18 Interlude: Gods and the Dead (II)

They drafted an agreement with a deity, the contents of which concerned the future of the entire race.

That sounds a bit suspicious, doesn't it?

Some unpleasant memories surged along a neural pathway in Trazyn's mind with this thought, and then spread throughout the entire neural matrix. As a result, those long-forgotten memories resurfaced, instantly making Trazyn's thoughts extremely complex.

He even had to manually activate a security protocol to roughly stuff all those memories back into the neural matrix.

At this moment, they were like a large mass of corpses crushed by tanks, mixed together in a corner of Trazyn's neural matrix, indistinguishable to anyone who came.

However, the moment he broke free from the influence, Trazyn immediately gave a strange smile.

He thought it was hard not to call it a sacrifice. From any perspective, it should be defined that way—but if he really did characterize it that way, then what was he doing?

"This is truly unbelievable," the Infinite sighed inwardly, speaking slowly.

"First, I'd like to ask a question, Your Excellency."

Orikan almost gasped.

His lungs—if he still had any—suddenly began to ache, all because of Trazyn's actions.

The astrologer nearly screamed, "Dead God, are you planning to make demands before the negotiations have even begun?! You idiot!"

His thoughts were unknown to anyone, and the god, with a slight nod, made Orikan swallow his scream back into his vocal cords. He breathed a slight sigh of relief, but soon became anxious again, for he saw Trazyn smiling.

The unfortunate metals that made up that ugly face had undergone a slight deformation in accordance with their master's wishes, and their excellent qualities made Trazyn's smile very obvious at this moment.

Orikan's anger rose silently—yes, he was furious about the words Trazyn hadn't spoken and the things he hadn't had time to do.

As it turned out, he was right; he did indeed have reason to be angry.

In his anger, Trazyn slowly raised his left hand, pointed precisely at him, and then spoke loudly in the darkness.

"I want to know, what exactly is that tiny runtime error in my friend's neural matrix—"

Orikan interrupted him, his voice trembling. "--That's not a mistake."

He received a look from Trazyn that was full of incomprehension and displeasure.

"Go to hell," the astrologer cursed inwardly. "Agreeing to let you lead this conversation was the biggest mistake of my life."

Faced with their conflicting accounts, the god tilted his head with amusement. Trazyn, on the other hand, let out a long sigh, turned to Orikan, and helplessly spread his hands, as a thought was transmitted through the communication protocol.

Didn't you agree to let me speak on your behalf?

"I wish I had never agreed to this!" Orikan roared through the agreement. "Look at the stupid things you've done!"

"You're the fool," my friend Trazyn said, before abruptly ending the communication.

Amidst the cold, empty notification tone, Orikan was involuntarily stunned, and what Trazyn did next was even more astonishing—he saw the fool deliberately walk with an elegant gait into the depths of darkness.

A green light quietly appeared, and the Empathic Obliterator fell into Trazyn's hand, shining brightly. The surrounding space began to tremble, and the anomalies caused by the transmission protocol filled the air with loud noise.

A few seconds later, 130 Astartes clad in jet-black armor appeared in a green light.

Although their armor was all black, the details were completely different. Some clearly showed that they had been carefully repaired and maintained, while others were dilapidated, and in some places they were even beyond repair.

The weapons they carried were mostly like this; less than a third of them were well-maintained and had ample ammunition. Some even comically held a Bolt Pistol with an empty magazine.

Trazyn, raising his hands, the Empathic Obliterator floating in the air, his cloak billowing high.

"One hundred and thirty!" Orikan heard him shout from afar. "They're all here!"

Immediately afterward, Trazyn strode back. His face held an expression Orikan absolutely did not want to see at this moment—an expression Orikan had seen far too many times before, to the point that he could perfectly predict what Trazyn was about to do.

To the point that he felt utterly desperate.

"My antique restoration skills are pretty good, aren't they, Your Excellency?" Trazyn asked expectantly. "I've done my best!"

"Compared to you, they shouldn't even qualify as cultural relics," the deity responded, his voice very low. "Besides, you should probably find a way to improve this occupational habit of yours, Trazyn."

The Infinite shrugged with great nonchalance.

"If I had a way, it would have been kicked out of my thought process long ago. I didn't keep it for fun; it's an incurable disease, destined to follow me until the end of the world. Anyway, let's get down to business, sir."

"Alright," the deity said. "Which aspect would you like to begin with?"

These words immediately made Orikan doubt the existence of his hearing system—could these words really have come from the mouth of a god? A ripple of emotion finally began to appear on his expressionless death mask.

Ultimately, Orikan had to admit one thing: his understanding of the gods and the one standing alive before him might be somewhat different.

"I don't think this matter needs to be broken down into too many details and discussed one by one, sir. That would be a waste of time. Let me get straight to the point: what is the essence of the error in Orikan's mind?"

"Echo," the god said quietly.

He appeared to be deep in thought, but that was probably not the real situation.

If Orikan were still in the mood to observe, he would surely have been able to discern from those abruptly rising abnormal readings what the gods were doing. But, unfortunately, he was no longer in the mood.

Echo.

This simple word echoed in Orikan's ears like thunder, giving rise to millions of different interpretations.

Never before has an astrologer so desperately wanted an answer to a question; he even felt an urge to turn back time to ponder it and ultimately uncover the truth.

Of course, this was incredibly foolish, a fact he himself readily admits.

But--

"--What was the response?" Trazyn asked.

His voice was calm, as if he were not troubled at all. His approach was far more direct than Orikan's twisted interpretation, and this time, the astrologer did not internally judge whether his actions were appropriate or reasonable.

He no longer had that luxury; he even began to involuntarily Trazyn's courage.

The deity smiled slightly, as if confirming something, and slowly spoke, "The last echo left in the Warp by a race called the Necrontyr. It was filled with regret."

Trazyn silently used his security protocol again, using it as a sledgehammer to pound away the excess emotions in his heart until those old illusions were completely destroyed before he stopped.

By this time, he had completely calmed down and even had the composure to engage in bitter self-deprecation.

Perhaps becoming a Necrons has some benefits; at least you can keep your mind clear this way. However, in such a galaxy, the more lucid a person is, the more tormented they will be.

Trazyn spoke again, refusing to succumb—at least the pain was real, he kept repeating to himself.

"So, this echo can be taken out of the Warp and used on us?"

"Can."

"Without any cost?"

"Have the Necrontyr perished?" the god asked rhetorically. Undoubtedly, it was a harsh question, but Trazyn pondered it quite seriously for a moment. Finally, he gave an answer that would enrage many of his people.

"Yes," the Infinite replied solemnly and sorrowfully. "The Necrontyr are gone, they no longer exist."

"Therefore, there is no cost."

"I understand," Trazyn said softly. "So, what effect will this echo have on us?"

The deity shook his head. "I am not an omniscient and omnipotent god, Trazyn, and I do not know the answer either. However, one thing is certain: the echoes of the Necrontyr will help you regain your emotions."

Mood

Trazyn murmured the word, feeling a pang of indescribable bitterness.

His neural matrix faithfully responded to the pre-set program, and according to that logic, returned the responses extracted from the librarian Trazyn's memories and personality to Trazyn through simulation.

Every neural pathway in his core is active for this. But how could a truly living being, a being capable of experiencing joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness, so easily perceive every step and detail of this complex reaction?

For living people, emotional reactions are instinctive, a mechanism that occurs immediately upon receiving appropriate stimuli without conscious thought.

The self-deception behind this is utterly blatant; what could be more hypocritical than this?

Each noble among the Necrons retains a relatively intact personality and memories, allowing them to converse with each other as if they were alive. Their emotions do not stem from biological instincts, but are the result of careful calculation.

Trazyn felt an overwhelming sense of fear: what would regaining emotions make us?

But fear did not stop him from finishing the task.

He spoke in a low voice, "Then, let's start with the most basic conditions."

"As you wish," said the deity.