Chapter 35: A New Collector Enters the Field
Long before the first humans had ever picked up a spear, before the earliest stars of the Imperium even flickered into life, there existed another dominant race in the galaxy.
The Necrons.
But back then, they were known as the Necrontyr—flesh-and-blood beings cursed with frail, short lives. Their homeworld was a tomb world long before the first crypts were built: a blasted wasteland awash in lethal solar radiation, a planet that poisoned its own children.
Yet even in that hell, they prospered.
Driven by the inevitability of death and the bitterness of mortality, the Necrontyr developed technology so advanced it defied imagination. They reached for the stars in metal ships powered by sciences lost to time—and in doing so, they caught the attention of gods.
That was when the War in Heaven began.
It was the greatest war the galaxy has ever known, a battle between two cosmic titans: the Old Ones, architects of life and defenders of balance; and the C'tan, star-eating gods forged from living energy. The Necrontyr, seeking deliverance from their curse of frailty, sided with the latter. The C'tan offered them immortality, invincibility—perfection.
And the Necrontyr accepted.
They shed their organic forms and became the Necrons—soulless, undying constructs of living metal, minds bound to data matrices and memories burned into circuitry. But the gift had a price. The C'tan devoured their souls, and the Necrons became little more than puppets, their once-proud people reduced to husks, trapped in a mockery of eternity.
Eventually, the Necrons rebelled.
Led by the Silent King, their god-emperor, they shattered the C'tan into fragments and imprisoned them. Some of those shattered gods were repurposed—reduced to batteries and energy sources for Necron technology. But the damage had been done. Realizing the galaxy was still too hostile, the Necrons chose to sleep. Entire dynasties buried themselves in stasis beneath countless worlds, waiting for a time when the stars were right again.
And now, in the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, they awaken.
Sometimes they emerge to find alien cities built atop their tombs. Sometimes they rise to a sky filled with unfamiliar stars and the ruins of wars they never fought. But they always rise.
Trazyn the Infinite—or "the Endless," as he styles himself—is one of the earliest to awaken. And among the Necron Overlords, none are quite like him.
Trazyn is not a general or a warlord, not in the conventional sense. He is a collector. A curator of the bizarre and rare. Where others see conquest, he sees opportunity—for acquisition. His tomb world, Solomance, houses a museum unlike any other. Within its stasis vaults lie priceless oddities: a full regiment of the Emperor's Imperial Guard from the Great Crusade, a kill-team of 30K-era Ultramarines, the fossilized remains of an ancient Ork proto-warrior standing fifteen meters tall... and more, much more.
But not a Greater Daemon of Khorne.
That, even for Trazyn, has always proven elusive.
So when the scarab-vision feeds return from the surface of this city-world, Trazyn leans forward on his throne. Godzilla appears on the holo-slab—towering, radiant with bio-nuclear power, leading an alien force of Lizardmen toward a site of arcane significance.
Trazyn's eye-lenses flash with interest.
"Fascinating... A creature of such scale and raw strength. Yes... you'll look magnificent in my gallery."
Back in the mortal world, the situation is less academic.
For the Ultramarines, it's their first time witnessing the incarnation of Khorne's fury—a true Greater Daemon. Up to now, they'd faced Khorne's champions, his possessed acolytes, berserkers driven by bloodlust. Even those engagements cost them dearly.
But this?
This is death given form.
Sergeant Carrion of the Ultramarines dons his helmet, its ocular lenses glowing like twin suns.
"It's time to die for the Five Hundred Worlds," he says grimly.
His brothers nod. Their post is indefensible, they know. They're cut off. No air support, no reinforcements. Not even a Thunderhawk left to retreat in. Only the civilians behind them, and the monsters ahead.
Still, they stand.
Across the city, the Greater Daemon of Khorne rampages through Imperial lines. He has already heard the roar of something far more ancient than even the Warp: Godzilla's bellow. The sound awakens a rage in him deeper than the Screaming Pits of the Brass Citadel.
A garbled roar issues from the Daemon's fang-lined maw.
"GODZILLA!!!"
The behemoth strides into the ranks of the Imperium, axes whirling. He cleaves a Chimera transport in half with one swing. The machine splits like it was made of paper. Explosions rock the alleyways, and red light burns brighter around him—the blessing of Khorne made manifest as bloodletters surge forward, empowered by his fury.
"I WANT GODZILLA'S HEAD!!!"
The Daemon's army breaks formation, no longer concerned with strategic objectives or mortal opposition. They turn, en masse, and begin to charge—not toward the Ultramarines, not toward the Spire's upper bastions, but across the city, heading directly for the fourth ritual site.
The humans are no longer the goal.
One by one, the Ultramarines realize what's happening.
"What are these daemons doing?" someone asks.
"Trying to flank us?"
"They already have, Marcus."
"Then… they're taking the long way around?"
"Maybe where we are is the long way."
Indeed, the Ultramarines' position is atop a spire—a lofty peak in the ruined cityscape. But the demons now bypass it entirely, rushing down through the underhive. To them, the previous line of defense was just an obstacle. Now that the scent of Godzilla fills the air, nothing else matters.
"They're not here for us..." Carrion mutters. "They're here for him."
There's a pause.
And then a strange mix of relief and insult settles over the squad.
"Well, I suppose we should be grateful," one mutters. "Still... feels like an afterthought."
"If we make it back alive," Carrion says, "we'll open a full investigation into this 'Godzilla.' For now, our orders are unchanged—hold the line and protect what civilians remain."
The Daemonic host is a red tide sweeping through the city. They crush barricades, topple towers, and slaughter friend and foe alike. Chaos cultists unfortunate enough to get in their path are trampled beneath the armored feet of bloodletters. No one is spared. No mercy is shown.
In the eyes of the Greater Daemon, only one enemy exists.
Godzilla.
His skull burns with hatred. His entire being vibrates with one purpose.
"I WILL CLEAVE YOUR HEAD FROM YOUR SHOULDERS, GODZILLA!!!"
From afar, Isis feels the flare of warp energy. She senses the Daemon's presence—and his intent.
She glances over her shoulder, lips curled in disdain.
"What a pitiful tone," she mutters. "Very well. Lord Godzilla hasn't had his fun yet. Let the fool come."
The Greater Daemon may not match Godzilla in scale, but in arrogance, he easily towers.
Let him come.
Godzilla awaits.
***********
If you want to read more there's 15, 30, 50 chapters there of my written fanfictions and translated works in my Pat.Reon.
Here is the link:
https://patreon.com/LordFisherman?utm_medium=unknown&utm_source=join_link&utm_campaign=creatorshare_creator&utm_content=copyLink
And if you can't find it just type my name: patreon.com/LordFisherman