44: Chapter 44 The Continuation of Ten Thousand Years

He was thinking, thinking about how to make the Blackstone Pylon reach its theoretical maximum output in "Suppression Mode"?

This problem was far more complex than he had initially imagined.

The core paradox of Blackstone technology lies in this: it follows physical laws, but not the physical laws of humanity.

The Necrons' understanding of the universe is built upon a more ancient, more fundamental level—a level where the distinction between "matter" and "energy" no longer holds meaning, and where "space" and "time" are manipulatable variables rather than impassable boundaries.

Cawl had already decoded the basic operating principle of the Pylon.

Simply put, the mechanism of action of Blackstone is similar to a kind of "Warp damper."

It creates a layer of "phase difference" between the material realm and the Warp—much like two tuning forks of different frequencies; when the difference between them reaches a certain critical point, the energy transmission that would normally resonate is interrupted.

The Blackstone Pylon utilizes this very principle: when the activation sequence is correct, it forms a "Silent Field" around the material realm. Within this field, Warp energy cannot penetrate, psychic power cannot conduct, and even Warp entities themselves are repelled.

The strength of this "Silent Field" depends on the precision of the activation sequence.

Cawl had already achieved complete silence within a ten-kilometer diameter range in a simulated environment—within this range, any Warp energy would be suppressed to almost zero.

He successfully tested this system on an experimental satellite: when the Pylon activated, the Navigators on the satellite instantly lost all sensory ability, the Warp engines ceased to function, and even a relic contaminated by Chaos in the ship's hangar stopped pulsing.

That test lasted only for a brief moment.

During that brief time, the satellite became the "cleanest" place in the entire Galaxy—without any Warp contamination, without any psychic interference, without any whispers from Chaos.

Then, the Pylon overheated and melted down, and the satellite, along with all matter within several hundred kilometers, evaporated.

This is why he needed the 734th sequence.

Theoretical calculations indicated that there exists a "perfect frequency"—at this frequency, the Silent Field could reach planetary scale, and energy consumption would be reduced to a sustainable level.

If this frequency existed, if it could be precisely replicated, if it could be integrated into a sufficiently large Blackstone Pylon network...

Then, the Great Rift could be closed.

Just as the Blackstone Pylon network of Cadia once suppressed the Eye of Terror—no, stronger than that.

Because although the Great Rift is larger in scale, it is fundamentally an unstable structure, much like a freshly torn wound that has not yet formed a stable vortex like the Eye of Terror.

If a suppression field of sufficient intensity could be applied in time... then:

If successful, the Great Rift would close completely within thirty-seven standard years after activation.

If it failed, the backlash of the suppression field would cause at least three thousand star systems to suffer simultaneous Warp implosions.

Cawl's mechanical fingers moved above the console, with a layer of visible energy field separating his fingertips from the obsidian surface.

His movements were precise; every movement triggered a reorganization of code on the data panel, and every pause allowed a few more symbols of those golden inscriptions to appear.

He was searching.

Searching for a frequency.

A frequency that could allow the Blackstone Pylon to reach its theoretical maximum output in "Suppression Mode."

A frequency that could create a "Silent Field" on the scale of the Great Rift.

Suddenly.

Hum.

A faint, almost imperceptible low-frequency vibration emanated from the Blackstone fragment.

Cawl's fingers stopped.

In that bottomless darkness, something... had changed.

Not because of his operation.

Not because of any known activation sequence.

That fragment—the fragment that had slept in the ruins of Cadia for over a century, never having actively emitted any signal—was operating on its own.

Golden inscriptions danced wildly on the data panel; those red symbols that Cawl had spent a century failing to decipher were now reorganizing according to a pattern he had never seen before.

Cawl's consciousness core instantly entered a state of maximum alert.

His mechanical body emitted a low hum, the integrated plasma reactor within him began to heat up, and his weapon systems awakened from dormancy; the photon fusion guns, corrosion sprayers, and melta cannons hidden beneath his armor plating were all awaiting a command.

But no command was issued.

Because he felt it.

A thought, a will, a command that spanned time and space.

From Terra. From the Golden Throne. From the entity that had carved a silent command into his soul ten thousand years ago.

"Live."

"Wait."

"You will know when to act."

Ten thousand years.

That command had never been updated. Never repeated. Never confirmed.

Until this moment.

All the screens within the contemplation hall flashed simultaneously.

The binary code on the fluorescent screens instantly became chaotic, and the golden and red symbols merged into a pattern Cawl had never seen before—it was something more ancient, something more fundamental.

It was a prophecy. A path. A map.

Cawl's eyes, modified by mechanical ocular implants, suddenly lit up, the red light glowing like two burning flames in the dim light of the contemplation hall.

His massive body slowly lifted its head, every servo-motor running at maximum power, every joint emitting a low mechanical grinding sound.

In the very center of the contemplation hall—

No.

Not in the "very center." That position had been empty before.

His sensors could testify to it. His memory core could testify to it.

There was no fluctuation in the air there, no gravity anomaly, no matter of any kind had entered this space from any known dimension.

But they were there.

Twenty figures.

Silent. Motionless. Like ghosts returned from hell.

Just by standing there, they released a suffocating pressure.

Cawl's combat programs reached the same judgment in that instant: impossible to oppose.

It was impossible to oppose, not merely unable to oppose.

Facing them was like a drop of water trying to oppose the ocean, like a speck of dust trying to oppose a star.

All his weapons, all his armor, all the combat experience and technological advantages accumulated over ten thousand years, in front of these figures—

Were meaningless.

His weapons could be used to kill enemies.

But these figures... they were not enemies. They were not allies either. They were not even to be called messengers. They were tools. They were the Emperor's fingers, reaching into the material realm, touching those things that needed to be touched.

Legion of the Damned.

These four words exploded in his consciousness, carrying a chill that even he himself could not fully suppress.