Chapter 144: Dukel - Surprise! I Dug Up the King of Action Figures While Robbing a Tomb!

No matter the turmoil brewing across the galaxy, the expedition into the Dark Worlds pressed on. Though the ultimate goal remained the return to Terra, countless worlds still needed liberation along the way. The entirety of the Imperial Expeditionary Corps was committed to purging these fallen planets of their darkness.

Dukel, however, had temporarily detached from the main force. Aboard a Sword-class frigate—less than two kilometers in length—he led a select team on a highly classified mission.

Accompanying him were the Goddess of Life, Magnus, the Eldar seer Efilar, and a small detachment of Doom Slayers, along with a Mechanicus archeotech research team.

Their mission? A tomb raid.

Curiously enough, they owed this opportunity to Abaddon. His recent Black Crusade had stirred ancient forces from slumber, prompting the Mechanicus to intercept fleeting signals otherwise lost in the warp's chaos.

For the Imperium, every Necron tomb world represented a treasure trove of unfathomable value. These ancient xenos constructs, remnants from over sixty million years ago, safeguarded artifacts that could tempt even the most disciplined soul.

Even Dukel, a Primarch, had taken a personal interest in this particular raid.

"Seeking dragons, dividing gold by the stars… each star a guiding ward," Dukel murmured, standing at the bow of the Sword-class frigate, gazing into the abyss of space.

"Your Highness, is that a poem from your homeworld?" Gris, the Mechanicus adept, inquired curiously.

"Just a saying," Dukel replied, smirking. "I only hope your intelligence is accurate enough. I would hate to leave this venture empty-handed."

"Your Highness, you volunteered for this operation," Gris said helplessly. "Besides, most tomb raids yield nothing."

If there was one thing the Adeptus Mechanicus excelled at, it was plundering ancient ruins—though they preferred to call it archaeological research.

"Your Highness, permit me to correct your terminology. Taking from the living is theft. The Necrons, however, are a race of the dead, their souls consumed long ago. Thus, this is not theft but scientific archaeology." Gris adjusted his vox-grille solemnly. "Archaeology with immense historical significance."

Dukel chuckled. "Very well, archaeology it is. Let's hope this dig is a productive one."

Though he presented the raid as a diversion, there was another reason Dukel had joined in person. Since the Goddess of Life had pledged allegiance to him, his biomantic abilities had surged at an unprecedented rate. Yet at Life Magnetism Level 25, he had encountered an inexplicable barrier.

This wasn't a simple plateau—he knew he possessed the energy to ascend further. And yet, something bound him, as if the fabric of reality itself rejected his existence. A law of the cosmos, a decree that no mortal—or even Primarch—could surpass.

Dukel had no answers. So, he had chosen to clear his mind the best way he knew how: by looting a Necron tomb.

The expedition arrived at an uncharted world, absent from any Imperial star map. This was a Necron tomb world, once home to a noble of the ancient Necrontyr Dynasty. The world's ruler had fallen in the War in Heaven, bartered his soul to the C'tan, and been entombed in a necrodermis body, awaiting the Silent King's return.

Yet something was amiss.

A massive gateway, incongruous with Necron designs, loomed over the planet's surface. The expedition's aircraft descended through it, entering the eerie silence of the tomb world below.

Dukel led the way.

Though the world appeared barren, they knew a grand tomb lay hidden beneath its surface. Necron technology folded entire necropolises into pocket dimensions, rendering them invisible to conventional sensors. Even the Imperium's most advanced auspex arrays struggled to pinpoint their locations.

The Tech-Priests disembarked and immediately set to work, deciphering the world's spatial anchor points. Only by disrupting the phasic shielding could they reveal the tomb's true form and find an entryway.

As they worked, eldritch inscriptions flickered in and out of visibility, phasing between dimensions.

"Dukel, I advise against this." Magnus's single eye glowed with psychic light. "This is the domain of the Endless One—Trazyn."

Dukel arched an eyebrow. The Trazyn?

"In other words," Magnus continued, "whoever was originally entombed here has been displaced. The true master of this tomb is now the King of Curiosities."

"I had dealings with him once," Magnus admitted, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. "Traded two decks of Regicide cards for a squad of Red Corsairs and a cadre of Midnight Lords. He collects warriors like a child collects toys. If we linger too long, we will end up in one of his display cases."

Dukel hesitated for only a moment before grinning. "You mean Trazyn the Infinite? The King of Figures?"

Magnus groaned. "Brother, no—"

But Dukel was already grinning in anticipation.

Legend spoke of three great vaults of untold riches in the galaxy:

The Blood Raven Chapter's stockpile—a dubious collection of relics "borrowed" over millennia.

The Lion's hidden vault—jealously guarded, its secrets unknown even to the Emperor.

Trazyn's Solemnace Museum—a sprawling archive of the most priceless artifacts, warriors, and people in the galaxy.

It was said that even Guilliman's adoptive mother had found her way into Trazyn's exhibits.

Now, with most Necron dynasties still dormant, Trazyn was among the few actively operating. Self-styled as the galaxy's historian, he had spent eons pilfering wonders from every civilization, utilizing proxy bodies and intricate traps to expand his collection.

To this day, no one knew if they had ever seen his true form.

And Dukel had just found one of his vaults.

"This is an unexpected delight," Dukel declared, eyes gleaming.

Magnus, however, was far from pleased. "Brother, listen to me. Trazyn's defenses are insidious. His obsession with his collection means he spares no expense in protecting it. You will regret stepping inside."

Dukel smirked. "Brother, you do yourself a disservice. You are the greatest psyker in the galaxy. Surely your powers are more than a match for mere Necron trickery?"

For the first time in a long while, Magnus's single eye gleamed with pride. "Dukel, I never thought I'd hear you compliment me." He crossed his arms, expression smug. "But you're right!"

Dukel turned to his assembled forces, eyes blazing. "We may be few, but look at us! Two Primarchs, a High Magos, a Saint, and an Eldar goddess. How can we return empty-handed? This isn't just a tomb—it's a treasure trove! Today, even if it were the Silent King's palace, I'd seize his scepter myself!"

A surge of exhilaration rippled through the group. Doom Slayers gripped their weapons. The Mechanicus priests adjusted their augmetics. Even the Eldar goddess Isha, usually reserved, found herself uncharacteristically eager.

"This is not theft, Aisha. This is an archaeological excavation. Life should not only be filled with despair but also with surprises." She whispered these words to herself, as if trying to convince her own conscience.

At that moment, she remained oblivious to the subtle transformation taking place within her, shaped by the overwhelming aura of the Primarch.

Boom—

Just as the Goddess of Life found a fragile equilibrium within her thoughts, the world trembled violently. The very fabric of space-time seemed to shudder, as if an ancient force was stirring from its slumber.

Through the quaking terrain and shifting sands, an immense structure began to manifest before their eyes—a monolithic tomb complex of the Necrons, its presence imposing and inescapable.

The Necropolis Pyramid was colossal beyond comprehension. Though much of it remained entombed beneath the planet's surface, the exposed portion alone stretched into the heavens, its apex piercing the storm-laden sky.

As soon as this ancient edifice fully revealed itself, Duke led the Slayers aboard their atmospheric craft, hurtling toward the mausoleum's entrance with unwavering purpose.

A vast adamantium gate loomed before them—sealed, unyielding, and utterly indifferent to the presence of trespassers.

Behind them, the priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus and their leader, the Magos Dominus, disembarked from their skimmers. Without hesitation, they swarmed toward the gate, sacred canticles echoing through their vox amplifiers as they attempted to decipher the alien technology before them.

Yet, Necron science was an enigma even to the most learned minds of Mars. Its complexity surpassed anything the Adeptus Mechanicus had ever encountered, reducing even the most devout Tech-Priests to little more than frustrated supplicants before a god they could not comprehend.

"I can't wait any longer." Dukel's voice cut through the murmurs of machine-rites and failed calculations.

"Your Highness, have you deciphered the Necrodermis encryption?" Gris, an Archmagos of the Cult Mechanicus, turned in astonishment. His mechanical augmetics whirred as he scanned the Primarch, a flicker of reverence lacing his otherwise monotone voice.

"No, I do not claim mastery over the technology of the Necrons," Dukel admitted. "But I do know something about war."

Under the stunned gazes of the assembled Tech-Priests, the Primarch strode toward the gate. With a motion both casual and calculated, he lifted his immense, power-armored boot.

Dukel's form was a living embodiment of transhuman perfection, his genetic heritage surpassing all but the Emperor himself. His very essence, infused with the power of the Immaterium and bolstered by the devotion of his followers, had long since transcended mortal limits. His strength was no mere physical attribute; it was a force of nature.

And when such strength was focused into a single, precise point—

Gris bore witness to an act that defied the laws of reality.

A deafening impact resonated through the tomb-world as the Primarch's boot connected with the Necron gate. The necrodermis-reinforced barrier, a construct designed to withstand orbital bombardments, warped and buckled beneath the sheer force of his strike.

"Screeeeech—"

With a final, tortured groan, the gate collapsed inward. A monumental breach had been forged in the Necron tomb, a wound torn open by raw, unrelenting might.

The Tech-Priests stood motionless, their mechanical minds struggling to reconcile what they had just witnessed. The pinnacle of the Omnissiah's lost knowledge had fallen—not to complex algorithms or divine inspiration—but to brute force wielded with godlike precision.

Dukel turned, his expression alight with triumph. "The treasures of the Endless, the greatest collector in the galaxy, await us. Let us claim what is ours!"

Gris's cybernetic optics flickered, his mind overwhelmed by the implications. Yet, in the end, he remained silent.

The tomb lay in disarray.

From the depths of the breached passage, Necron Canoptek constructs skittered forth—Underworld Spiders, their metallic forms bristling with repair tendrils, moved to contain the damage. Their crimson ocular sensors locked onto the intruders, their machine-minds processing the anomaly before them.

"Intruders detected. Defense protocols—activated."

A cacophony of mechanical whirs and clicks echoed through the tomb as the spiders surged forward.

Alongside them, Necron Lychguard and swarms of Canoptek Scarabs roused from their dormancy, their necrodermis bodies gleaming under the dim stasis-light. The eternal guardians of the Endless' legacy had awakened.

But they were found wanting.

The tomb raiders, undeterred by the Necron defenses, carved through them with brutal efficiency. The Lychguard's warscythes clashed against power weapons and energy fields, but one by one, they fell, their bodies crumbling into inert metal. The Scarabs were shredded in droves, reduced to little more than scrap by the relentless slaughter.

It was not a battle; it was an execution.

As the last defenders were laid low, the mechanical priests pressed forward. Their sensors soon located the tomb's ultimate prize—a sanctum vast beyond measure, its architecture an ode to the grandeur of its ancient master.

Inside, the treasure hoard of the Endless lay in silent splendor.

Artifacts of unfathomable origin and design filled the museum-like vault. Exotic technologies from races long thought extinct, relics of the War in Heaven, and preserved specimens frozen in stasis fields lined the vast halls.

Even Duke, a Primarch who had seen the wonders of the galaxy, found himself momentarily awestruck.

Among the displays, an Eldar Drukhari warrior stood preserved in timeless agony, clad in baroque armor and clutching a dagger that pulsed with malevolent energy. Nearby, a colossal Ork Nob, towering even over an Astartes, remained frozen in mid-roar, its muscles forever tensed in primal rage.

The Endless had been an artisan in death, capturing the essence of his specimens at the pinnacle of their existence.

To the Adeptus Mechanicus, however, none of these biological curiosities mattered.

"By the Omnissiah—an intact STC template!" One of the Tech-Priests practically shrieked in ecstasy.

Even among their ranks, such a discovery was a holy event, enough to catapult an initiate into sainthood. The Mechanicum's fervor intensified, their robed forms descending upon the vault like crimson-clad locusts.

Meanwhile, Dukel's gaze was drawn to a particular artifact—a scepter held within a stasis field, wreathed in an eternal, undying flame.

Magnus, his psychic presence manifesting beside him, exhaled in wonder. "Brother, fate smiles upon you this day."

Dukel's fingers wrapped around the scepter's hilt. Its heat seared even through his armor, yet it did not deter him.

"A fragment of the Star God—Nyadrazasa, the Burning Scourge," he murmured. "A remnant of one who sought to consume all."

The C'tan, once the apex predators of the cosmos, had been shattered by their former slaves. The Necrons had taken their essence, reducing them to mere shards, binding them to their will.

As Dukel held the scepter aloft, the flames coiled around his gauntlet, intertwining with his own. A searing force lanced through him—not pain, but something far greater.

For in that moment, his essence absorbed a flicker of the Star God's power.

And the laws of the material universe trembled at the intrusion.

 Under the weight of this force, Dukel felt something shift within him—his biomagnetic field, long constrained at 250,000 horsepower, had loosened ever so slightly.

"Does this mean that to surpass 250,000 horsepower and break free from the material universe's constraints, I need to absorb the power of the Star God?"

The thought sent a thrill through him, his eyes gleaming with possibility.

"And if I push this technology even further, refining it to its pinnacle, could I wield power equal to that of a Star God?"

Though it was merely a hypothesis, the realization was intoxicating. Without hesitation, he abandoned the notion of returning the scepter to the stasis field and gripped it firmly instead.

Crunch—

A strange sound reached his ears. Turning toward it, Dukel found Efilar standing rigid, her fists clenched so tightly that her ceramite gauntlets groaned under the pressure. The Living Saint's entire form trembled with barely restrained fury.

What had she seen?

Curious, Dukel took a step forward.

Instantly, Efilar's wings of fire unfurled, and in a mere breath, she positioned herself between him and whatever lay beyond, blocking his view with the blazing radiance of her holy form.

"Your Highness, this is an unclean thing. To protect your sight from its defilement, I beg you—do not look upon it."

Dukel blinked, caught off guard by her severity.

Before he could respond, Magnus, hanging at his waist, chuckled darkly.

Efilar, though formidable, was still small in stature compared to a Primarch. While she had successfully shielded Dukel's vision, she had failed to obscure Magnus's.

"Dukel, I see it. Is that... the Battle Sister's sacred lingerie? Truly, Trazyn's tastes are as depraved as ever."

For a fleeting moment, Dukel swore he saw a blush creep onto Efilar's otherwise porcelain-like face.

Magnus's single eye gleamed with multicolored light as he regarded the Living Saint with amusement.

"Efilar, does this belong to you?"

"Your Highness Magnus," Efilar gritted her teeth, her voice as cold as a steel blade. "If you examined the acquisition date of this blasphemous artifact, you would see that it predates my birth by three centuries."

With each word, her indignation sharpened.

"Its very existence is a stain upon the Adepta Sororitas. Trazyn the Infinite is a heretic beyond redemption, and this entire vault is an affront to the God-Emperor. Your Highness, once our mission is complete, I seek your permission to raze this accursed world to ashes."

Dukel gave a solemn nod. Purging xenos filth was the only righteous course.

Nearby, Gris, the Tech-Priest, hesitated, his gaze lingering on the vast treasury around them. His reluctance was obvious.

"Efilar, we're here for archaeological purposes. Isn't this a little... excessive?" he ventured.

Efilar turned to him with unwavering conviction.

"We are not archaeologists. We are here to seize the stolen relics of the Imperium from the soulless husks of the Necrons. This is not excavation—it is the Emperor's justice made manifest!"

Gris opened his mouth, then closed it.

What could he say to that?

He had thought the Adeptus Mechanicus were shameless in how they justified plundering tombs under the guise of 'archaeology.' But Efilar—

She had surpassed even them.

Yet he knew better than to argue. First, because she was a woman. Second, because she was the most exalted servant of the Lord of Destruction.

And when those two truths combined in one person, the only rational course was submission.

Gris let out a mechanical sigh. Resistance was futile.