Chapter 627: He is so beautiful!

A biting cold wind swept across this lifeless, frigid planet, whose gravity was about 0.6 times that of a normal world—too weak to retain a thick atmosphere; the thin air constantly whipped up loose dust from the surface.

Duaet-8, the name flashed before the Silent King’s eyes—the human empire’s designation for this planet.

Duaet derived from an ancient human civilization on Old Terra, one that had been somewhat influenced by the Necrontyr.

In that civilization, the word Duaet meant the underworld.

The underworld.

The Silent King held his spear, wreathed in undying flame, his emerald-lit eyes scanning the surroundings.

He could have shattered this planet instantly with orbital weapons, but that fool-god, Xigoki, had outmaneuvered him, destroying his flagship, the Song of Annihilation, along with much of his treasured arsenal.

Most of the weapons he carried were suited for individual combat; the few capable of obliterating a planet at once were deemed wasteful, given that the so-called “Saint Doraemon” was unlikely to die from a single orbital strike.

Thus, the Silent King chose to ascend the battlefield honorably, even at the risk of his spear still being in .

Szalak’s will hardened.

No, why would he act so irrationally?

He could have remained in the void, waiting for his spear’s fifteen-minute cooldown before stepping onto this planet; even if the enemy attacked him in the void, such a battle favored the Necrons far more than humans.

How could he be so foolish as to step directly onto this planet?

He had even used phase-shift technology to teleport directly onto it.

Had Xigoki’s trickery clouded his mind?

No, not only Xigoki’s influence—

The Silent King’s expression darkened slightly.

He sensed faint birdcalls whispering slander into his will.

He sensed a faint crimson battle-lust surging within his consciousness.

He sensed his sense of honor had inexplicably grown stronger.

He sensed his thoughts had slowed, grown sluggish.

These were effects from the Empyrean—each minor, but together they pushed the Silent King toward a wrong decision.

Not to mention that the Silent King himself, as the pinnacle of Necron physiology, possessed immense psychic resistance.

Simply the Throne of Dominion, Dias, beneath his feet, could draw power from the Star Gods to form a potent anti-psyker field.

Yet even so, the Silent King had been subtly influenced by the Warp without realizing it.

This revealed just how powerful the forces affecting him within the Warp truly were.

Could those humans have summoned a Void God from the Empyrean to influence him?

Upon reflection, it was indeed possible.

Those beings of the Empyrean were the enemies of all life, and had used deceit to force the Master of Mankind onto the Golden Throne, turning him into a paralyzed old salted meat. But Saint Doraemon’s flexibility and cunning could rival the Deceiver and Xigoki—why could they not have summoned a Void God to aid them?

Yet this was ultimately a battle of the material universe; the Warp’s specters could not decide its outcome.

The Silent King’s will shifted slightly, and beneath the Throne of Dominion, Dias, a pocket dimension snapped open.

Countless burning, terrifying Mingchongshengjiachong surged forth, self-replicating endlessly, flooding the land like a tide.

These Minggongshengjiachong were linked to a fragment of the Star God Unthinkable, which the Silent King had collected.

The Unthinkable’s will had been shattered into countless shards, implanted into these Minggongshengjiachong —essentially, each was a part of the Unthinkable’s body.

Thus they carried the Unthinkable’s psychic plague: any sentient being touching even a trace of the endless horde’s energy would be infected with the plague of Ishut, the Unthinkable, their mind torn apart, descending into madness amid boundless agony.

The endless horde instantly covered one-third of Duaet-8.

At that moment, through the Minggongshengjiachong ’s sensors, the Silent King saw a figure on the barren horizon.

It was a beautiful golden figure, clad in radiant golden power armor, standing at the boundary of sky and earth, golden hair veiled in silver chains glowing with the light of heaven, like a tiny morning star resting upon the ground.

He is still so beautiful.

The Silent King thought with quiet awe.

If the entire human civilization held any value in the Silent King’s eyes, it was only for having birthed Saint Guilliman, this perfect and beautiful being.

Even now, as sworn enemies, the Silent King still cherished memories of their friendship.

Saint Guilliman on the horizon turned his head—the Silent King froze slightly.

He—how could Saint Guilliman’s gaze appear so vacant, as if the twenty-first chromosome had failed to separate during meiosis, resulting in three copies?

Then came more Saint Guillimans.

More Saint Guillimans appeared upon the horizon.

All resembled the first one the Silent King had seen—faces vacant, devoid of self-will, like clay statues that mimicked his form but captured none of his essence.

These vacant Saint Guillimans formed a dense wall along the horizon, blocking the endless horde.

Then, the Saint Guillimans began to run.

Their running posture was strange, abstract, absurd.

Their arms flailed up and down, strides exaggerated, and with their tall frames, they resembled countless golden worms writhing, as if lacking bones or muscle—beneath their skin lay only limp, powerless clay.