My Life as A Death Guard (Warhammer 30K Male MC)

The Death Guard were not the first to arrive at Graia-106.

As the Graia Mechanicus' distress signal echoed through the Warp, another fleet received the call—the Fourth Legion, the Iron Warriors.

Without hesitation, they responded.

The Iron Blood, leading its vast fleet, emerged silently at the Mandeville Point of the star system.

Its plasma engines roared, casting a brilliant blue glow across the void.

The Lord of Iron gazed upon the embattled planet below.

The war had already begun.

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On the surface…

The earth had split apart.

Black and green Necrodermis structures emerged from beneath the sands.

Swarms of Canoptek Scarabs dragged the broken remnants of fallen Necron warriors back into the glowing green energies of reanimation, only for new warriors to rise again from the depths of their tombs.

Mining Sectors 02 and 03 had completely fallen.

The fifteen scattered mining outposts had been overrun, their facilities now occupied by Necron legions.

Using the transport links between these outposts, the Necron forces had begun a full-scale assault on Mining Sector 01—the primary mining hub.

Before reinforcements could arrive, the Tech-Priests and their Skitarii legions stood firm at Sector 01, desperately holding the line.

At the boundary between Sectors 01 and 03, they dug in—buying time by pinning down the Necron infantry.

The shallow open-pit mines, once carved out for surveying and excavation, now served as makeshift trenches.

Using their intimate knowledge of the terrain, the Skitarii defenders leveraged these pits as natural defensive positions, allowing them to barely contain the Necron advance.

Old excavation machines, previously abandoned in the mine shafts, were dragged out by the Skitarii.

These once-mighty mining behemoths, originally designed to bore through stone, were now being repurposed—turned into mobile cover against the Necron assault.

Meanwhile, pre-planted demolition charges, once meant for controlled mining detonations, were now being used as improvised explosives.

Skitarii Rangers systematically deployed them to eliminate swarms of Canoptek Scarabs, whose relentless tunneling threatened to flank and overrun the defensive lines.

Beneath the surface, the thundering explosions swallowed the burrowing scarabs, entombing them in the very sands they had sought to carve through.

Above ground, the battle raged on.

Artillery roared, their relentless barrages hammering the advancing Necron formations.

Whenever the undead legions began to muster in large numbers, hidden Skitarii units would call in orbital fire support—reducing them to molten slag.

The ground trembled.

Flames consumed the battlefield.

Across the ashen-yellow wastelands, the defenders stood their ground.

Yet, even through the relentless bombardments, the Necrons persisted.

Through the thick smoke and fire, serpentine metallic figures slithered forward.

With inhuman agility, they darted between the craters and rubble, slipping into the mine shafts below.

Fluorescent energy flickered along their Warscythes—and in the next moment, Skitarii blood, oil, and machine parts were torn asunder.

Encountering these warriors for the first time, the Graia Magos had no choice but to abandon portions of their pre-prepared trench networks.

Instead, they redirected artillery fire—bombarding their own abandoned positions to deny the Necron infiltrators any advantage.

From that point forward, whenever the Skitarii's aerial drone patrols detected the serpentine constructs, the closest defenders would charge into battle—despite their own incoming fire support.

"Iron forms our bodies, iron forms our will!"

The warriors of Graia were fanatical in battle.

For them, mere statistical improbabilities held no meaning—even if logical calculations predicted a near-zero survival rate, they would not retreat.

There was only one thing that could force them to fall back—

The binary-coded retreat commands issued directly from their Mechanicus overlords.

But now—their Magos have ordered them to attack!

Countless Skitarii Rangers surged forward, wielding arc hammers as they attempted to engage the serpentine Necron Destroyers in melee combat.

Yet, the moment they closed the distance, they were ripped to shreds.

But behind them, another wave of mechanized warriors precisely replaced their fallen brethren, calculated by their logic engines to maintain an unbroken assault.

The Skitarii Rangers stood no chance against the Destroyers—the power gap was simply too vast.

And it wasn't just the Destroyers. Swarms of Canoptek Scarabs tore through the outer plating of the advancing Skitarii squads, dismantling them piece by piece.

Yet, despite their inevitable demise—they had succeeded.

The serpentine Necron Destroyers, once highly mobile, were now entangled in combat with squads of thirty-man Skitarii units.

And that was all that mattered.

The electronic pulses from their dying bodies faithfully transmitted the exact coordinates of the enemy to the fire support teams in the rear.

Shells tore through the icy winds of Graia-106—

Raining down precise devastation upon both the Necron Destroyers and the Skitarii defenders alike.

A split second later—hellfire erupted.

As the smoke cleared, only scattered Scarabs twitched at the crater's edge, their metallic remains mixing with shattered bodies and scorched earth.

Through this brutal strategy, Graia's defenders had held the line at Mining Sector 01—buying precious time for reinforcements to arrive.

But the cost was high.

The Skitarii forces had been severely depleted.

Ammunition stockpiles were running dangerously low.

And the Necrons, relentless and tireless, continued to pour forward in wave after wave.

Then, it happened—

A small Skitarii squad, having suffered too many casualties, failed to intercept a Necron Destroyer.

The Necron unit slipped past their broken formation—

And into the mining tunnels.

Within minutes, the Tech-Priest overseer of the defensive operations was executed.

The command structure collapsed—

And the defensive line began to crumble.

But just as the Necron forces prepared for the final push, a thunderous roar tore through the sky.

Drop pods from the Iron Warriors pierced the heavens, their descent so fast that the friction ignited the very air.

Swarms of Canoptek Scarabs caught in their path were incinerated mid-flight.

And then—they landed.

Steel met soil.

From the crimson-hot drop pods, giant warriors stormed forth.

Their armor gleamed with metallic luster, marked by the yellow-and-black hazard stripes of Perturabo's sons.

At that moment—the tide of battle shifted.

Where the battle lines had once begun to collapse, they now stabilized.

And soon, they advanced.

Veteran Iron Warriors quickly took control of the abandoned trenches, repurposing them into reinforced defenses.

The Necrons, for the first time since the battle began, faced a true challenge.

Far from the surface, atop a pyramid-like Necrodermis construct, a single figure stood motionless.

His name was Nas.

He stood upon the second tier of the tomb's grand stairway.

For the first tier—belonged to the King.

Nas was a Phaeron's Viceroy—a Warden of the Tomb.

It was his duty to repel the invaders and expel those who disturbed the sacred necropolis.

That was his purpose.

That was why, when the shallow tomb layers were disturbed—

He had awakened.

Nas's memory-threads immediately processed the invasion parameters.

His conclusion? Purge the vermin.

Currently, only one-fifth of the shallow tomb's forces had been awakened.

But that—Nas calculated—was already enough to eradicate the xenos infestation on this world.

If necessary, he held the authority to awaken the full might of the shallow tomb complex.

However—Nas saw no need for such an excess.

The enemy's artillery fire had indeed destroyed some of his legions.

But that was irrelevant.

For the Necron warriors always stood back up.

With the Resurrection Protocols in place, true death was rare.

Not all warriors' consciousness returned perfectly intact, of course.

Over time, some data was lost, and the system wasn't always flawless.

But Nas had already accounted for these margins of error.

His conclusion remained unchanged.

The enemy would be eradicated.

Unlike other Necron Overlords, Nas did not believe in rushing to the frontlines to prove his loyalty.

He knew that his King trusted him.

There was no need for such displays.

His King had slept for eons.

And during Nas's three prior awakenings, his King had never stirred.

And so, Nas watched.

And he prepared.

Because soon—

The full power of the tomb world would awaken.

Nas understood his King's sorrow

As the eldest son of a great dynasty, his King had been exiled to this remote, barbaric world, stripped of his former glory, and relegated to the mere title of Overlord.

Even the nobles of this planet—once nothing more than lowly subordinates—were now his equals in status.

His King's authority was shackled to this one world.

And so, Nas knew—his King did not wish to awaken.

Thus, he would act as his King's most loyal sentinel, ensuring that no intruder disturbed his dreamless slumber.

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Perturabo stared impassively at the representative of the Graia Forge World before him.

The Lord of Iron sat upon his throne of steel, thick and rugged cables hanging from the ceiling, connecting to his seat of power.

Beside him, a dark, flickering screen displayed rapidly scrolling battlefield data, feeding him a constant stream of cold, merciless statistics.

Perturabo's voice, low and grinding, reverberated across the spartan chamber:

"You're telling me… you called for additional reinforcements?"

The Tech-Priest in front of him shrank as much as his augmented frame allowed, but he forced himself to maintain a calm, measured tone.

"Yes, my lord."

After the initial attack on Graia-106, the Graia enclave had immediately sent out distress signals to the surrounding star systems.

And so—the Fourth Legion had answered the call.

However, their previous requests for aid had not been rescinded.

After assessing the situation on Graia-106—and for other political reasons—the ruling Magos of Graia had summoned the Fourteenth Legion, the Death Guard, as additional reinforcements.

To their surprise, the Death Guard, despite being preoccupied with fortifying their home world, had responded with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

Perhaps they desired the mineral wealth of Graia-106?

Whatever the case, the Death Lord himself was now en route with his fleet from Barbarus—

And the main Death Guard armada from Galaspar was mobilizing as well.

This meant that Perturabo was about to receive "reinforcements" from another of his brothers.

"There are no reinforcements needed."

The Lord of Iron's voice was like grinding steel, his cold, machine-like gaze boring into the Tech-Priest.

"Do you believe the Fourth Legion requires aid?"

"We have fought more wars of death than you have components in your body."

"And you think I need reinforcements?"

"That I need a Legion that has fought but a single war to assist me?"

Slowly, Perturabo rose.

His towering armor groaned and clanked, plates of unyielding metal shifting over his powerful frame.

The flames of a forge's fury burned in his expression.

Striding forward, anger fueling his every step, Perturabo reached the Tech-Priest and gripped his shoulder.

A shrill screech of twisting metal rang through the chamber as electric sparks crackled from the Magos' frame.

"This… is why I despise your kind."

Perturabo had little patience for most of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Their obsession with technology was like parasitic filth, an attitude that made the Lord of Iron sick to his core.

Though some Forge Worlds and select Tech-Priests earned his respect, his contempt for the Mechanicum as a whole remained unshaken.

And now, his voice rumbled like thunder over iron:

"Begone."

"Once I have secured this world for you—leave."

With a forceful shove, Perturabo cast the Tech-Priest aside, sending him stumbling and sprawling across the floor.

The Lord of Iron watched him for a moment—

Then lost interest.

Turning away, he strode back to his throne of steel, his mind already returning to the calculations of war.

The data stream from Graia-106 continued to flow, but Perturabo believed everything was already firmly within his grasp.

The Fourth Legion's heavy artillery and Stormbirds were being transported to Graia-106 in an orderly and precise manner.

Perturabo was curious about his enemies—these xenos with metal bodies.

Perhaps they were the only good news he had encountered in a long time.

But the bad news had already drowned him.

He was here, leading his Legion, in a meaningless sector, defending an insignificant Forge World, guarding an unimportant planet.

And even these short-sighted Tech-Priests dared to look down on him!

How dare they call in another Legion to reinforce him—a Legion still wet behind the ears?

The Fourteenth Legion, after all, had yet to earn a single glorious victory.

Meanwhile, across the galaxy, the Emperor led his favored Legions in grand campaigns, where multiple Legions fought side by side—

Yet he and the Fourth were ignored once again.

Perturabo stared silently at the strategic data screen before him.

To the onlookers, he appeared to be analyzing the battlefield.

But his mind was elsewhere.

The Rangdan Xenocides was raging.

The First, Second, and Sixth Legions had all been deployed.

The Lion's arrogant face seemed to echo in his mind.

Among the Primarchs, discussions about the Warmaster had long since begun.

And Perturabo knew—he could have been Warmaster.

His capabilities far exceeded those of his brothers.

Unlike them, who clung to tradition and personal honor, Perturabo understood that only precision, calculation, and iron will were what the Imperium—what the Emperor—truly needed.

Yet those vain, self-absorbed fools had stolen his rightful recognition with their dramatic displays.

And so, he was neglected.

Isolated.

Abandoned in the filth-ridden trenches of war, while his brothers basked in the cheers of the Imperium's adoration.

A raging fire burned in Perturabo's chest—its fury crackling like molten iron in a forge. 

A briefing shattered his train of thought.

[My lord, the Primarch of the Fourteenth Legion, Mortarion, requests an audience.]

Perturabo scoffed.

Pitiful creature.

He had never met this brother before, but news among the Primarchs always traveled fast.

During a past conversation with Magnus, the Crimson King had mentioned Mortarion—

And Perturabo did not mind Magnus.

Magnus was among the few who recognized Perturabo's intellect.

The Red Giant had spoken with mild regret, noting that he had heard their new brother despised psykers.

"It's not his fault," Magnus had mused within his grand library,

"The world he came from likely did not allow him to grasp the wonders of the Warp and the beauty of the psychic arts."

"I hope that one day, when I meet him, I can help Mortarion truly understand."

Perturabo had sipped his tea and dismissed the thought.

Whatever.

He was not as charitable as Magnus.

A brother from an agricultural world—

It was highly unlikely that he would understand or appreciate him.

Later rumors had only reinforced Perturabo's assumptions.

The Fourteenth Legion's first campaign had not been widely publicized.

On the contrary—Ferrus Manus and Vulkan, who had been sent to evaluate it, had left without a word.

Not that Perturabo considered those two capable of objective judgment—

Ferrus was too rigid.

Vulkan was too sentimental.

But even so, Perturabo mentally crossed out this new brother.

Now, the Death Guard's emblem flashed across his communications panel.

Perturabo glanced at it.

Fine.

He would greet his brother and teach this farmworld-bred Primarch the true art of war.

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Author's Notes

Hmm… Total failure of this volume structure. I've decided to merge everything into one volume instead. Though there's still a small loose end from the previous arc.

As for Necrons… I've been digging through lore, but when it comes to their combat strength, especially their whole electronic insect-fighting style, I might have to lean on creative interpretation.

(Look at how Krieg fights Necrons, or how Tau battles them…)

Right now, I'm using the Ork vs. Necron book as my main reference.

Necrons are definitely the ultimate endgame faction, but their opponents in lore…

If I try scaling their combat strength to 30k-era battles, it feels a bit off.

So—

How should I compare Necron Doom Scythes to Imperial Stormbirds?

What's the kill rate between Necron Warriors and Astartes?

Currently, it seems that a Necron Overlord is equivalent to a Space Marine Chapter Master (which would be around the level of a 30k-era Legion Captain).

Previously, Necrons vs. the Imperium in 40k had a mix of mortal regiments, Chapters, and a lot of Imperial Navy involvement.

But if we scale the Imperial forces back to 30k, it doesn't seem like they'd need four or five full Space Marine Legions just to fight them, right?

There are still so many combat scaling issues…

So—if anyone out there is familiar with Necron lore, please share your insights!

This is just for fun, so don't take it too seriously!

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