Chapter 334: The Savior – I Prefer You When You're Defiant

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The Gauss energy being charged in the air gave off a scorching, rusty-metal scent.

The Necrons stood ready, weapons hot—moments away from unleashing a deadly volley.

But—

Eden showed no fear. He calmly raised a hand, signaling he bore no threat.

"Noble Lord, I am Eden, Primarch and Savior of Humanity. We come in peace..."

Necrons were a high-intelligence species capable of complex emotion. Unlike many galactic predators, they were not inherently bloodthirsty.

Given minimal conflict of interest, negotiations were possible.

But not always.

Prolonged dormancy could damage a Necron's mind—some awoke as raving madmen.

Some became violent berserkers, some became the galaxy's most eccentric jesters.

A few infected with the Flayer Virus descended into a horrific craving for flesh, revering their ancient nemesis—the C'tan Llandu'gor, the Flayer—to the point they believed the Emperor was the Flayer Himself.

They mimicked humans.

Lived among humans.

Some even became planetary governors, beloved by the people.

Until the Imperium came to collect tithe.

Others were obsessed with machinery and infiltrated the Adeptus Mechanicus, branding themselves with Imperial aquilas and pretending to be tech-priests.

Truthfully—

No one knew how many Necrons now resided within the Imperium.

Both Necrons and Imperials preferred not to speak of it.

The Imperium, especially, would rather ignore such powerful yet deluded lunatics.

And they did pay taxes.

Sometimes more than expected.

These "mad Necron governors" were... effective. Loyal, even.

Eden judged the current Necron noble—he still seemed lucid, proud even.

Eden returned the respect in kind.

He continued, tone polite:

"We're here to request your cooperation, noble one. To repel the threat of the Tyr—"

THOOM!

The Necron pounded his staff. A wave of sonic pressure echoed through the tomb.

"I am not a Lord! I am a PHAERON of the Mephrit Dynasty!"

Indeed.

Lords ruled tombs. Phaerons ruled dynasties—three to thirty tomb worlds.

Far greater scope. Far more power.

Though, many Phaerons woke too late—only to find their worlds destroyed or annexed. Some had little more than their sarcophagus left.

This one, clearly, was among the latter.

If Hive Fleet Leviathan wasn't stopped, he'd lose his last holdings—and be utterly ruined.

Which is exactly why Eden dared to negotiate so directly.

This Phaeron was more desperate than he was.

"My sincerest apologies, Phaeron," Eden replied humbly. "May I ask your name, so I may address you properly?"

There was a pause—

The Phaeron seemed to stall before replying:

"I... am the One Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken."

"Yup. That confirms it—mind damage. He doesn't even remember his own name," Eden muttered silently.

He projected a holomap into the air.

"Noble One Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken, as you may have noticed, Hive Fleet Leviathan is here to consume your worlds..."

The projection revealed a galaxy-darkening swarm of Tyranid ships. A threat no fleet could stop alone.

But—

The Phaeron's gaze wasn't on the image. He'd received other data. His expression twisted red with rage.

He had just discovered that his tombs had been plundered.

Vast amounts of irreplaceable technology—relics from his dynasty's golden age—were stolen.

His eyes glowed with crimson fury.

"You dare steal from ME—from the One Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken? You shall pay with death!"

The entire tomb trembled with tension. The Lychguard readied their blades.

The air thickened—

"Wait!"

Eden raised his voice, calm and righteous.

"I was just about to inform you—those wretched Orks looted your vaults. I tried to stop them... but failed."

The Necron glared.

"And how do I know it wasn't you who stole from me, human?"

"Without proof, you will die!"

And just then—

From a ruined corner of the tomb, a snore.

All eyes turned.

It was an Ork.

Snoring.

Dreaming of tasty food, it had clamped itself around a Canoptek Scarab and was now chewing it like a snack.

WHACK!

The Scarab struck back.

"Ugh... you smell good. I'm up, I'm up!"

The Ork, mistaking the Scarab for a Foreman hitting him awake, grabbed a power drill and started boring into a nearby Necron construct.

BOOM!

The machine exploded in a flash of spectral green, incinerating the Ork.

His drill went flying—

CLANG!

Landing right between Eden and the Phaeron.

Silence.

Eden looked at the drill. A moment of silence for the fool.

Still, a fitting death for a true Ork.

He gestured to the evidence:

"There's your proof. Believe me now?"

"WRETCHED LOW-BORN FILTH!"

The Phaeron's metal frame groaned with fury.

"When I find them, they will DIE!"

Those Old Ones had created truly loathsome creatures.

He vowed to bring war to the nearby Ork empire.

"Noble Phaeron, I grieve for your loss. But we must act quickly."

Eden pointed back to the projection:

"Fail to stop the Tyranids, and all your relics will be gone."

The Necron stared at the image.

Yes. He knew.

It was the awakening of his planetary defense grid that had roused the tomb.

The One Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken would not allow Tyranids—or Orks or humans—to claim Mephrit property.

Still, he sneered at Eden.

"Pitiful human. You are not worthy of my cooperation."

RUMBLE.

He rose, staff in hand, as the throne ascended higher.

His aura surged.

More Necrons awoke.

The tomb was stirring.

He looked down with scorn.

"And for trespassing on sacred ground—you shall die here."

The execution was nigh.

VMMM—

"Go, Savior! I'll hold them off!"

Dante ignited his force-field axe, ready to sacrifice himself against the royal guard.

But—

Eden stopped him.

"You're not dying here, old man."

Then he looked up and spoke loudly:

"With a greater threat looming, this course of action only worsens everything!"

The Phaeron chuckled.

"Too bad. I have no mercy for the weak."

"Is that so?"

Eden's tone grew stern.

"Then perhaps you should reconsider."

BOOM!

The ice cracked.

Behind Eden, the ground shimmered—giant teleportation gates opened.

One by one—

Imperial Titans stepped forth.

Emperor-class. Warlord-class. Redeemer-pattern.

Knights. Baneblades. Shadowswords.

From the sky—

Hundreds of Thunderhawk gunships blotted out the clouds.

All guns leveled on the Necron tomb.

A storm of annihilation waiting for the command.

This—

Was the Savior's full arsenal.

Prepared long in advance. Just in case diplomacy failed.

If needed, he would seize the Magnificent Prism—the Mephrit's galactic superweapon—by force.

Before the tomb fully woke.

Before its true defenses could be deployed.

The Phaeron froze mid-air.

The tomb wasn't fully operational yet.

Even the Celestial Constructor, the tomb's ultimate war engine, wasn't assembled.

These human war machines?

They were lethal threats.

Perhaps... the One Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken should consider cooperation?

Eden levitated upward, psychic arcs dancing around him, rising to the Phaeron's level.

Walking forward—

"Now... shall we talk?"

The Phaeron tried to look proud.

But his voice softened:

"Lord Eden... your strength is... remarkable. Given the stakes, the One Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken... is willing to cooperate."

No doubt.

He wanted peace.

Eden stepped in close, patted the metal shoulder:

"Honestly, I liked you better when you were arrogant."

Even this disrespect didn't provoke a reaction.

The Phaeron quickly changed the subject:

"Let us... focus on the Tyranid threat."

Though he had no memory, he still had his wits.

He knew survival mattered more.

"Agreed," Eden said with a nod. "That was my idea too."

Their negotiation turned cordial.

Then Eden looked skyward:

"Another guest has arrived. Let's wait for him before continuing."

In orbit—

A Sepulchral-class Tomb Ship, even larger than the Dreamweaver, descended with regal might.

Its shadow swallowed the land.

15 kilometers of Necron engineering.

Armed with tombstone cannons, lightning arcs, stellar pulsars, particle whips, and Gauss turrets.

Like all Necron warships, the massive Sepulchral-class Tomb Ship possessed a mysterious propulsion technology that allowed for interstellar travel without ever entering the Warp.

The only downside was that it was just a little slower.

Still, Eden had no concerns about this approaching fleet.

That colossal Tomb Ship was certainly formidable, but if it came to a fight, the Dreamweaver wasn't about to lose.

Fortunately—

This was no enemy.

It was an ally.

A fellow Necron Phaeron—Anrakyr the Traveler.

Today, Hive Fleet Leviathan threatened everyone alike. Not even the combined strength of every faction could easily stand against it.

Until that threat was handled, no one would dare make reckless moves.

The Dreamweaver and the Tomb Ship exchanged signals, maintaining a careful standoff in high orbit—neither one showing aggression.

Moments later—

A flash of teleportation light burst forth.

Anrakyr and his personal guard arrived on the tomb world's surface.

Clad in a steel cloak and armored war skirt, his blade-staff in hand, the Traveler looked every bit the Necron noble—calm, poised, and polite.

The alert signal from the local Necron tomb world had spread far beyond the star system, calling out to other Necron forces for aid.

By sheer fortune, Anrakyr intercepted the call.

As a self-appointed redeemer of slumbering Necron worlds, Anrakyr deeply understood the threat of the Tyranids—not just to this system, but to all remaining Necron dynasties.

He had made his decision the moment he saw the signal:

Come to the underworld system.

Save his kind.

Seek aid, even from rivals—like the upstart, galaxy-hopping species of Man.

He wasn't optimistic about success.

Humans were stubborn. Ignorant. Xenophobic.

Building a temporary alliance with them?

Not easy.

But to his surprise—

Humanity came first.

To cooperate.

"Lord Traveler, I am Eden Grant, Primarch and Savior of Humanity," Eden greeted warmly. "Your timing is perfect. We are in great need of your strength."

Anrakyr gave a slight bow and replied with elegant Necron etiquette:

"A pleasure long awaited, Savior of Man, Gene-Sire of Angels, Devourer of Daemons, and Most Favored of the Emperor—Lord Eden Grant."

His tone was gentlemanly and courteous.

But beneath those polite optics shimmered a flicker of wariness.

Anrakyr had done his homework. He knew of the Savior.

He knew what Eden had accomplished.

And that made him dangerous.

For someone like Anrakyr—who dreamed of rebuilding the Necron empire and restoring their former galactic glory—Eden was a problem.

A rival.

A threat.

While the Tyranids still loomed, there would be no conflict.

But once the xenos were dead—

Then, perhaps, Eden would need to be removed.

That was the way of the galaxy.

All species distrusted outsiders.

Friendship was an illusion.

Every race secretly wished to weaken the others—to make them easier to control.

A weak, half-dead xenos species was a good xenos species.

Mutual development? Win-win scenarios?

Please.

Resources were finite.

Any race that grew too strong would inevitably begin devouring its neighbors.

The galaxy would know peace only when a single dominant race stood triumphant.

And the fate of all others?

Would depend on the whim of that victor.

Eden sensed Anrakyr's cautious hostility.

He wasn't surprised.

He, too, didn't trust the Traveler.

In fact, he was already thinking about how to kill him.

If Anrakyr ever succeeded in reuniting the fractured Necron dynasties—

Humanity would face another existential threat.

But that could wait.

For now, they'd fight the Tyranids together.

Killing a Necron Phaeron wasn't exactly easy.

But neither was killing Eden.

For now—

Peace.

The two Phaerons exchanged a long, formal series of ceremonial greetings. Data was traded. Intel exchanged.

And finally—

Eden learned the name of the tomb world's native Phaeron:

Zarazusa.

Though even he only learned it just now.

Still—

He insisted everyone keep calling him "the One Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken."

"Alright, Zarazusa," Eden said with a smirk, "Time's ticking. Let's start planning how to crush those damned bugs."

He raised a projection of the Underworld System's star chart.

The map highlighted several key zones:

The Magnificent Prism

The gas giant Eiros

The Laisios Relay Station

And the industrial stronghold Fudia

The strategy was simple:

The Savior's forces, the Blood Angels, and the Necrons would work together to reactivate the Magnificent Prism, a relic weapon capable of harnessing solar rays and channeling them into deadly precision.

With it—

They would detonate the core of Eiros, the gas giant.

The resulting explosion would unleash a devastating wave of energy across the system, obliterating much of the Leviathan fleet.

The allied forces would shelter behind planetary bodies to survive the blast.

The Tyranids wouldn't be wiped out, but they'd be crippled.

Enough to make them manageable.

From there, a final stand could be made at Baal.

As Eden concluded his plan, he looked to the others.

"That's the plan. It's a win-win. Any questions?"

Silence.

Both Phaerons—and even Dante—were momentarily stunned.

Zarazusa's glowing green eyes flickered.

He hadn't expected Eden to know this much.

"This Savior... far more terrifying than the legends say."

Anrakyr, for his part, was even more rattled.

Because...

Eden had stolen his lines.

That exact plan had been in his head.

Word for word.

Eden had said it first.

Almost as if—

The Savior could read his mind.

And then, Anrakyr met Eden's gaze.

That gaze—

Penetrating. Inescapable. As if even his innermost thoughts were laid bare.

There was something else in those eyes.

Something that made Anrakyr uneasy.

"Did he... sense my killing intent?"

All xenos alliances were dangerous. Full of schemes and traps.

Truth was—

Eden had been watching him carefully.

He was searching for something—

The location of Anrakyr's C'tan shard.

A fragment of a star god. Containing cataclysmic power—especially of fire.

An unmatched weapon.

And an excellent energy source.

Even if Eden couldn't wield it...

He'd rather use it for barbecue than let it be used against humanity.

Behind him—

Dante looked at Eden with quiet reverence.

This was what it meant to follow the Savior.

No stress. No planning.

Just wait for Eden to tell you what to kill.

As someone who'd dreamed of retirement for centuries, Dante couldn't be happier.

The battle conference continued smoothly.

The plan was as follows:

Anrakyr would dispatch tomb engineers and legions to Tartarus to reactivate the Prism

The Savior's forces and Sisters of Battle would hold the Laisios Relay

Blood Angels and Zarazusa's troops would secure the main refinery platform, digging a path to the core of Eiros

And finally—

Eden, Anrakyr, and Dante would launch a strike on Fudia, seizing control of the Prism's central command spire.

All units had to succeed.

One failure—and the whole plan collapsed.

Fortunately—

Eden had already deployed his troops across Laisios, Tartarus, and Eiros.

The alliance had backup.

As the tactical discussion drew to a close—

Eden looked at the gathered leaders once more.

"Gentlemen, before we go... there's one more immediate threat to deal with."

That would be the Tyranid vanguard fleet chasing the Dreamweaver.

Perfect timing.

Now the swarm would learn—

What it truly meant... to be surrounded.

(End of Chapter)

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