"What do you want?" Tyst Shor asked.
Shefa showed him the gun.
With a single glance, Shor recognized it.
This weapon was renowned within the Inquisition. It possessed an exceptionally powerful machine spirit, but its past experiences had also tainted it with the curse of Chaos, granting it two traits: first, only the loyal could wield it. Second, every one of its owners was fated to die a miserable death.
Thanks to the latter, the gun had once fiercely resisted being used, until the priests took it to Mars and placed it upon the Omnissiah's altar.
Shefa let go and placed it on Shor's desk. The deep green light of teleportation had not yet fully faded, and a peculiar scent still clung to him. It was the compromise the Necrons had been forced to make so that flesh-and-blood bodies could withstand their technology.
It was said that a certain archaeologist had been deeply dissatisfied with this, claiming that the Great Sage he worked with was still somewhat lacking in ability...
Of course, that was beside the point.
Shefa pushed the gun toward Shor. The latter had long understood what he intended to do. Though displeased, he said nothing. He simply seized the weapon, aimed it at the wall behind him, and fired.
With a muffled bang, the bullet shattered and fell to the floor. He turned the gun on himself, then handed it back.
"Satisfied? You're completely insane, teleporting over here without warning—"
"Not yet." Shefa did not reach for it, merely shaking his head calmly. "The machine spirit could be wrong. I need to conduct another test."
Ignoring the burst of protest from the machine spirit, he tore open his uniform and pulled out a pendant, then closed his hand around it.
In an instant, coldness filled the entire