Chapter 540: The Silent King

As Horus died in anguish and disbelief, the Chaos Gods watched with amusement.

Some sneered.

Some mocked.

All were entertained.

The moment Orsaga declared that the real game had finally begun, Slaanesh was the first to laugh aloud:

“What a delightful farce.”

From the very beginning, every Chaos God knew exactly what lived within Horus’s heart—his ambition, his resentment, and his plan to later purge the traitor legions of Chaos influence so that he could rule uncontested.

But much like the pact they once made with the Emperor, the Chaos Gods simply didn’t care.

What Horus intended after victory was irrelevant.

What Horus thought of himself was irrelevant.

What Horus desired was irrelevant.

To beings who existed beyond life and death, unrestricted by causality or time, Horus—Warmaster, Primarch, legend—was merely another mortal.

Whether he wore a crown or lay in the mud made no difference.

Human titles meant nothing to the warp’s Sovereigns.

Their true opponents were only each other.

—

When Orsaga wagered an entire dimensional world’s knowledge as a stake, he also established one rule:

Whoever’s champion succeeds in destroying the Imperium wins.

But the game was not meant to begin immediately.

Only now—

with Horus dead,

with the Traitor Legions in collapse,

with the Loyalists suffering irreversible loss,

and with the Emperor forced to remain chained to the Golden Throne as an eternal battery for the Astronomican—

only now did the match truly start.

Because only now would the traitor Primarchs have the opportunity to attempt victory without relying directly on Chaos God power.

From the beginning, Horus had been designed as nothing more than a tragic opening piece—a disposable NPC whose purpose was simply to break the board.

The Emperor, by contrast, served as the “final boss.”

Once, the Emperor stood so far beyond the Primarchs that none could hope to challenge Him.

But with Magnus fallen, Malcador dead, and the Golden Throne devouring the Emperor’s strength day by day, the situation had shifted.

Other psyker Primarchs could sit the Throne for short moments, buying Him time to breathe.

But only He could maintain the Astronomican for long without dying.

Thus the Emperor was forever weakened, forever exhausted, never able to recover His full might.

The Chaos Gods had done what they excelled at:

They had taken an unkillable being—one who once had no “health bar”—

and given him one.

Only then could the fallen Primarchs dream of victory.

Only then could the game truly become interesting.

—

The Crimson Heaven

Deep within the Crimson Heaven, Orsaga observed the other Chaos Gods:

Slaanesh, smiling with indulgent malice.

Tzeentch, endlessly calculating new ways to twist fate.

Khorne, roaring mindlessly in eternal fury.

Nurgle, stirring a rotting cauldron with fatherly delight.

In this swirling madness, Orsaga smiled with satisfaction.

Everything was proceeding according to plan.

—

Decades Later — Beyond the Galaxy

After decades of travel and countless layers of encryption, a signal finally crossed the unimaginable void and reached its destination—

A region outside the Milky Way.

There, hidden within a distant star stream, drifted a colossal fleet—silent, cold, and ancient beyond comprehension.

At its center, inside a vast pyramid-shaped flagship, a figure of living metal sat upon a throne.

Its form resembled a skeletal monarch, wrapped in coils of emerald energy.

A great warscythe rested in its hand.

When the transmission arrived, the figure’s eyes ignited with green fire.

At first, only confusion flickered within them.

Then clarity.

Then awakening.

After reviewing the message, the metallic titan rose and murmured in a cold, resonant voice:

“So… my people are finally beginning their great reawakening. And the meddlesome Aeldari Empire is… gone. Two excellent pieces of news.”

His tone carried a rare hint of exhilaration.

This was no ordinary Necron.

This was the Silent King—the supreme ruler of the Necron race,

the leader of the ancient Triarch,

and the one who once commanded gods and shattered empires.

His two Triarch companions had long perished during the War.

He alone remained.

—

Sixty million years ago, the Silent King led the Necrontyr into biotransference, becoming Necrons.

With the C’tan, they defeated the Old Ones.

But when the C’tan turned upon each other, weakened by infighting, the Silent King struck.

The Necrons shattered their star-gods, enslaved the surviving shards, and reclaimed their destiny.

Yet victory left them exhausted.

And the rise of the Aeldari, creations of the Old Ones, ushered in a new age of Necron decline.

Cornered, outnumbered, and threatened with extinction, the Silent King made the hardest decision of his long existence:

He commanded the Necrons to sleep.

He himself departed the galaxy with a cadre of loyal guards, searching for a new home and a future free from their past.

—

Sixty million years later, the moment he had waited for finally arrived.

The galactic Aeldari Empire was dead.

The Necron dynasties were awakening.

Chaos, humanity, and countless other lesser species were tearing each other apart.

The galaxy was weak.

And ripe.

The Silent King turned his gaze toward the Milky Way—toward the grave he intended to dig for all who stood in the Necrons’ way.

“The Necrontyr shall rise again,”

he whispered,

“and reclaim what is ours.”