Deep within his logic core, every rational protocol was collapsing.
He jerked his head up and fixed his sole remaining eye on the holographic projection:
"All forces, hear my command-"
"Abandon precision fire."
"Abandon tactical formations."
"Abandon all tactics!"
His voice spread throughout the entire Necron army over wide-area communications, hoarse, distorted, and filled with boundless fury:
"Activate the Harvest Protocol!!!"
"Every living thing on this planet-"
"Crush them all!!!"
"Leave none alive!!!"
The instant the order came down, the entire Necron army froze.
The Harvest Protocol was the Necron race's oldest, cruelest mode of warfare.
Under that mode, all tactics, all strategy, and all considerations of efficiency would be discarded.
In their place came the most primal, most frenzied... slaughter.
No distinction between friend and foe, no regard for cost, no restraint.
The sole objective was to kill every living thing in sight.
This protocol was normally activated only against threats that "had to be completely eradicated."
Such as a Tyranid hive ship.
Such as an army of Chaos Daemons.
And now...
The Stormlord had activated this protocol simply because a pack of Gretchin had humiliated him.
"Your Majesty, this..." the Overlord tried to dissuade him. "This will cause enormous losses, and..."
"Execute the order!"
Imotekh roared, green fire almost spewing from his eye socket:
"Disobey, and I'll make a drinking cup out of your skull!"
"...As you command, Your Majesty."
In the sky.
The bay doors of thousands of Necron warships opened simultaneously.
At that moment, the sky darkened.
Countless black "raindrops" poured from the warships.
They were not rain.
They were Necron Warriors.
Millions, tens of millions of Necron Warriors.
They no longer formed orderly ranks or conducted organized landings.
Like dumplings dumped into a pot, they fell from the sky in dense masses, smashing into the