Not long ago, the darkness of space was suddenly torn apart.
Above the azure arc of planet Korhal, the void twisted and collapsed, then burst into blinding light.
A warp vortex over a hundred kilometers in diameter ripped through the fabric of real space like a gaping wound, and from that rift emerged the fleet of the Human Empire—
Four fully-equipped expedition fleets.
At the same time, numerous warp trails reappeared—led by Valerian Mengsk, the Terran Dominion fleet that had defected to the Human Empire arrived within Korhal's gravity well.
Thousands of warships formed a "steel tide," partially eclipsing the light of the nearby star.
Aboard the bridges of the Terran Dominion's orbital defense fleet and within the control rooms of various space stations, silence reigned like a tomb.
"My God..."
The commander of Korhal's First Orbital Defense Platform stared wide-eyed, the data streams on his tactical display reflecting in his pupils as he gasped.
The Human Empire's fleet was far beyond intelligence estimates. There were over a hundred frigates longer than 600 meters, not to mention the colossal behemoths that resembled mobile fortresses.
Ten-kilometer-long Emperor-class battleships and colony-scale dreadnoughts slowly emerged from the warp. The massive main gun arrays at their bows resembled the gaping maw of the abyss, their dark barrels faintly pulsing with a blood-red energy.
Worse still, the flagship of the Goddess of War—an Emperor-class vessel—unfurled wing-like "sails" upon exiting warp, each panel embedded with plasma bombardment matrices powerful enough to level a city.
"Commander... how are we supposed to fight this?"
The XO's voice trembled.
The platform commander's hand hovered above the tactical interface, yet no orders came.
Numbers, firepower, technology—
They were outmatched on every front.
More fatal still, chaos reports from the palace on the surface flooded the comm channels—explosions, psionic storms, mass defection of the Royal Guard...
"The Emperor... may already be dead."
That sentence hit like a hammer, shattering the last remnants of morale in the control room.
"All Terran Dominion personnel, attention."
Suddenly, every communication screen flared with blinding golden light.
Athena's image descended upon the bridge of every warship, into every control room of every space station.
She wasn't merely a projection—
She appeared directly as a data-formed entity, golden streams spreading from the screen's edges, seeping into control systems like living things.
Her face was inhumanly flawless, her eyes glowing with stellar brilliance, and her long hair shimmered like molten gold.
"I am Pallas Athena, Goddess of War of the Human Empire."
Her voice resonated directly within each person's mind, carrying an undeniable divine authority.
"The rule of Arcturus Mengsk is over. Any continued resistance will be deemed a betrayal of human civilization."
With her words, the fire-control systems of all Terran ships suddenly malfunctioned—unable to lock onto Human Empire ships or the "defected" Dominion fleet.
Even more terrifying, their AI officers began autonomously broadcasting real-time footage—
The raging inferno atop the palace,
The Royal Guard kneeling in surrender,
And Arcturus Mengsk being escorted out of his vault by the Omega Guard.
"Who do you fight for?"
Athena's question pierced every soldier's heart like a blade.
The platform commander stared at his trembling hands. In thirty years of service, he had never felt so lost.
For Mengsk?
The tyrant who used civilians as bargaining chips?
For the Dominion?
A twisted regime built on lies?
"I swear upon the name of the Human Emperor," Athena's golden form leaned slightly forward, as if stepping out of the screen.
"Those who lay down their arms will be granted pardon. Those who stand with human civilization will be granted rebirth."
On the bridge, the XO was the first to remove his officer's cap.
Then the navigator, comms officer, and fire-control crew followed. More and more personnel chose to side with "human civilization."
The commander took a deep breath and reached to disable the tactical panel's battle alerts.
"All personnel, listen up," he said hoarsely. "Disarm and open our transponders."
In Korhal's low orbit, the once-proud space stations of the Dominion's core defense force immediately powered down their weapon systems. White beacon lights—symbols of surrender—flashed from their portholes.
From afar, they looked like stars submitting in a cosmic sea.
And above it all, Athena's golden figure silently observed humanity's decision.
In her eyes, Korhal reflected the light of the coming dawn.
The signal of surrender spread like a plague through the orbital defense network.
The moment the first station shut down its weapon arrays, the neighboring defense platform followed suit, then the orbital fortress—
Once hailed as an unbreakable stronghold, the steel bastion now slowly rotated its guns toward harmless angles.
As for the noble commanders aboard many ship bridges, they exchanged glances with their inner circles. Fingers quietly left the fire-control consoles, switching instead to holographic projections of family crests—declaring wordlessly:
They had long severed ties with Mengsk's tyranny.
"Transmit our identification code to the Human Empire."
A count in deep purple uniform ordered coldly, the family emblem on his chest gleaming slyly in the dim light.
"Our Cassidy family has always stood on the side of true civilization."
His XO's lips twitched subtly, but his fingers still quickly input the surrender protocols.
The nobles, ever calculating, understood well: better to abandon a doomed regime and secure a place in the new order—perhaps even preserve their privileges, status, and wealth.
But not all bridges capitulated so easily.
Aboard the Day of Vengeance, a Gorgon-class vessel, the silver-haired captain still stared grimly at his tactical screen.
His face was as weathered as eroded stone, every wrinkle etched with stubborn loyalty. His hand hovered above the weapon control console, veins bulging—but he couldn't bring himself to press it.
"Captain..." the young comms officer's voice trembled, "The Third and Seventh Defense Zones have fully surrendered. We—"
"Silence!"
The old captain slammed his fist on the console. The alloy panel dented, and blood seeped from his knuckles.
It was Mengsk who had raised him up from the ranks to a command post—this debt bound his conscience and guilt like iron chains.
At that moment, Athena's golden figure vanished from the screen, replaced by a familiar face—
Valerian Mengsk.
The former Dominion prince now wore the deep black uniform of the Human Empire, a draconic insignia on his collar glinting coldly under the lights.
His face was more resolute than when he left Korhal. His eyes held no doubt—only a chilling determination.
"To all those still hesitating,"
The prince's voice came through the quantum network, as clear as a whisper in their ears.
"My father... Arcturus Mengsk, is now in the custody of the Omega Guard."
The bridge fell silent.
The Omega Guard.
The unit Mengsk had personally forged, reputed for absolute loyalty, had also defected.
"What are you still fighting for?" Valerian's voice suddenly rose. "For a tyrant who aimed nuclear weapons at civilians? For a madman who'd rather destroy Korhal than give up power?"
His words were like swords, cutting through the last sliver of illusion.
The tactical screen displayed real-time footage:
Mengsk, disheveled, his imperial garments torn, blood on his brow, being marched down the palace corridor.
The most ironic part—his escorts still bore the crimson sigil of loyalty on their shoulder plates.
"Look around you."
Valerian extended his arms. The background of his projection expanded into a vast starfield, where the Human Empire's fleet stood arrayed like silent giants—not a single gun trained on Dominion ships.
"This is not conquest. This is salvation."
His voice dropped to a deeper tone, filled with almost sorrowful sincerity.
"I swear on the name of House Mengsk: those who lay down their arms, those who upheld the line, will retain their rank and honor. The Human Empire never sought slaves—only a galaxy where the innocent no longer weep."
The old captain slowly closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, something had extinguished in his bloodshot gaze—forever.
"Disarm," he rasped, as if aging ten years in a breath. "Broadcast our nav signal and prepare for transfer."
With that order, the Day of Vengeance's weapon systems powered down one by one. Lights shifted from crimson to calm blue.
Around it, the last few defiant Dominion ships followed suit, their guns falling silent like tamed beasts lowering their claws.
The historic transfer of control over Korhal's near orbit unfolded in eerie tranquility.
The Human Empire's transports deployed like silver swarms. Each carried an Astartes tactical squad and auxiliary forces.
They took over each station methodically.
Within the atmosphere, the former Dominion defense fleet descended toward major spaceports. The Human Empire's shuttles followed closely behind.
No displays of triumph from the victors, no slumped shoulders from the defeated—only soldiers in different uniforms exchanging silent glances.
Occasionally, officers reached out to shake hands—as if it were merely a shift change.
High above in synchronous orbit, Athena stood upon her bridge, eyes piercing the clouds. She saw sunlight soon to grace Korhal's palaces, saw the storm clouds breaking before the rising sun, saw civilians cautiously stepping into the streets.
Soon after—
Morning light pierced the smoke-choked skyline, casting a pale golden hue over war-torn Augustgrad.
The northern ruins of the palace complex still smoked, broken alloy beams jutted like the ribs of dead beasts, pointing skyward.
The scars of last night's battle were everywhere.
Melted armor from plasma fire had formed bizarre metal waterfalls. Charred craters filled with filthy rainwater. Here and there, burnt CMC suits lay half-buried in rubble—emptied by searing heat.
Baze Malbus' stormtrooper squad marched through the ruins. Two Jedi stood silently nearby, lightsabers deactivated, but the Force still twisted the air around them.
Most chilling of all were the still-controlled Royal Guards, standing stiff like marionettes, golden light flickering in their eyes—grotesque trophies of war.
It was the cruelest satire of Mengsk's rule.
Nova Terra stood atop the shattered palace steps. Her nano-suit auto-adjusted optical camouflage, making her flicker like a ghost in the shifting light.
Her fingertips traced a bullet mark in the wall. Fate was ironic—she had returned to this place not as a subject, but as a "conqueror."
"The pawn strikes back," Stone quipped over comms, dark humor lacing his voice. "Old fox never expected the blade he sent to test the Empire would be the one to cut his own throat."
It was true—Nova and the others had originally been dispatched to Mar Sara to "probe" the Human Empire, as expendable pawns. Instead, they had catalyzed Mengsk's final downfall.
Meanwhile, in the city's boulevards, the Astartes marched like moving monuments.
Their power armor gleamed with cold metallic luster in the sunlight. Each step sent faint tremors through the ground.
Nobles whispered from their gilded balconies. Some even raised ornate opera glasses, eyeing the super-soldiers like rare beasts.
"I heard they can tear tank armor apart with bare hands."
A robe-clad lady murmured, stroking her cat.
Her husband squinted. "As long as tax laws stay the same, I don't care who rules."
They seemed certain their privileges would survive the new order.
After all, regime changes merely replaced the diners at the high table—and resource-holding families always had seats reserved.
A few bold noble youths approached a patrol squad, only to be barked back by an Astartes' warning—their cold visors glowing like death itself tallying its prey.
In stark contrast to the nobles' "graceful curiosity," the civilian districts were deathly silent.
When Astartes appeared in narrow alleyways, windows slammed shut in succession. Even stray cats darted into sewers.
An old man carrying goods saw a red-and-yellow armored giant approach and dropped his synthetic food crate in fear.
"No need to fear."
An Astartes from the Lamenters squad halted. His voice, amplified through his helm, carried surprising gentleness.
The teardrop insignia on his right pauldron shimmered dark red in the sun—like dried blood.
Kneeling, the giant picked up the scattered food with massive fingers. The crowd gasped.
More astonishing were the Salamanders in green armor—pausing patrols to help repair roofs, handing out rations, toys, and trinkets to scrawny children.
Such small acts of kindness dropped like pebbles into stagnant waters, rippling uncertainty through the masses.
"They don't eat people?"
A timid boy hiding behind his mother's skirt asked. She covered his mouth in fear.
Mengsk's propaganda had long painted the Astartes as bloodthirsty monsters.
But as people realized these giants didn't arrest or loot, doors began to crack open.
A baker even dared leave a basket of coarse bread in a Lamenter's path, then hid inside to watch.
The Astartes paused, solemnly placed a loaf in his storage slot, and left behind a shining imperial coin—real gold.
That little dragon-inscribed token spoke louder than any broadcast.
(End of Chapter)
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