Just as the eerie standoff threatened to stretch the tension in the air to its breaking point, a series of footsteps—heavier and denser than any heard before—echoed from outside the main gates. It wasn't just the stride of a single squad; it was an unstoppable march, a rhythmic vibration like a tide of iron that made the very metal floorboards beneath them tremble.
"Move! Everyone get the hell out of my way!"
Accompanied by a roar full of majesty and tyranny, a figure already renowned—or rather, infamous—within the galaxy strode into the bridge.
The Chapter Master of the Astral Claws, the Tyrant of Badab: Lufgt Huron.
Clad in master-crafted power armor, his cloak snapping behind him with every thunderous step, he wore a look of unbridled arrogance and high spirits. Behind him, Space Marines in silver and blue livery poured into the hall like a dam breaking.
One squad, two squads, ten... a hundred...
The once-spacious bridge was now packed to the brim by this silver tide of steel. The squad led by the previous Captain quickly retreated to the sides, bowing respectfully.
If a high-ranking Imperial Inquisitor were here, they would likely suffer a stroke on the spot. Only recently, during the Pentetratum Campaign, Chapter Master Huron had answered the call for a crusade, leaving the Maelstrom to support the Ultramarines. At the time, he had solemnly pleaded poverty to the High Lords of Terra, claiming his forces were exhausted from guarding the Maelstrom and that the entire Chapter could barely scrape together a thousand warriors—a "standard strength" perfectly compliant with the Codex Astartes.
But now?
Just looking around, the number of Astral Claws crowded into this bridge alone for the boarding action exceeded two thousand!
This wasn't "exhaustion"; this was barely even pretending to follow the rules anymore. To Huron, the Codex and its organizational limits seemed worth less than scrap paper.
Huron surveyed the battlefield.
First, he glanced at the Ogryns still playing "human pyramid" and "whack-a-mole" with the Lychguards, a flash of satisfaction in his eyes. Though these big lugs lacked any semblance of order, they were perfect meat shields, successfully pinning down the troublesome Necron elites.
Then, his gaze swept past the chaotic frontline to the high platform.
There stood the haughty Necron Overlord and its two Triarch Praetorians, standing lonely before the throne.
"Ha!"
Huron grinned, revealing a grimace—the expression of a hunter seeing prey fall into a trap. He didn't even bother with a pre-battle speech. He simply raised his massive lightning claw and gave a casual wave toward the three targets on the platform.
Clack—
It was the sound of a thousand bolters chambering rounds simultaneously.
Two thousand Astral Claws moved in perfect unison. The black muzzles rose like two thousand eyes of death, locking onto the three figures above. Beside the standard bolters, the muzzles of meltaguns began to glow red, plasma coils began to whine, and the belts of heavy bolters rattled.
Against such firepower, let alone a Necron Overlord, one could have leveled the entire command center several times over.
The Overlord, who had previously maintained a languid posture believing it controlled the situation, stared at the dense thicket of muzzles below. Its emerald oculars flickered wildly, its processors likely redlining to calculate the absurdity of this fire density.
For the first time, the hand holding the Overlord's staff stiffened with a very human-like rigidity. it looked at its two remaining guards, then at the silver sea below. No matter the calculation, the probability of victory had plummeted to zero.
The elegance and composure belonging to the ancient race finally shattered.
"You—!"
The Overlord's voice trembled with a hint of exasperated rage. It pointed at Huron as if seeing the most unreasonable barbarian in the universe. "I thought since you could crack my tri-titanium phase lock, you were a race with some level of civilization... one that understood a duel between champions..."
Looking at the two thousand muzzles about to spit fire, it let out a cry from the depths of its soul: "I did not expect you to be so utterly shameless!!"
Hearing the Necron's grief-stricken accusation, Huron curled his lip in disdain—a pure expression of human supremacism's contempt for the alien.
"Why talk 'civilization' with an alien like you?" Without a moment's hesitation, the great hand symbolizing destruction swung down. "Fire!"
In an instant, the bridge was lit up as if by a miniature star. Bolters, plasma guns, and meltaguns roared simultaneously, their collective thunder drowning out all other sound.
Countless bolts drew dense lines of fire through the air, plasma bolts fell like blue suns, and melta rays warped the atmosphere. The high platform was instantly and completely engulfed in fire, dust, and energy storms.
This saturated bombardment lasted for a full ten seconds.
When Huron waved his hand again to signal a ceasefire, the smoke slowly cleared.
The spot where the Overlord and the two Praetorians had stood was now empty. Not only were there no remains, but the throne and half the platform beneath it had been completely vaporized in the heat and explosions, leaving only a smoldering, molten crater.
Huron nodded in satisfaction, retracting his sizzling lightning claw.
Perhaps in his younger days, before he was Chapter Master, he might have thought about charging up to duel the alien lord to claim its head for his trophy rack.
But now he was the Master of the Astral Claws, the Warden—or rather, the Ruler—of the Maelstrom.
At his level, the empty fame of individual bravado was no longer important. He thought about how to achieve the greatest results with the minimum cost, how to preserve every precious Astartes, and how to grow his Chapter's strength.
They were deep within the enemy flagship; delays meant danger. A duel? What if he made a mistake? What if the enemy had a hidden card?
Huron would grieve for half a day over the loss of even a single Battle-Brother. Erasing the threat with absolute overwhelming firepower was the most stable and efficient method.
At that moment, Huron suddenly remembered the Overlord's "final words."
"What was that alien saying about a 'lock'?" Huron turned to the Captain who had arrived first, his brow furrowing slightly. "It said we cracked its lock?"
The Captain stepped forward, his expression strange as he recounted everything that had happened from start to finish.
"You're saying..." Even Huron showed a rare look of astonishment after listening. "This Necron gate was opened by those—"
He pointed at the Ogryns in the distance, who were still wrestling with the remaining Lychguards. "It was opened by one of those Ogryns?"
"Yes, Chapter Master," the Captain said, his voice full of disbelief. "And it only took a dozen seconds. That Ogryn seems to be... technically gifted."
Huron was genuinely surprised.
He had seen the bravery and self-sacrifice of the Legion of the Dead before. He had always assumed they were just a bunch of berserkers; he never expected them to be hiding a technical genius in their midst.
And an Ogryn at that?
This was more absurd than finding a pacifist in this war-torn universe. An Ogryn who could crack high-level Necron codes was a unique and scarce resource in the Imperial labor market.
However, as an ambitious leader, Huron excelled at winning hearts and discovering talent. No matter how absurd it was, if it was useful to him, it was a good thing.
He immediately keyed his external vox-emitters, his voice booming through the hall like a great bell.
"Which hero just cracked the gate's lock? You have performed a great deed!" Huron's majestic voice rose above the din of battle. "Come find me immediately after the combat is over! As a reward for your wisdom and contribution, I shall grant you a special honor—I will give you my personal autograph!"
The bridge fell silent for a split second.
Then, the Ogryn Helldivers who were busy smashing Necron heads with clubs erupted into a massive commotion.
"Holy crap?! That actually worked?!"
"An autograph?! Is it the kind of signature I think it is?"
"Is that lock-picking quest worth that much? If I'd known, I would've tried poking at it too!"
"I object! I can pick that stupid lock too! I want an autograph too!"
Countless Ogryns beat their chests and stamped their feet in regret. In their eyes, "cracking a high-tech Necron lock" was surely just a simple interaction prompt or a game of luck. Such a golden opportunity to get an autograph from a faction leader just by moving a finger a certain way had been snatched away so easily!