A newborn thing shattered the darkness. There was no most newborn, only something even more newborn.
When Mordred had the nerve to demand sixty million years of eleven-percent tax, no words could describe how the three Necron Overlords felt. Their newly sprouted souls shot up another few inches.
They made no effort to hide their feelings. Zahndrekh, the senior member of the four, cursed him on the spot. If he worried about noble etiquette now, he really would be senile.
"You son of a bitch raised by The Deceiver! Sixty million years of tax? Why don't you just rob us? Is that what you call collecting taxes?
"You're trying to kill us!"
"I'm negotiating, aren't I? Make me a counteroffer."
"You can bargain over taxes?"
Mordred put on an innocent face, though he made no attempt to hide the greed rooted in every cell of his body. His two extra limbs rubbed together, and his tail wagged so fast he looked like a giant fly.
He even pulled out a calculator and fiddled with it. No one knew what he was calculating, but he looked devoted to the task. "Look, I'm the injured party here. You ate every Chaos Energy Crystal aboard the Abomination. Surely you owe me some compensation?
"And in your own words, I'm a C'tan. I firmly believe I'm human, but I've still got a certain standing to maintain. Give me something, at least. It won't cost you much."
No one had ever seen a god behave like this. Even the crowned general who had once burned the galaxy alongside the C'tan and raced through the Webway had never encountered such a mercenary deity. That was not how this game was supposed to be played.
Then again, a C'tan like Mordred was reassuring, at least. Unlike the