Warhammer 40K: System Error, I Summoned the Arch-Traitor!

~ 💎 WEEKLY POWER GOALS 💎🔥 60→1ch | 100→2ch | 200→5ch ⏰ Resets Monday! Thanks!

Gazing at that flawless face suspended within the Stasis Field, Karen's thoughts drifted unbidden.

He remembered something.

Back when he stood before Konrad Curze, the Lord of the Night, he had shown him a photograph. Not of just anything, of the current daemon primarch Fulgrim: a fallen serpent-fiend, face carved with wrinkles, eye sockets sunken deep, radiating an aura of sinister corruption.

The Warp's feng shui really does fucking wonders for the complexion.

A perfectly handsome, peerlessly beautiful Phoenix Lord, forcibly aged into a wrinkled old crone.

That face was etched with the marks of ages and depravity, like someone had thrown a blooming rose into sulfuric acid, left it to soak for ten thousand years, then dredged it back out.

Hideous. Twisted. Ugly. Anyone who had known the old Fulgrim would feel their heart clench at the sight.

Curze's reaction at the time had only confirmed it.

The Lord of the Night's white moonlight, the gentle, perfect image of his third sister, shattered into splinters the instant he saw that photograph.

Karen still couldn't forget Curze's expression in that moment.

The feeling was probably something like: The beautiful student council president I secretly loved for years, the senior I idolized, I run into her after graduation and she's a withered crone smoking ice on a street corner.

Too cruel.

Karen laughed despite himself. He shook his head and reined in his thoughts, gaze settling back on the cloned Fulgrim before him.

Honestly, they might not even need to implant the soul fragment.

Just show this cloned Fulgrim one photo of his fallen original's current state. That alone would probably be enough to scare him straight for the rest of his life.

While his thoughts were still wandering, Trazyn moved.

The Infinite stepped up to the Stasis Field platform. His living-metal fingers traced a few casual strokes through empty air, as though operating a control panel only he could see.

The Stasis Field around the cloned Fulgrim began to contract. The massive primarch body, platform and all, was folded and compressed by an invisible force, condensing, finally, into a semi-transparent cube.

The cube shrank slowly in Trazyn's palm, down to just the right size to be held in one hand.

Through the outer walls glowing with green light, Karen could faintly make out the cloned Fulgrim's face, eyes shut, sealed inside like an ancient coin pressed into crystal.

"Take it, Mr. Karen."

Trazyn extended the cube toward him, the gesture as casual as handing over a glass of wine.

Karen reached out and accepted it carefully.

"Our transaction stands. I accept your collateral terms." The Infinite's tone carried a note of contented satisfaction, like a player settling the most pleasing stone of a long match. "A pleasure doing business, Mr. Trazyn." Karen stowed the cube and looked up at the ancient Necron. "If I come across anything interesting, I'll notify you immediately."

Trazyn emitted a pleased metallic chime in reply.

Karen paused. Something surfaced in the back of his mind, and he asked it offhandedly.

"A rather forward question, but — do you harbor any obsession with restoring flesh-and-blood bodies to the Necrontyr?"

He had his own reasons for asking.

The Necrontyr had been deceived by the C'tan long ago. They had surrendered their original bodies and souls, their consciousness implanted into living-metal shells, mass mechanical ascension, the whole species at once. After they came to their senses and struck the C'tan down in turn, regaining bodies of flesh and blood became the greatest obsession of countless Necrons.

And within his System, there might very well be technology for exactly that.

If Trazyn shared this obsession, it was another bargaining chip for future dealings.

Trazyn didn't answer immediately.

He took the feather of Sanguinius, Karen's down payment, and placed it with meticulous care on an empty display platform, adjusting the angle several times until he was satisfied.

Only then did he speak, his tone unhurried.

"My dear friend, I already possess the history of the entire galaxy." The Infinite tilted his head, twin points of faint green light fixing on Karen. "Why would I cling to a rotting sack of skin?"

Karen blinked.

"The obsession with restoring flesh — for most of my kin, it is the ultimate goal. But I do not share their view." Trazyn tapped his own metal chest lightly, producing a clean, ringing echo. "I have grown quite accustomed to this living metal. And should I wish to experience certain emotions and sensations, I still have surrogate bodies, do I not?"

"Fair enough." Karen nodded.

Very Trazyn. An existence that forever placed collection and experience above all else. A physical body was probably just one unremarkable option on a long list of tools.

"Of course," Trazyn continued, his tone shifting, "if you happen to possess this technology, I would not refuse it." The green light in his ocular lenses flickered once. "I could use it to trade for some excellent acquisitions from my kin. The Necron Overlords will give anything to return to flesh and blood."

He looked at Karen. "So — do you currently possess this technology?"

"Not at the moment."

Karen shook his head, the corner of his mouth curling into a meaningful smile.

Trazyn did not press further.

A collector who had lived 65 million years was not short on patience.

"Ah, one more thing." The Infinite seemed to recall something, his tone turning brisk. "I currently have another piece in my collection that would certainly interest you. If you have something worth exchanging, I would be quite willing to entrust it to you, as a gift for Roboute Guilliman."

A gift for Guilliman?

Karen's brow lifted. His mind moved fast.

2 seconds of silence. Then he said a name.

"Tarasha Euten?"

The Infinite inclined his head, the green light in his ocular lenses softening slightly, the look of someone mentioning a piece he was rather pleased with.

"I collected that venerable old lady. She was aboard a ship at the time, hiding in a compartment alongside an Ultramarine. I found them both and collected them together."

Karen went quiet.

After a moment, he spoke slowly.

"Let's discuss that later. She is, after all, Guilliman's adoptive mother. That's not a decision I can make on his behalf."

Trazyn nodded in understanding and did not pursue it.

"Could I have a way to reach you, Mr. Trazyn?" Karen changed the subject. "If I come across something worth your attention and can't contact you, that would be rather inconvenient."

"Of course, Mr. Karen."

The words had barely left the Infinite's mouth when a scarab scuttled out from a corner.

The small metal beetle climbed soundlessly onto Karen's palm and settled there, glowing with a faint green light.

"A mind-scarab," Trazyn said. "Already linked to my consciousness. Unless you contact me directly, I won't be monitoring your movements. It also carries a miniature shield generator, at a critical moment, it can intercept a single fatal attack on your behalf."

"Very considerate." Karen smiled and tucked the scarab away.

---

When Karen got back to his room with the cube, he glanced at the time on the wall.

Nearly 3 hours inside the Solemnace Galleries. In realspace, 1 minute had passed.

The mortal captain was long gone, as if he had never been there at all.

Karen set the cube on the table, dropped into his armchair, and exhaled slowly.

He was just starting to think about whether he should tell Guilliman any of this when the room tilted sharply inside his skull.

That feeling.

Hadn't this been exactly what it felt like the last time the Golden Old Man had come barging uninvited into his head?

Sure enough. That familiar voice detonated inside his mind.

[Come to the dream. I need you for something.]

Karen didn't even get to curse. His vision went black and he was gone.

When he opened his eyes, it was the same familiar place as always.

The desolate Warp wasteland. The boundless, unbroken gray. And the youth crouched at his side.

The Emperor.

"I just got my hands on the clone and you've already sniffed your way over, haven't you?" Karen sat up rubbing his aching forehead, his face all irritation.

The youth didn't stand. He just propped his cheek on one hand and watched Karen quietly with those too-ancient eyes.

"Not entirely." The Emperor's tone was surprisingly calm. "I came to tell you how to proceed. Placing that soul fragment into the cloned Fulgrim's body, it is not as simple as you think."

Karen stopped rubbing his forehead.

"And even if you do fuse the clone with the soul fragment, success is not guaranteed."

"Why?" A note of suspicion crept into Karen's voice.

The youth stood and brushed nonexistent dust from his knees.

"Because without the trial, there is no success." His voice went distant suddenly, like someone reaching back into a memory too vast and too long to hold. "Have you heard this story, Karen? A phoenix must pass through fire to be reborn. So it is with Fulgrim. Original or clone, until he crosses the barrier within himself, he will never succeed."

The boy-Emperor sighed.

"Chemos. The world where my son grew up. By my design, he should have become a wise and enlightened ruler. His final moment should have been heroic and pure. Instead, that place became the stage of his fall."

"A pity. Such a pity."

Listening to the Emperor's lament, Karen's brow furrowed slightly. He asked something that had nothing to do with any of it.

"Golden Old Man, I've been curious, when you originally designed Fulgrim, did you work in some Eastern Roman cultural motifs?"

The youth tilted his head. He actually seemed to consider it seriously. Then he answered.

"You're not wrong. I gave him Eastern Roman elements: purple, the phoenix, the classical aesthetics of the Byzantine Empire. When I found him, I half expected him to rename Chemos Constantinople."

Karen cut in without warning.

"Why not Istanbul? Green Rome is still Rome."

The Emperor's face fell.

That youthful face arranged itself into an expression of indescribable disgust.

"I eat lemons."

"Whoa — what the hell, Golden Old Man, since when do you talk like that?"

➤ Next: The Plague Wars Begin to Shift

— .—— .—— .—— .—— .——

📚Read 70+ chapters ahead on Patreon.

💎Join the free community tier for early access to the latest updates:

🔥patreon(.)com/DarkGolds