My Soul Was Never Stirred

He received no answer.

In that Stasis Field, Tarasha Euten remained seated quietly, holding the photo album, frozen at the end of time.

A faint smile graced her face.

That was a satisfied smile.

That is--

A mother's smile as she watches her child grow up.

A faint green light suddenly shone in Trazyn's museum.

That was a message from the Silent King.

Trazyn turned around and looked at the light.

All collectors recognize that radiance.

That was the highest level of communication, from the supreme ruler of the Necron Empire.

"Trazyn."

The voice of the Silent King rang out:

"Send a decree to all Tomb Worlds —suspend the war with humanity."

It won't take long, just a few years.

The Necrons have endless time to wait.

Trazyn's eyebrows rose slightly.

That was the reaction generated by his emotional simulation system—surprise.

Ceasefire?

With humans?

"Next--"

The voice of the Silent King continued:

"I have decided to form an alliance with the Imperium of Man to discuss grand plans."

Trazyn remained silent.

alliance.

With humans.

This word hasn't appeared in the language of the Necrons for 65 million years.

The last time the Necrons allied with any race was during the War in Heaven, when they joined forces with the enemies of the Old Ones, ultimately betraying and killing the C'tan.

Since then, the Necrons have never allied with any race.

They are solitary hunters.

It is the eternal Conquest.

yes--

The ruler of the Milky Way.

And now, the Silent King wants to form an alliance with a young race that has only been rising for less than ten thousand years?

Trazyn's emotional simulation system is calculating frantically.

Countless data points, countless possibilities, countless deductions --

Ultimately, he came to a conclusion:

Your Majesty is serious.

"All Necron Dynasties must obey."

The voice of the Silent King concluded:

Those who disobey will bear the consequences.

The light faded.

Inside the museum, I was once again enveloped in that eternal, deep green silence.

Trazyn stood there, gazing in the direction where the light had faded.

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

It was something akin to a "smile".

"Alliance?"

He muttered to himself, a hint of amusement in his voice:

"With this short-lived race that constantly talks about 'holy humanity' and has even burned its own history?"

He shook his head.

"Your Majesty is becoming more and more patient."

He turned around and continued walking deeper into the museum.

Those orders, those wars, those alliances—

What does it have to do with him?

He was just a collector.

He only wanted to preserve some remnants of civilization amidst the endless battles of this Milky Way.

So that those heroes who died in battle will not be completely forgotten.

May those vanished civilizations exist forever in this four-dimensional space.

May future races—if there is a future—be able to see that so many great beings once lived, fought, and loved in this Milky Way.

As for an alliance?

I won't help.

Neither does it oppose it.

Just watching.

Let's watch how this grand drama unfolds.

Watching those short-lived humans frolic on the stage of the Milky Way.

Watching how the Primarch named Guilliman led his race towards...

Destruction? Or eternity?

Who knows?

Trazyn walked along, lost in thought.

The smiling face he had just seen suddenly flashed into his mind.

That smiling face that turned around in the sunlight and said, "I'm here."

"Robert Guilliman."

He whispered the name:

"Son of War"

The current king of mankind.

A flicker of interest flashed in his eyes:

"I wonder if you'd be any easier to catch than your father."

He recalled that many years ago, he had tried to capture the Emperor.

He almost succeeded that time.

It was really just a tiny bit off.

He used Stasis Field to shield the Emperor —or at least he thought he had.

That Stasis Field could even seal fragments of C'tan; a mere Master of Mankind should be no problem for it.

But just as he was about to take the Emperor into the fourth dimension—

The Emperor has vanished.

It just vanished into thin air.

It was as if he had known all along that Trazyn would appear there, knew exactly how he would do it, and knew all along—

everything.

Trazyn still doesn't know what happened.

He only knew that he was so close to succeeding.

Just a little bit.

What he didn't know was that Emperor —even in his most vulnerable childhood—was not something he could capture from Stasis Field.

The Master of Mankind is a great being who, even in his childhood, could defeat Void Dragon by wielding a wooden stick with a stone stuck at the top.

A Necrons collector?

They weren't even worthy of his attention.

But Trazyn was unaware of these things.

All he knew was that he was so close to succeeding.

So this time, he's going to change his target.

Let's get someone younger.

Let's try something easier.

Change it--

Something that will interest him.

Trazyn walked and walked, finally arriving at the deepest part of the museum.

That is the core of the entire four-dimensional space.

There is a huge exhibition hall there.

In the center of the exhibition hall is a Stasis Field that is twelve meters high.

In the center of the field was a gigantic Krork.

That was the oldest ancestor of the Orks, the pinnacle of the Orks evolutionary history.

It was larger than any modern Orks, its muscles were more developed than any modern Orks, and its eyes burned with a primal madness more intense than any modern Orks.

Beside it were several warriors of the Ancient Eldar.

Those Eldar members were tall and slender with delicate features. Even when frozen in Stasis Field, they exuded a certain indescribable elegance.

That is something the modern Eldar have long lost—the glory of the Golden Age.

But Trazyn's gaze did not linger on them.

He looked toward the center of the position.

Looking towards the very center--

The most perfect exhibit.

That was a human.

A human wearing golden armor.

The armor was thick and imposing, with countless intricate patterns engraved on it.

That is the emblem of the Seventh Legion — the Imperial Fists, a mark left by countless battles, and a testament to a Primarch's life.

His face was resolute, like a statue carved from rock.

His brow was furrowed, a sign of perpetual weariness, a mark left by tireless battles.

His left arm--

Cut off at the root.

At the severed point, golden metal and flesh twisted together, as if, in his last moments, he was still using his remaining shoulder to hold back the surging tide of enemies.

But he remained standing.

Even if only one arm remains, even if covered in blood, even if utterly exhausted—

He remained standing.

Like a mountain.

Like a --

A mountain that will never fall.