded in.
"Evasive maneuvers!" the Lion commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "All ships, execute pattern Epsilon-Seven. I want every cogitator analyzing the enemy's phase-shifting. Find me a weakness!"
The Imperial fleet moved as one, each ship taking up new positions in a complex, three-dimensional formation. It was a tactic the Lion had developed for fighting eldar corsairs, designed to create overlapping fields of fire that would catch even the most nimble opponent.
For a moment, it seemed to work. Several Necron ships, caught off-guard by the sudden change in Imperial tactics, found themselves caught in devastating crossfires. But the xenos adapted quickly, their own formations shifting to counter the new threat.
The Lion gritted his teeth, frustration threatening to overtake his legendary composure. "Brother," he voxed to Leman Russ, whose fleet was engaged in a brutal close-quarters battle on the other side of the planet, "how fare you?"
Russ's reply came through a haze of static and background explosions. "These metal bastards are tough, but we're giving as good as we get! My wolves are itching for a proper fight. Permission to commence boarding actions?"
The Lion considered for a moment. Such tactics were risky, potentially sacrificing valuable Space Marines for uncertain gains. But if anyone could turn the tide through sheer ferocity and close-quarters prowess, it was the VI Legion.
"Granted," the Lion responded. "But be cautious, brother. We know little of the internal layout of these xenos vessels."
Russ's laughter boomed through the vox. "Caution? You wound me, Lion! We'll show these soulless automata the meaning of fear!"
As the Space Wolves prepared to launch their boarding torpedoes, the Lion turned his attention back to the battle at hand. Something about the Necron movements nagged at him, a half-glimpsed pattern lurking just beyond conscious recognition.
"Increase magnification on grid seven-three," he ordered. The hololithic display zoomed in, showing a cluster of Necron destroyers harrying an Imperial light cruiser. The Lion watched intently as the xenos ships phased in and out, their movements a deadly dance of advanced technology.
And then he saw it.
"There!" he exclaimed, startling his command staff. "Do you see? They're not truly random in their phase-shifting. There's a microsecond delay between each shift, a moment of vulnerability we can exploit."
The Lion's fingers flew over the tactical console, inputting new firing solutions and battle plans. "Transmit these targeting parameters to all ships," he commanded. "Instruct gun crews to fire on my mark, not a millisecond before or after."
As the new orders spread throughout the fleet, the Lion allowed himself a grim smile. The Necrons might have superior technology, but they would learn that human ingenuity and adaptability were not to be underestimated.
"All ships," the Primarch's voice rang out, "fire!"
the space battle had taken on a new intensity. The Lion's insight into the Necron phase-shifting had given the Imperial fleet a fighting chance, but the xenos' technological superiority was still taking a heavy toll.
Leman Russ's boarding actions had met with mixed success. The Space Wolves had managed to disable several Necron vessels from within, their close-quarters savagery proving effective against the mechanical xenos. But the cost had been high, with many boarding parties lost to the incomprehensible internal defenses of the Necron ships.
"My lord," Captain Alajos reported, his voice strained, "we're receiving distress calls from multiple points on the surface. The Necrons are overrunning our landing zones faster than we can reinforce them."
The Lion's mind worked furiously, weighing options and calculating risks. They had achieved a foothold, but at what cost? And could they hold it in the face of this relentless assault?
"Brother," came Russ's voice over the vox, ragged and interspersed with the sounds of ongoing combat. "The situation down here is untenable. These metal bastards just keep coming, and I'm not sure how much longer we can hold out."
The admission of difficulty from the normally boastful Wolf King spoke volumes about the direness of their situation. The Lion made his decision.
"All forces, prepare for tactical withdrawal," he commanded, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "We will cut off the head of the snake. Delay the Xenos Fleet, I will personally lead the Landfall."
As the order spread, the Imperial forces began a fighting...delaying the inevitable, Drop ships and gunships braved the gauntlet of Necron fire to disgorge more troops on the surface. The fleet redeployed to provide covering fire, their guns blazing defiantly against the implacable xenos advance.
The surface of Advex-Mors III was a hellscape of jagged black rock and swirling dust storms. As Imperial drop pods slammed into the ground, disgorging squads of Space Marines, the air filled with the scream of energy weapons and the clash of metal on metal, But for every beachhead established, the Necrons seemed to have a counter prepared.
Leman Russ, Primarch of the Space Wolves, found himself in the thick of the heaviest fighting. His frost blade, Mjalnar, sang a deadly song as it cleaved through Necron warriors, leaving sparking, dismembered bodies in his wake. But for every foe he struck down, two more seemed to take its place.
"Come on, you metal bastards!" Russ roared, his voice carrying across the battlefield and inspiring his sons to even greater feats of valor. "Is this the best you can do?"
As if in answer to his challenge, the ground before him erupted. A massive structure rose from the depths, a Monolith of staggering proportions. Atop it stood a towering figure, its body adorned with ancient symbols of conquest, a crackling energy scythe held aloft.
"I am Amenhotep, Overlord of the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty," the figure's voice boomed, amplified by some unknown technology. "You dare trespass on our domain, little wolf? Prepare to be erased from existence."
Russ grinned, baring his fangs in a predatory smile. "Big words from a walking scrap heap. Let's see if you can back them up!"
With a howl that shook the very air, Russ charged towards the Monolith. His Varagyr, the elite warriors of his personal guard, moved to follow, but found their path blocked by a sudden onslaught of Necron reinforcements.
"The Procession of the Damned begins," Amenhotep intoned, raising his scythe high. At his command, endless waves of Necron warriors began to materialize, led by resplendent Nobles and implacable Royal Wardens. They advanced with mechanical precision, their gauss weapons lighting up the battlefield with sickly green energy.
Russ paid them no heed, his focus entirely on the Overlord before him. With a mighty leap, he cleared the last distance to the Monolith, his power armor's servos straining as he landed on its sloping surface.
Amenhotep met him halfway, his energy scythe clashing against Mjalnar in a shower of sparks. The two titans traded blows at a speed that belied their size, each strike powerful enough to level a hab-block.
"You fight well, for a creature of flesh," Amenhotep grudgingly admitted as they locked weapons.
Russ snarled in response, pushing back with all his transhuman might. "And you're not bad for a glorified toaster. But I've faced worse than you and lived to tell the tale!"
Their duel continued, a brutal dance of strength and skill. But as the minutes stretched on, even Russ's legendary endurance began to flag. Amenhotep's mechanical body knew no fatigue, and each blow seemed to carry the same devastating force as the first.
A particularly vicious swing caught Russ off-guard, the energy scythe carving a deep furrow in his pauldron. The Primarch stumbled, nearly losing his footing on the Monolith's smooth surface.
"First blood to me, wolf," Amenhotep gloated. "How many more can you withstand before you fall?"
Russ spat blood, his eyes blazing with defiance. "As many as it takes, xenos. I am Leman of the Russ, and I will not yield!"
But even as he spoke, the Wolf King knew he was in trouble. His armor creaked under the strain of Amenhotep's relentless assault, fresh gashes appearing with each exchange. And all around them, the tide of battle was turning.
The Space Wolves fought with characteristic fury, but they were being overwhelmed by sheer numbers. The Procession of the Damned lived up to its name, an endless tide of Necron warriors that seemed impossible to stem. Imperial Guard regiments that had accompanied the Astartes fared even worse, entire platoons vanishing under the onslaught of gauss fire.
Russ caught glimpses of the massacre between exchanges with Amenhotep. He saw drop pods shot out of the sky before they could land, watched as carefully established defensive positions crumbled under the weight of Canoptek constructs. And still, the Necrons came.
"Your warriors fight bravely," Amenhotep remarked, his tone almost conversational as he battered at Russ's defenses. "But bravery counts for little against the inevitability of the Necrontyr. We are eternal, unyielding. You are but mayflies, destined to burn out in an instant."
Russ roared in defiance, summoning a last reserve of strength to launch a furious counterattack. Mjalnar bit deep into Amenhotep's shoulder, sheering through ancient living metal. But the wound sealed almost instantly, skeletal fingers closing around the Primarch's throat.
"A valiant effort," the Overlord said, lifting Russ off his feet. "But ultimately futile. Witness the fall of your legion, wolf, and know that you have failed."
------------------------
While Russ battled Amenhotep, Lion El'Jonson led his Dark Angels in a surgical strike against what intelligence suggested was a key Necron command node. The Primarch moved like a force of nature, his sword carving through xenos warriors with impossible grace and precision.
But for every step forward, the Dark Angels seemed to take two steps back. Their target remained elusive, shimmering energy fields and sudden gravitational distortions confounding even the Lion's superhuman senses.
"My lord," Corswain, one of his most trusted lieutenants, called out. "Our auspex readings are fluctuating wildly. It's as if the entire battlefield is shifting around us!"
The Lion's eyes narrowed as he bisected a Necron Immortal with a single stroke. "An illusion," he muttered. "Or perhaps... Brother! To me!"
As his Deathwing guards formed up around him, a new figure materialized on the battlefield. Lithe and adorned with intricate, ever-changing glyphs, the Necron Overlord regarded the Space Marines with cold curiosity.
"I am Nefertari," she announced, her voice carrying an otherworldly harmonics. "You have come far, sons of Terra, but your journey ends here."
With a gesture, the landscape around them seemed to twist and warp. Dark Angels found themselves suddenly isolated, cut off from their battle-brothers by impossible terrain.
The Lion, however, remained unperturbed. His keen mind, honed by years of shadowy warfare on Caliban, began to analyze Nefertari's tactics even as he parried her first strike.
"Impressive," he admitted, countering with a lightning-fast riposte that the Overlord barely avoided. "But illusions and trickery can only take you so far."
Nefertari's response was to split into multiple copies, each one attacking from a different angle. But the Lion was not deceived. With a move of preternatural speed and precision, he struck at the one true form hidden among the duplicates.
His sword met solid resistance, and Nefertari's illusions shattered. "How?" she demanded, genuine surprise coloring her mechanical voice.
"Your strategies are like sand," the Lion explained, pressing his advantage. "Complex and ever-shifting, but lacking a solid core. Once one understands the principle, the individual grains become irrelevant."
As their duel continued, the Lion found himself gaining the upper hand. For all her adaptability, Nefertari couldn't match the Primarch's centuries of experience and innate tactical genius. More importantly, her focus on him left her forces without clear direction.
The Dark Angels, initially confounded by the Overlord's illusions, began to rally. Under the Lion's guidance, they started to punch through the Necron lines, targeting key nodes and defense systems with ruthless efficiency.
Nefertari found herself being pushed back, her carefully laid plans unraveling in the face of the Lion's relentless assault. A particularly vicious series of attacks from the Primarch left her reeling, her living metal form struggling to repair the damage.
"You are beaten," the Lion stated flatly, his sword poised for a killing blow. "Yield, and perhaps we can end this conflict with words rather than further bloodshed."
But before Nefertari could respond, a massive explosion rocked the battlefield. Both Primarch and Overlord turned to see a critical Necron pylon collapse, taking a significant portion of the xenos' defense grid with it.
The Lion allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. In focusing on their duel, Nefertari had neglected the larger battle. His Dark Angels had seized the opportunity, striking at a crucial weak point he had identified earlier.
Nefertari's optics flared with what might have been anger or frustration. "This is not over, Primarch," she hissed, her form already beginning to phase out. "You may have won this skirmish, but the war is far from decided."
As the Overlord disappeared, the Lion turned his attention back to the battle at large. The destruction of the pylon had created a gap in the Necron defenses, one that his forces were quick to exploit. But even as they pushed forward, he could see that the situation elsewhere was dire.
Reports flooded in of Imperial Guard regiments being overrun, of Space Wolf pack after pack falling to the relentless Necron advance. And somewhere out there, his brother Leman was locked in combat with an enemy that seemed to have no limit to its strength or numbers.
The Lion's mind raced, calculating odds and analyzing strategies at lightning speed. They had scored a significant victory here, but it would mean nothing if the rest of the invasion force was decimated. A tactical withdrawal might be necessary, but how to execute it without leaving their forces vulnerable?
As if sensing his thoughts, Nefertari's voice echoed across the battlefield one last time. "Ponder your next move carefully, Lion El'Jonson. For every moment you delay, more of your warriors fall. How many lives are you willing to sacrifice for this futile endeavor?"
The Primarch's grip tightened on his sword, his face a mask of grim determination. The battle for Advex-Mors III was far from over, and the next few hours would determine not just the fate of this campaign, but potentially the course of the entire Great Crusade in this sector.
Leman Russ finally disengaged from his duel with Amenhotep, using the last of his strength to leap clear of the Monolith. His Varagyr formed up around him, creating a protective cordon as they fought their way back to the extraction point.
"This isn't over, tin man," Russ growled, spitting blood as he glared up at the Necron Overlord. "We'll be back, and next time, I'll tear that metal head from your shoulders!"
Amenhotep watched impassively as the Space Wolves retreated. "Empty threats, little wolf. Your kind will be nothing but dust in the annals of history, while we endure eternally."
As if to emphasize his point, the full might of the Necron forces was unleashed. The sky itself seemed to turn green as countless gauss weapons opened fire simultaneously. Drop ships attempting to extract Imperial forces were swatted from the air like insects, while those on the ground found themselves caught in a deadly crossfire.
The Necrons' superior technology was laid bare for all to witness. Monoliths advanced inexorably, their particle whips carving swathes of destruction through the retreating Imperial lines. Canoptek Wraiths phased through solid matter to ambush evacuation points, while Doom Scythes screamed overhead, their death rays reducing armored columns to molten slag.
Leman Russ, bloodied but unbowed, rallied his sons for a desperate last stand. "Hold the line!" he roared, Mjalnar flashing as he cut down Necron after Necron. "Buy time for the others to escape!"
The Space Wolves fought with the fury of cornered animals, their chainswords and bolt pistols blazing in defiance of the overwhelming odds. But for every Necron they felled, a dozen more took its place. The Procession of the Damned lived up to its name, an endless tide of soulless warriors that seemed to stretch to the horizon.
Meanwhile, Lion El'Jonson coordinated the withdrawal with cold efficiency. His Dark Angels provided covering fire for the retreating Guard regiments, their precision bolter fire keeping the Necron advance at bay, if only for moments at a time.
"My lord," Corswain reported, his armor scorched and dented, "we've lost contact with the eastern flank. The xenos have overrun their position."
The Lion's face was a mask of controlled fury. "Redirect the Ravenwing to that sector. We cannot afford to leave anyone behind."
But even as he gave the order, he knew it might be in vain. The Necrons were tightening the noose, their forces moving with inhuman coordination to cut off every avenue of escape.
In orbit, the situation was equally dire. The Imperial fleet, already battered from the prolonged engagement, now found itself fighting a desperate holding action. Necron reinforcements were arriving in system, their crescent-shaped ships materializing out of the void to join the fray.
"My lord," Captain Alajos's voice crackled over the vox, "we cannot maintain this position much longer. Our void shields are failing, and we've lost half our escort vessels."
The Lion's mind raced, calculating odds and weighing outcomes. Every moment they delayed meant more lives lost, but a premature withdrawal would doom those still fighting on the surface.
Just then, a new voice cut through the chaos of the command net. "This is Russ," the Wolf King growled, his words punctuated by the sound of ongoing combat. "We're cut off from the extraction point. Don't wait for us, brother. Get our sons out of here!"
For a fraction of a second, the Lion hesitated. The idea of leaving his brother behind was anathema to everything he stood for. But he knew Russ was right. They had to salvage what they could from this disaster.
"All forces, commence immediate evacuation," the Lion commanded, his voice carrying the weight of this terrible decision. "May the Emperor protect those we leave behind."
As the order spread, the withdrawal turned into a full-scale route. Imperial ships disengaged where they could, their engines straining as they fought to break orbit. On the surface, those fortunate enough to reach extraction points crammed into any vessel capable of flight, while others fought desperate last stands against the inexorable Necron advance.
Amenhotep stood atop his Monolith, watching with cold satisfaction as the invaders fled. "Let them run," he intoned to Nefertari, who had materialized beside him.
Nefertari nodded, her ever-shifting form settling into a pose of contemplation. "They fought well, for beings of flesh," she admitted. "Particularly their leaders. We would do well not to underestimate them in the future." but she withheld the fact that she was outsmarted by The Lion.
Sergeant Titus of the Thraxian 22nd Infantry Regiment crouched behind the ruins of what had once been a command bunker. His lasgun felt woefully inadequate as he watched the green tide of death approach. The Necrons advanced with mechanical precision, their metallic bodies gleaming in the eerie light of their own weapons.
"Stand fast, men!" Titus shouted, trying to instill some courage in his battered squad. "For the Emperor!"
As if in mocking response, the air filled with a high-pitched whine. Titus had just enough time to duck as emerald beams of energy lanced overhead. The guardsman next to him wasn't so lucky. The gauss flayer's shot caught him square in the chest, stripping away flesh, bone, and armor in a horrifying display of destructive power.
"Throne!" Private Marius gasped, his young face pale with shock. "What in the Emperor's name are these things?"
Titus gritted his teeth. "The enemy, lad. And that's all you need to know. Now keep firing!"
The squad opened up with their lasguns, red beams of energy streaking towards the Necron lines. But to their horror, most shots seemed to pass harmlessly through the advancing warriors, while others were absorbed by shimmering energy fields.
"It's not working, Sarge!" another trooper cried out, panic evident in his voice. "We can't stop them!"
Before Titus could respond, a shadow fell over their position. He looked up to see a massive, spider-like construct looming above them, its multiple limbs ending in vicious blades and energy weapons.
"What the Throne..."
The construct's weapons opened fire, turning their cover into molten slag. Titus rolled to the side, feeling the heat sear through his flak armor. He came up firing, his lasgun on full auto, but the energy blasts merely scorched the construct's metallic hide.
To his left, Private Marius let out a blood-curdling scream. One of the construct's bladed limbs had impaled him, lifting the young soldier off the ground. With a sickening crunch, the blade retracted, letting Marius's lifeless body fall in a crumpled heap.
Titus felt bile rise in his throat, but he forced it down. There was no time for weakness. "Fall back!" he ordered, gesturing towards a nearby trench line. "We need heavier support!"
As the remnants of his squad retreated, Titus saw other Imperial units facing similar fates across the battlefield. A Leman Russ battle tank, pride of the Imperial Guard, fired its battle cannon at an approaching phalanx of Necron warriors. The shell exploded in their midst, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris.
For a moment, Titus dared to hope. But as the dust settled, his heart sank. The Necron warriors emerged unscathed, their self-repair protocols having knitted together any damage almost instantly.
The tank crew had no time to react. A group of Wraiths, their serpentine bodies phasing in and out of reality, slithered through the tank's hull as if it were mist. Screams echoed from within, cut short by flashes of eldritch energy. Moments later, the Wraiths emerged, leaving behind a tomb of steel and flesh.
In the trench, Titus tried to rally his men. "Hold the line!" he shouted, his voice hoarse from the acrid smoke filling the air. "The Emperor protects!"
But even as the words left his mouth, he saw the lie in them. A flash of green light caught his eye, and he turned to see a squad of Deathmarks materializing on a nearby ridge. Their alien sniper rifles raised, targeting officers and heavy weapons teams with unerring precision.
Captain Valerius, coordinating the defense from a makeshift command post, never saw the shot he just fell to the ground, veins of green filled his face the last thing he saw was his men falling one by one. The Commissar standing next to him had just enough time to register shock before another beam punched through his chest, he too fell.
With their leadership decapitated, the Imperial lines began to waver. Titus saw entire platoons breaking, throwing down their weapons as they fled in blind panic. He couldn't blame them. How could flesh and blood stand against such implacable, soulless foes?
A movement caught his eye, and Titus turned to see Private Gorman, the squad's newest recruit, scrambling over the trench wall.
"Gorman!" Titus yelled. "What the throne are you doing?"
The young soldier pointed towards a fallen Necron warrior, its gauss flayer lying just within reach. "We need better weapons, Sarge! I'm going to grab that xenos gun!"
Before Titus could stop him, Gorman was sprinting across the open ground. Miraculously, he made it to the Necron's body, his hands closing around the alien weapon.
For a split second, hope flared in Titus's chest. But it was extinguished as quickly as it had ignited. In a flash of green energy, both the weapon and the "fallen" Necron disappeared, teleported away by some incomprehensible technology.
Gorman stood there, dumbfounded, staring at his empty hands. He never saw the Canoptek Scarab swarm descending upon him. Titus watched in horror as the mechanical insects engulfed the young soldier, their razor-sharp mandibles stripping flesh from bone in seconds. Gorman's agonized screams would haunt Titus for the rest of his life – however short that might be.
Even the vaunted Space Marines, the Emperor's finest warriors, seemed to be struggling against the Necron onslaught. Titus saw a squad of Astartes – he couldn't make out their chapter markings through the smoke and chaos – engaged in close combat with a group of Lychguard.
The Space Marines fought with all their legendary skill and fury. Chainswords roared as they clashed against crackling hyperphase swords. Bolter fire erupted at point-blank range, explosive rounds detonating against living metal.
But for every Necron that fell, two more took its place. The Lychguard's dispersion shields turned aside blows that should have been fatal, while their ancient bodies repaired damage almost as quickly as it was inflicted.
Titus watched as a Space Marine Sergeant, his armor bearing the scars of countless battles, grappled with a particularly massive Lychguard. The Marine's power fist crackled with energy as he landed a thunderous blow on the Necron's chest, caving in its metallic ribcage.
For a moment, it seemed the Astartes had triumphed. But then, before the Sergeant's eyes, the damage began to reverse itself. Bent metal straightened, severed connections reestablished themselves. The Lychguard's optics flared with baleful green light as it raised its warscythe.
The Sergeant, still reeling from the impossibility of what he had just witnessed, was a fraction too slow to react. The warscythe's blade passed through his ceramite armor as if it were parchment, cleaving the mighty warrior in two.
As the Space Marine's sundered body fell to the ground, Titus felt the last vestiges of hope drain from him. If even the Adeptus Astartes could not stand against these foes, what chance did mere mortals have?
The vox crackled to life, carrying a message that confirmed his worst fears. "All units, this is Command. General retreat has been ordered. I repeat, all units are to fall back to extraction points immediately. The Emperor protects."
Titus almost laughed at the irony of that last statement. The Emperor's protection seemed very far away indeed on this hell of a battlefield.
"You heard the order, men," he said, his voice weary beyond his years. "Let's get the frak out of here."
As they began their retreat, Titus allowed himself one last look at the advancing Necron forces. The green tide seemed endless, a sea of soulless machines stretching to the horizon. Monoliths floated above the battlefield like obsidian mountains, their weapon systems laying waste to everything in their path.
In the sky, Imperial aircraft dueled with Necron Doom Scythes and Night Scythes. But for every xenos craft shot down, two more seemed to take its place. Titus watched as a Valkyrie transport, loaded with wounded guardsmen, was caught in the baleful gaze of a Night Scythe's death ray. The Imperial craft simply ceased to exist, vaporized in a heartbeat along with all souls aboard.
Their retreat quickly turned into a rout as the full might of the Necron forces was brought to bear. Gauss weapons fire filled the air, each emerald beam seeking out fleeing Imperial soldiers with unerring accuracy. Titus saw men and women he had served with for years reduced to atoms in seconds, their screams cut short as their very beings were unmade.
A group of Destroyers, their lower bodies replaced with anti-gravitic propulsion units, swept low over the battlefield. Their heavy gauss cannons reaped a terrible toll, each shot leaving nothing but scorched earth and atomized remains in its wake.
Titus and what remained of his squad had almost reached the designated extraction point when disaster struck. A Necron Ghost Ark materialized before them, its translucent green hull shimmering with eldritch energy. Rows of gauss flayers emerged from its sides, laying down a withering hail of fire.
"Take cover!" Titus yelled, diving behind the wreckage of a Chimera transport. But there was little cover to be had on the open plain. He watched in helpless horror as his remaining squadmates were cut down one by one, their bodies disintegrating under the relentless barrage.
In that moment, Sergeant Titus of the Thraxian 22nd Infantry Regiment knew true despair. This was no enemy that could be defeated by courage or faith or even superhuman skill. This was extinction given form, the heat death of the universe made manifest in cold, implacable metal.
As the Ghost Ark's arrived and came more Necron Soldiers, Titus closed his eyes. His last thought was a prayer, not for salvation, but for oblivion. In the face of such horror, even the Emperor's light seemed a cold comfort.
The remnants of the once-mighty Imperial fleet limped through the void, a pale shadow of its former glory. Aboard the Invincible Reason, Lion El'Jonson stood motionless on the bridge, his face an impassive mask that belied the turmoil within. The door hissed open, and Leman Russ strode in, his normally boisterous demeanor subdued.
The Wolf King was a sight to behold. His ornate power armor, once a gleaming testament to the Emperor's might, was now a patchwork of deep gashes and scorched ceramite. Blood - both dried and fresh - caked his beard and matted his hair. His eyes, usually alight with the thrill of battle, now held a haunted look that spoke volumes of the horrors he had witnessed.
"Brother," the Lion acknowledged, his voice barely above a whisper.
Russ nodded grimly, wincing as he moved. "Lion. I trust you have the final tallies?"
El'Jonson's jaw clenched momentarily before he spoke. "The reports are... grim. We've lost 98% of our battlefleet. Five hundred thousand Astartes, gone. Ninety million Guardsmen, wiped from existence. Ninety thousand voidships, reduced to scrap or atomized entirely."
The weight of those numbers hung heavy in the air between them. Russ leaned heavily against a console, his superhuman physiology struggling to cope with the wounds inflicted by Amenhotep.
"Throne," he muttered. "I've never seen anything like it, Lion. Those metal bastards... they just kept coming. No fear, no hesitation. And their technology..." He shook his head, lost for words.
The Lion's eyes narrowed. "We underestimated them. Gravely. This defeat will have repercussions throughout the Imperium. The Great Crusade itself may be in jeopardy if word of this spreads."
"Aye," Russ agreed. "But what choice do we have? The Emperor must be informed. These Necrons... they're unlike any xenos we've faced before. The Imperium needs to be prepared."
For a long moment, silence reigned on the bridge. Both Primarchs, beings of incredible power and intellect, found themselves grappling with the enormity of their failure.
Finally, the Lion spoke. "We will return to Terra. We will face our father's judgment, and we will plan our next move. This defeat is a setback, but it cannot be the end. The Imperium of Man will endure. It must."
Russ straightened, ignoring the pain that flared through his battered body. "Well said, brother. We may have lost this battle, but the war is far from over. Next time, we'll be ready for them."
As the battered fleet set course for Terra, both Primarchs knew that the galaxy had changed. The Necrons had revealed themselves as a threat beyond imagining, and the Imperium would need every ounce of its strength and ingenuity to face the challenges ahead.
As the last Imperial ships disappeared into the turbulent skies of Advex-Mors III, leaving behind the wreckage of their ambitions and the bodies of their fallen, the Necron Overlords turned their attention to consolidating their victory.
The Great Crusade had met its greatest setback, and the grim darkness of the future loomed ever closer.
The Advex-Mors Annihilation.