Phaerons Die Twice
In the depths of the tomb world, two titans of different ages clashed in a duel of immortality. Phaeron Hektarakh's warscythe carved reality itself, its edge hungry for the flesh of this upstart species' champion. But Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles, moved with the skill of a demigod, Anaris blazing in his grip like a captured star.
The Phaeron's strike aimed to separate head from shoulders – a killing blow that had ended countless lives across eons. Yet it found only the burning edge of Anaris, and in that moment of contact, Franklin's counter-stroke nearly severed the ancient lord's arm. Living metal flowed like quicksilver as Hektarakh withdrew, his form rippling with self-repair protocols older than humanity's earliest dreams of fire.
Reality shimmered as the Necron lord activated his chronometron, his form becoming a ghost image of probability and quantum uncertainty. But Franklin had seen such tricks before – his First Captain Denzel's mastery of similar devices had taught him their weaknesses. Where technology sought to bend time, the warp could tear it asunder.
With a thought, Franklin extended his will. Space itself congealed around them, time grinding to a halt save for their private arena of combat. Hektarakh's eyes flared with green fire as he recognized the trap, but his counterstroke was already in motion. The warscythe found a gap in Franklin's defense, shearing through Tyranimite and opening a grievous rent in the Primarch's pauldron.
Franklin's response came in three sharp retorts as the Last Word spoke, each bolt finding its mark in the Phaeron's joints with surgical precision. Ancient mechanisms groaned in protest as Hektarakh's form betrayed him, forcing one knee to buckle beneath him. But even as he fell, the Necron lord's cloak began to pulse with otherworldly energy.
"HE WIELDS THE CLOAK OF THE STAR GODS", Khaine's voice thundered in Franklin's mind. "BEWARE!"
Time's Arrow – a spell that could erase its target from the very fabric of reality – lanced forth from Hektarakh's extended hand. Franklin channeled everything he had into Anaris, the blade becoming a torch that could ignite suns. The two forces met in a collision that shook the foundations of the tomb world itself, filling the chamber with debris and actinic light.
Through the chaos, they continued their lethal exchange. Franklin's weapon shifted forms instantly – sword to spear to halberd – each transformation forcing new calculations, new responses from the Phaeron's ancient combat protocols. Sparks flew as Hyper-Phase Blade met Ancient-Psychocrystal, each clash a note in a symphony of destruction.
Hektarakh phased through a missile strike, his form becoming momentarily incorporeal before solidifying to destroy the weapon mount and land a crushing blow that caved in part of Franklin's helmet. The Primarch tore the damaged protection free, his face briefly exposed before the auto-repair systems restored his Helmet to wholeness.
Then came a moment of stillness, a pause in their duel as the Phaeron's ancient voice filled the chamber. "Tell me, young prince," Hektarakh's words carried the weight of eons, "when did your species first draw breath? When last I walked among the stars, the Aeldari thought themselves masters of all they surveyed."
"Thirty thousand years ago," Franklin replied, his voice level despite the revelation such numbers must represent to his opponent. "We're relatively new to the galactic stage."
The Phaeron's laughter echoed like metal striking metal. "From mere aquatic life to galactic power in such a short span? Impressive. Though I see the shadow of your own Dark Age upon you."
Franklin's silence spoke volumes, and Hektarakh pressed his advantage – not with blade, but with words that cut deeper than any physical weapon. "No pacifist species ever ruled the stars, young one. Like the Necrontyr before you, you reach out to grasp what you believe is your birthright. Tell me of this Imperium of Man – is it the child of your age of darkness?"
"It is the empire that will conquer the universe," Franklin declared, conviction burning in every word. "I stand here to make that reality."
The Phaeron's laughter redoubled, a sound that contained both genuine amusement and ancient, terrible knowledge. "Conquer the universe? Let me share a secret with you, child of Terra."
"We already conquered the universe," Hektarakh's words fell like hammers on anvils. "In our enslavement to the C'tan, we became instruments of ultimate conquest. We burned the Old Ones who denied us immortality. We scoured ancient empires from existence. The C'tan consumed all life beyond the Milky Way, making our galaxy the center of all that remains. Not the Aeldari in their pride, nor the Krork in their savage might could achieve what we, as slaves, accomplished."
Franklin's mind reached out to Khaine, seeking confirmation of this cosmic horror. "IS THIS TRUE?"
"YES", the War God's response carried the weight of personal memory. "THE C'TAN WERE THE GODS OF MATERIUM MADE MANIFEST. THERE IS REASON THEY WERE BOUND TO CONSUMING STARS ALONE, THE NECRONTYR GIVING THEM BODIES WAS LIKE OPENING PANDORA'S BOX – THEIR FULL POWER WOULD HAVE RENDERED ALL EXISTENCE THEIR PLAYTHING. AS THEY WERE THE ULTIMATE EXPRESSION OF THE MATERIAL UNIVERSE, SO WERE WE, THE AELDARI PANTHEON, THE ULTIMATE EXPRESSION OF THE IMMATERIUM. IT TOOK GODS TO SLAY GODS, OR WEAPONS THAT COULD KILL DIVINITY ITSELF."
The chamber fell silent save for the distant hum of tomb systems, as the weight of this revelation settled like a shroud over their battlefield. Franklin stood face to face not just with an ancient warrior, but with living proof that humanity's greatest ambitions had already been achieved – and surpassed – by those who came before.
Yet in his eyes burned not defeat, but determination. For in this revelation lay not just horror, but opportunity. If such heights had been reached before, they could be reached again. And this time, perhaps, without the price of enslavement to star-hungry gods.
The Phaeron raised his warscythe once more, green fire burning in his eyes. "Shall we continue our duel, young prince? Now that you know the true measure of the path you walk?"
Franklin brought Anaris to the ready, its edge blazing with divine flame and unyielding mortal defiance. "Then we shall. Even if others have walked this path before us, it doesn't make the destination any less worth reaching."
Yet, even as he spoke, Franklin couldn't help but question the Phaeron's words. If the Necrons had truly exterminated all life beyond the Milky Way, then what, exactly, were the Tyranids?
Perhaps this Phaeron was talking out of his Metallic Ass.
And in that moment, as god-forged blade met star-metal scythe once more, the tomb world bore witness to a truth as old as existence itself: that even in the face of overwhelming odds and cosmic revelations, humanity's defiant spirit would not be dimmed.
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From the command post atop the hill fortress, First Captain Denzel Washington surveyed a battlefield that would have made ancient generals weep. The endless silver tide of the Necron legions crashed against their defenses like a metallic tsunami, each wave bringing new horrors from humanity's darkest nightmares.
Director John Ezra stood beside him, his augmented eyes scanning tactical readouts. "Your assessment?" Denzel asked, his hand resting on the hilt of Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi.
"Dangerous," Ezra replied, his voice carrying the weight of careful analysis. "For the first time, we're not significantly ahead in the technology race. The gap between us and the Necrons is narrow enough that this has become a contest of pure military might. A slugging match between titans."
The truth of his words played out across the battlefield below. Green lightning from countless Gauss Flayers splashed against the Conversion shields of Liberty Guard positions, creating a constant aurora of deflected energy. Return fire from disintegration rifles tore through the Necron ranks, reducing warriors to scattered fragments of living metal – only for the fallen to begin reassembling themselves moments later or damaged enough to teleport away.
In the outer gates sector, the elite Immortals had breached the initial defenses. Their Gauss Blasters, more powerful than standard Flayers, were successfully overloading individual Shield generators. But the Liberty Eagles' Primaris Marines met them with equal ferocity. The air filled with the screech of matter being torn apart at the atomic level as both sides' weapons found their marks. Limbs of living metal scattered across the battlefield even as Tyranimite armor was reduced to its component atoms only to resist flaying and regenerate.
Across the plains, a different kind of war unfolded. Seraptek Heavy Constructs, ancient war machines that made Imperial Knights look like children's toys, engaged in high-speed combat with squadrons of Armored Cores. The ground shook with each exchange, reality itself seeming to bend around the weapons they wielded. An Armored Core pilot, executing a boost-slide maneuver that would have killed a normal pilot, managed to get beneath a Seraptek's guard. Their plasma blade carved through ancient necrodermis – only for the construct's singularity generator to activate, creating a localized black hole that consumed both machines in a flash of Hawking radiation.
The skies above were no less chaotic. F-66 Interceptors, pride of the Independence Sector's aerospace forces, dueled with crescents of living metal – Doom Scythes that had harvested souls when humanity's ancestors were still learning to make fire. A squadron leader executed a perfect Thach Weave, drawing Necron fire before their wingman eliminated three Doom Scythes with precisely targeted quantum torpedoes.
Walking through this maelstrom of destruction came the Titans. An Imperator-class, 100 meters of humanity's firepower stuffed and given legs, opened fire with weapons that could level mountains. Its void shields flickered as return fire from a Necron Monolith struck home, but the ancient war machine's response was devastating. Energy weapons that could crack a planet's crust reduced the pyramid-shaped war engine to molecular ash.
A Castigator Titan was wrecking havoc amongst the Necron Warmachines it's massive Claw crushing parts of Necron Megalith.
But it was in the void of space that the true scale of the conflict became apparent. Battlefleet Liberty, and the Necron Fleet both had Inertialess drives hence, The battle in the void became a deadly game of four-dimensional chess, with both sides leveraging their FTL capabilities to seek tactical advantage.
The Independence Sector's ships, guided by the combination of advanced AI and human intuition, matched the cold calculations of the Necron fleet's eons old . A Cairn-class Tomb Ship, large enough to eclipse a small moon, discovered this parity the hard way. The Sweet Liberty's opening salvo reduced it to expanding debris – but the victory was short-lived.
Reality rippled as a World Engine translated into real space, its very presence an affront to physics. The ancient super-weapon, a construct that made standard Cairn-Class Tomb Ships look like toys, brought its primary Gauss Projectors to bear on Sweet Liberty. The energy discharge was bright enough to be seen from the planet's surface, a lance of green fire that could have disintegrated oceans.
Sweet Liberty's Quantum Shields, products of reverse-engineered Necron technology, held for precious seconds before failing. But those seconds were enough. The massive vessel's Temporal Weapon – a device that could manipulate the fabric of causality itself – fired in response. The World Engine suddenly existed in two places at once, its quantum state forcibly duplicated. The impossible mathematics of this situation caused both versions to implode, the ancient construct destroying itself in a paradox of its own existence.
From his command post, Denzel watched the space battle through enhanced visual feeds. "They're adapting to our tactics," he noted. "Each engagement teaches them more about our capabilities."
"And we learn from them in turn," Ezra responded, directing a squadron of Liberty Guard to reinforce a faltering section of the defense line. "This is what happens when two civilizations at similar technological levels meet in battle. No clear advantage, just skill against skill, will against will."
A massive explosion drew their attention back to the ground war. A Necron Doomsday Ark had breached the outer perimeter, its primary weapon charging for a shot that could vaporize the entire command center. But before it could fire, a blur of motion resolved into Captain Armstrong, his nanomachine-enhanced body glowing with power. The Second Captain's augmented fist struck the ancient war machine with force enough to create a localized shockwave. The Doomsday Ark's power core overloaded, the resulting explosion carving a crater half a kilometer wide.
"The Primeborn are worth their weight in archaeotech," Ezra commented, watching Armstrong emerge unscathed from the inferno, crushing a nearby Royal Warden in the same process.
"Would that we had more of them here," Denzel replied, thinking of their absent brothers, each engaged in crucial missions across the sector. "But we make do with what we have."
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Franklin and Hektarakh's duel intensified. The Primarch's psychic might began to manifest more openly now, reality bending around him as he channeled powers that would have broken lesser minds. Golden lightning arced from his free hand while Anaris blazed with divine fire in the other.
Hektarakh parried each attack with the precision of eons of experience, his ancient mind analyzing this curious opponent. The Phaeron had faced countless psykers across eons of warfare - the legendary Old Ones themselves, whose mastery of the immaterium had reshaped galaxies. Yet this human warrior presented something different, something that defied his ancient combat protocols' predictions.
"What manner of being are you?" Hektarakh's thoughts raced as he deflected attacks that existed simultaneously in past, present, and future. "Not Eldar-precise, nor Krork-brutal, yet elements of both..." The Phaeron's tactical engines struggled to categorize this hybrid fighting style that seemed to draw from every race's strengths while adding unique elements, for the lack of a better term...human.
Franklin began weaving a complex psychic working, golden energy gathering around his hands. But Hektarakh had not survived the War in Heaven by allowing enemies to complete their spells. His Cloak of the C'tan flared with impossible colors as he invoked one of its deadliest functions - an anti-matter meteor materialized above Franklin's position.
The Primarch was forced to abandon his spell, rolling away from the space-time annihilation that the meteor's impact would have caused. In that moment of disruption, Hektarakh struck. The butt of his warscythe caught Franklin in the chest, staggering him. The Phaeron's Warscythe whistled through the air in what should have been a killing stroke.
But Franklin was far from finished. The Last Word appeared in his hand as if by magic, and three precise shots struck Hektarakh's face in rapid succession. The living metal of the Phaeron's features cratered under the impact, his visual sensors temporarily disrupted. It was all the opening Franklin needed.
Anaris moved like liquid light, its edge burning with both divine flame and mortal defiance. The blade caught Hektarakh at the waist and continued upward, bisecting the ancient lord's torso in a display of perfect swordsmanship. The Phaeron's severed form collapsed to the ground, green energy flickering from the catastrophic damage.
Franklin allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, but Khaine's voice thundered in his mind: "DO NOT LOWER YOUR GUARD. THE LORDS OF THE NECRONTYR ALWAYS CARRY THE MEANS OF THEIR OWN RESURRECTION."
The warning came just in time. A flash of solar brilliance filled the chamber as Hektarakh's resurrection orb activated. Living metal flowed like quicksilver, rebuilding the Phaeron's form in seconds. Where there had been a broken wreck, now stood the undamaged form of one of the galaxy's most ancient rulers.
Hektarakh straightened to his full height, adjusting his grip on his warscythe with an almost casual air. "Most impressive, Valorian," the Phaeron's voice carried genuine appreciation. "Few indeed have ever bested me in personal combat. None have done so wielding such a fascinating combination of skills."
The ancient lord's green eyes studied Franklin with renewed interest. "You wield the sword forms of my old enemies with remarkable skill. Your psychic abilities, while not matching the raw power of the Old Ones, show innovation I would not have expected. And then..." Hektarakh gestured to where The Last Word rested in Franklin's grip, "there is that uniquely human element. The integration of what your kind calls 'gunplay' into personal combat. Truly fascinating."
"You are unique among your species, Franklin Valorian," Hektarakh continued, his tone carrying the weight of one who had witnessed the rise and fall of entire civilizations. "In you, I see echoes of every race that has ever challenged us for dominion of the stars. Yet you remain undeniably human - perhaps that is what makes you so dangerous."
Hektarakh, acknowledging his defeat in single combat, raised his ancient hands in a gesture that split the fabric of space-time. Dimensional portals materialized in a perfect circle around them, each crackling with emerald energy that spoke of power older than humanity's oldest dreams.
"You have proven yourself superior in the art of the duel, Valorian," the Phaeron's voice carried both respect and deadly purpose. "But we Necrontyr were never known for individual combat prowess. That was always the Aeldari's obsession."
From each portal emerged the elite of the elite - Triarch Praetorians, the guardians of Necron martial tradition. Their rod weapons hummed with barely contained energy as they formed an honor guard around their lord. But Hektarakh wasn't finished. With a gesture that seemed to bend light itself, he commanded the massive Blackstone Gates to open.
What emerged from beyond those gates was darkness given form, death given purpose. Aza'gorod, the Nightbringer, one of the most terrible of the C'tan, materialized like a tear in reality's fabric. Yet something was wrong. The star god moved to strike at Hektarakh, only to find itself unable to complete the action.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, SLAVE?" The Nightbringer's voice was the sound of stars dying, of galaxies screaming.
But Hektarakh was unfazed, his expression as unyielding as the metallic frame he inhabited. "Something we should have done eons ago," he replied with calm disdain. "Shackling gods."
The Nightbringer roared in defiance, raising its scythe as if to strike its captor, but its movements faltered. Its form shuddered, fighting against the invisible chains of Hektarakh's will. The Phaeron's gesture was sharp and commanding. "Now, kill my opponent in front of me, slave."
The Nightbringer's resistance was palpable, but the chains of its enslavement held fast. It turned toward Franklin, its soulless gaze now fixed on him. The scythe swung with an unnatural speed, a sweeping arc of death aimed directly at the Primarch. But before it could land, another blade—wreathed in flames—intercepted it with a thunderous clash.
Franklin allowed himself a small smirk, not even having moved from his position. "Escalating the battle, are we, Phaeron? If you're going to summon your god, then it's only fair I summon mine."
From the clash of weapons emerged a figure wreathed in divine flame - Khaine in his full warrior aspect, his laughter echoing through the chamber like clashing steel. "Remember me, Aza'gorod? The one who taught you the meaning of pain?"
"Khaine..." The Nightbringer spoke the name like a curse, memory of its previous shattering evident in its tone.
Hektarakh gestured to his Praetorians, their weapons training on Franklin from all angles. But the Primarch's response was not fear - it was preparation for his own escalation. Planting Anaris firmly before him, Franklin spoke words in ancient Aeldari that seemed to burn the air itself: "Ignis Ascendit."
The chamber erupted in flames that spoke of war itself - not the random destruction of natural fire, but the purposeful conflagration of divine conflict. From these flames stepped the Everchosen of Khaine, their eyes burning with the same fire that had forged stars. These were warriors who had transcended death itself, bound to Khaine's service for eternity, and now they stood ready once more to wage war in their god's name.
The chamber had become an arena where myth itself would play out. On one side stood the Nightbringer, avatar of death and entropy, surrounded by the elite guardians of the Necron dynasties. On the other, a Primarch of humanity stood with the God of War and his eternal chosen, preparing to demonstrate why the Liberty Eagles had earned their reputation across the stars.
Khaine's laughter echoed again as he faced his ancient enemy. "Once before, I shattered you, star-feeder. Shall we see if you've learned anything in the eons since?"
The Nightbringer's response was a strike that could have split planets, but Khaine met it with equal force. Around them, the Everchosen engaged the Praetorians in a war of blade and flame, while Franklin and Hektarakh prepared to resume their own duel.
Franklin, undeterred by the chaos around him, advanced toward Hektarakh. The Phaeron watched him approach, his Warscythe raised and glowing with eldritch power. Franklin's smirk never faltered as he drew The Last Word from its holster, its barrel glowing faintly with restrained energy.
The first shot rang out, the round striking Hektarakh's shoulder and forcing him back a step. The Phaeron snarled, retaliating with a sweeping strike of his Warscythe. Franklin sidestepped effortlessly, his movements fluid and precise as he fired two more shots in rapid succession. Each round found its mark, staggering the Necron lord but failing to bring him down.
Hektarakh's voice cut through the noise, tinged with irritation. "You are persistent, Valorian. But persistence will not save you."
Franklin holstered The Last Word, gripping Anaris as he closed the distance. Their blades clashed, the force of their strikes sending shockwaves through the hall. Hektarakh's skill with the Warscythe was formidable, each swing calculated and deadly, but Franklin's movements were unpredictable, a blend of Eldar elegance and human ingenuity.
The ancient chamber became a kaleidoscope of motion as Franklin executed one of his most sophisticated techniques. His form began to multiply, not in the crude manner of simple illusions, but through a complex manipulation of both psychic power and temporal mechanics. One became three, then five, then nine identical figures, each moving with the same fluid grace, each wielding a perfect copy of Anaris that burned with divine flame.
Hektarakh's ancient combat protocols whirred into action, his mechanical mind tracking each figure with mathematical precision. The Phaeron had seen similar techniques during the War in Heaven, when Old One commanders would split their forms across multiple probability streams. But Franklin's version held something uniquely human – an element of unpredictability that defied pure logical analysis.
The first exchange came swift and deadly. Hektarakh's warscythe found one of Franklin's duplicates, the blade passing through it like smoke. An illusion, but one crafted with such precision that even the Phaeron's advanced sensors had detected mass and energy readings from it. The ancient lord adjusted his tactical matrices, beginning to compile data on the subtle differences between the real Franklin and his duplicates.
Three more exchanges followed in rapid succession, each one providing Hektarakh with more data. The Phaeron's cognitive engines worked at speeds that would have melted organic brains, analyzing minute details in movement patterns, energy signatures, and the subtle ways reality bent around each figure. Slowly, a pattern emerged from the chaos.
When Franklin launched his next assault, bringing three duplicates to bear simultaneously, Hektarakh felt the cold certainty of mathematical truth. His sensors locked onto the figure before him – the minute variations in how space distorted around it, the perfectly matched harmonic frequencies in its energy signature, all pointing to this being the true Franklin Valorian.
But in that moment of certainty, Hektarakh's peripheral sensors detected another figure accelerating from his flank, moving with a speed and purpose that caused the Phaeron to hesitate for a microsecond. The ancient lord's warscythe changed trajectory, sweeping behind to intercept this new threat.
It was a fatal mistake.
Three of the four remaining duplicates vanished like morning mist, and Hektarakh's cognitive engines registered a terrible truth – his hesitation had broken his lock on the real Franklin, the one he had initially identified correctly. Before his systems could compensate, Anaris punched through his metallic torso, its divine flame burning with the heat of betrayed certainty.
"Hesitation is defeat, Hektarakh." Franklin's words carried not mockery but the weight of universal truth, a lesson learned and taught countless times across the millennia.
The Phaeron's systems, even as they began emergency repairs, recognized the profound irony. He, who had survived the War in Heaven by never hesitating, had fallen prey to that most mortal of failings – doubt in the face of certainty. In that microscopic pause between absolute knowledge and action, Franklin had proven himself the superior warrior not through strength or speed, but through the quintessentially human ability to turn an opponent's own certainty into a weapon against them.
Around them, the battle between gods and their chosen warriors raged on, but for this brief moment, a fundamental truth of combat had been demonstrated. Victory belonged not to the strongest or fastest, but to the one who could act without hesitation when the crucial moment arrived.
"Hesitate, and you lose. That is the way of war." – Isshin Ashina