Chapter 231: The Last Flourish of an Old Artist
"???"
Am I that famous?
"Oh~ yes, that is I," Trazyn said, quickly dropping his disguise as he saw the Dark Angels' weapons begin to glow, their targeting systems locking onto his xenos form. The machinery beneath the red robes twisted, and the flesh and blood within was vaporized into dissipating particles. A much taller metal giant appeared before them.
"Please, be calm. This is all a wonderful misunderstanding. I can explain. The current situation on this planet has nothing to do with me. I was merely, ah—" Seeing the gazes of the Space Marines grow sharper with every word, Trazyn lost all interest in explaining. "—merely wishing to recover a certain item in your collection that is about to become yours, but was momentarily stayed by the fading glory of a civilization."
Ramesses circled Trazyn, resisting the urge to snatch the staff from his hands. He had gotten into the habit of looting the warp recently. He wanted to touch every nice thing he saw. "Right?"
"Oh," a human-like expression of surprise appeared on Trazyn's metal face. He then looked at this Primarch he had never seen before with a newfound respect. "Yes. I find it difficult to resist the urge to gaze upon a fleeting firefly, and to capture it in my collection just before it is extinguished. After all—pluck the flower when it is in bloom..." Trazyn paused. He always liked to use the forgotten history of a civilization to look back at them.
"Lest you be left with an empty branch when the petals have fallen. From the Tang Dynasty poet Du Qiuniang's 'The Gold-Threaded Robe.' It expresses that when a flower is in its most beautiful moment, one should appreciate it and pluck it in time, lest one be left to sigh at an empty branch after the flower has withered."
Ramesses rolled his eyes. Beside him, the little Inquisitor, who had followed the scent, was scribbling furiously. Trazyn always liked to interact with the descendants of a civilization in this way, especially those who had forgotten their own history. It seemed to be a form of black humor for him.
"My mother made me memorize that as a child," Ramesses said. It wasn't to teach him to seize opportunities, or to say that his father had gotten rich by seizing opportunities. It was simply to teach him to live in the present and not have regrets.
"Then your mother must have been an excellent historian," Trazyn said with a sigh. He then bowed in an awkward, ancient manner. "In this vast galaxy, I never thought I would meet a fellow connoisseur who can appreciate the beauty of civilization. Please allow me, as a collector, to express my respect."
"My mother was not a historian. She barely knew how to read. She made me memorize these poems, but she didn't understand most of them herself," Ramesses replied. "But my mother was an excellent mother. And that allows me to face many people with confidence."
Hmm, so where is your mother? Trazyn thought, rubbing his hands together, the desire to preserve a precious object stirring within him. He swallowed the words that were on the tip of his tongue, to prevent a plasma bolt from flying into his face.
"By the way, you know me?" he asked.
"Of course. The great name of the Galactic Saint of Thieves is known to all," Ramesses said with a cheerful nod. "To be able to take the perfectly preserved head of the Imperial Saint Sebastian Thor from right under the nose of the Throneworld."
Now it was the Black Templars' turn to have trouble holding their plasma fire. The 292nd Ecclesiarch, Sebastian Thor, was the one who, during the Age of Apostasy, had led the Imperial Cult to reform, had overthrown Vandire, and had then dedicated himself to rebuilding, shaping the Ecclesiarchy into a relatively stable state. He was arguably the greatest Ecclesiarch in the history of the Imperial Cult. In his later years, he had traveled the galaxy, spreading the faith, and had only returned to Terra at the age of 112, where he had passed away six months later. And then, an event that had brought great shame to all members of the Ecclesiarchy had occurred.
The Saint's head had gone missing.
"Er..."
Are you really just going to out me like that? Trazyn, who was used to looking down on others, had never thought he would one day be the one being looked down upon.
"I was merely preserving a historical artifact for the better," he replied, indignant.
"Compared to letting something become a piece of history, I prefer it to be useful in the present," Ramesses said, signaling his warriors to lower their weapons as a sign of goodwill. "So there is a C'tan shard here?"
In the stories about Trazyn, it was always about C'tan shards. As long as it wasn't a major historical turning point in the galaxy, it was a safe bet to guess in that direction.
"Yes," Trazyn said, knowing the other party seemed to be unusually knowledgeable about the Necrons. "I happened to hear that my dear compatriots have not been guarding the lifeblood of their dynasty well. So I felt it was my responsibility to preserve it for my compatriots for a time."
"Of course, I do not intend to compete with you for it," Trazyn stressed again. To be honest, he was now regretting not having taken the C'tan shard directly. As a Necron Overlord, although he had always been proud of the technology his race possessed, he would still instinctively avoid a direct confrontation with a mainstream human power. Especially when he hadn't brought enough of his guard.
His green eyes studied Ramesses. Trazyn still couldn't figure out what these things in the guise of Primarchs were. Especially after seeing Arthur directly annihilate a soul, it had brought back some very unpleasant memories. He looked at the massive fleet in the sky, the sea of Astra Militarum on the ground, and the at least several thousand Astartes... The disparity in forces was a bit overwhelming.
"Right, so there is one," Ramesses's eyes flashed. He then casually slung an arm around Trazyn's shoulder and led him into the ranks. "Come on, let's go inside."
"Er, don't you need technical support?" Trazyn felt a little uncomfortable, having rarely met a being with even fewer personal boundaries than himself. "My previous identity was that tomb raider's apprentice. I assume you also need tactical guidance?"
"?"
You, a saint of thieves, are calling someone else a tomb raider? Faced with Ramesses's surprised look, Trazyn was quite composed. How could what he did be called stealing? It was finding and returning lost property!
"No need," Ramesses shook his head. If several thousand men from various Chapters, with full supplies, couldn't take down a crippled forge-city, then these Dark Angels might as well just find a place to bury themselves. The pressing matter was to keep this master thief stable. At least having him in sight was better than letting him continue to lurk in the dark.
"So what are we doing now?" Trazyn asked, adjusting his posture. After confirming that the other party had no intention of destroying this clone-body for the time being, he casually slung his own arm around Ramesses's shoulder, and the two stood there, arm-in-arm.
"Waiting," Ramesses said. Though he seemed relaxed, he was still secretly on guard. From a third-party perspective in the historical records, Trazyn was one of the few "good guys" in the galaxy. His petty thefts, while probably tragic for the individual, undoubtedly represented a hope for survival in this desperate universe. But dealing with him in person was different. You couldn't just judge him based on stereotypes. At the very least, you didn't need to treat someone you just met as a friend.
It was just that Ramesses hadn't yet found a way to get a handle on Trazyn. So until he was sure he could, it was necessary to maintain a relatively stable relationship with him.
As the two were idly bickering about the contents of Trazyn's collection, a large transport slowly landed at the ground spaceport, which was now under the control of the Dawnbreakers. A guard in force-feedback power armour and red pontifical robes disembarked, and they formed up in neat ranks on either side of the shuttle.
Then, the figure of Archmagos Cawl appeared before them.
"..."
Cawl observed the state of the forge-city. Details that would be insignificant to an outsider were glaring clues to an insider like him. The middle and outer layers had been breached, the defense facilities were mostly disabled, the energy conduits had been severed... And as a series of speculative reports entered his mind, even Cawl couldn't help but feel a sense of surprise. Has it even been thirty minutes since the full-spectrum jam began?
"Archmagos, we've been waiting for you," Ramesses immediately went up to greet him. Cawl was one of the few people Ramesses got along with. At the very least, Ramesses always showed the necessary respect when dealing with him.
"Do you require further technical support?" A mechadendrite plugged into the cogitator's neural interface. Cawl continued to collect information, asking as he observed the current structure of the forge-city and looked up at the breaches, distinguishing between the internal and external architecture.
"No need," Ramesses replied, as before. "Follow me along the secure route. Arthur has found an ancient artificial intelligence underground and needs your help. Karna is on his way with the Human Federation representatives; they're taking another route."
"And Krik?" Cawl asked, his gaze lingering on Trazyn for a fraction of a second as he followed Ramesses with his mechanical legs. He was very surprised, and a very bad idea had popped into his mind.
"Yes, he has been dealt with," Ramesses said.
CLANG~
The Archmagos's staff struck a broken servitor on the ground. Because the neural-disruption protocol was still active, the servitor twitched a few times. The mortal members, and the other Chapters that had not participated in the frontal assault, all looked surprised.
Faced with the more-or-less surprised gazes, the Dark Angels, on the other hand, were completely unfazed, as if it were all to be expected. Back in the day, under the Lion's leadership, they had taken control of a forge world with an eight-thousand-man ground force in less than ten hours, foiling the Warmaster's plot. With the Prince, full supplies, and several thousand men from various Chapters, if we can't take down a crippled forge-city, we might as well just find a place to bury ourselves.
"Truly—"
Cawl calmed himself, and then a feeling of unprecedented relief washed over him. Yes, this is the feeling. The feeling of just needing to do what is necessary, of being able to complete a task perfectly under a unified will. No need to do everything yourself, no need to be wary of your colleagues, no need to bear the pressure that should not be yours. Just do your part.
"Superlative."
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