"Oh~, that's enough. Release him."
The tone grated on him, that slow, mocking voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Yes, General."
The crushing weight pinning Jim Raynor down eased as the hand clamped on the back of his neck—like a hydraulic vise—lifted away.
His nerves had been pressed for too long, leaving his body trembling. Blood flow restricted, his head felt dizzy, but his mind remained clear. Slowly, with effort, he forced himself upright…
Bent and unsteady, he finally looked ahead—and only then realized the one he had been forced to kneel before was not some military officer of this unknown fleet, nor the owner of that infuriating voice.
It was a painting.
Framed within stained glass shaped into a massive double-headed eagle, the background was a violet hue befitting the noble elegance of the Third Legion, lined with threads of gold.
Dominating the piece was a woman clad in a white-and-gold embroidered ceremonial robe, its long train sweeping the floor. A gossamer veil of golden-threaded silk draped over her shoulders, while her waist-length silver-white hair shimmered under the light. Her shoulders and arms were encased in finely wrought golden armor.
Her head tilted slightly, gaze lowered, while behind her a vast golden halo blazed. Countless golden rays spread outward from it, like a sun eternally casting brilliance upon the world.
The surrounding wall was encrusted with sparkling gemstones: transparent white topaz, precious garnet, vivid vesuvianite, rose-hued rubies, dazzling rutile… jewels glittered like stars, encircling the portrait like a galaxy around its sun.
At least, that was how the Imperial artisans and architects would explain it.
To Jim Raynor—
All he saw were jewels of every kind, glittering, arranged in abundance, each looking expensive. Growing up on the remote frontier worlds of the Koprulu Sector, he had no idea what half of them were, nor did he care.
Shiny. Overbearing.
That was his first impression.
More extravagant than Arcturus Mengsk's Terran Dominion, even more decadent than the old noble families of Tarsonis during the Confederacy!
The vast, palace-like bridge made him wonder if he had stepped into Arcturus' throne room in Augustgrad.
Raynor staggered, glancing around.
Nearby stood Imperial Navy soldiers in azure uniforms. The golden insignias on their chests glimmered with metallic sheen, while compact boltguns and monomolecular daggers with tassels hung at their belts—standard attire for the Empire's naval troops.
It seemed to be a reception hall gallery.
Not far away, the lounge area was divided among several distinct groups.
Black-and-red uniforms, skull-and-scales insignias—they looked like secret police officers.
Others wore power armor unlike the purple-gold gene-forged warriors he had seen before. These bore no Roman numerals, their insignias different, their pauldrons etched with dense script. Another battle order?
And then… huh?!
A group of strikingly beautiful warrior women?!
They fell broadly into two types. Some wore tight black uniforms, appearing more delicate. Others donned lightweight interlocked feedback armor, exuding a fiercer presence.
They conversed casually, as if discussing his arrival.
Their demeanor was natural, showing no sense of urgency. To them, interstellar war seemed as routine as eating and drinking.
Some polished their weapons, others enjoyed food, some rested, some sifted through intelligence reports… no one idled.
The younger-looking black-uniformed soldiers seemed the most inexperienced. They gazed at him with what looked like pity and sentiment in their eyes.
At the great doors farther away, a squad of gene-forged giants clad in purple-and-gold power armor stood silently on guard.
From time to time, Imperial Navy officers passed through the lounge with datapads in hand. Barrel-shaped cleaning servitors rolled along the deck, carrying out their programmed routines, while domestic servitors offered tea, pastries, and other refreshments…
Each did their part. Order within busyness, harmony in every corner. The scene was almost pleasing to behold.
Almost unreal.
For beyond the void shields of the Meteor Devastation—
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Through the arched Gothic windows, nearly every second, thousands upon thousands of Terran Dominion guns spat torrents of beams and shells at the massive, ornate warship. Electromagnetic rails and energy beams poured in, endless.
Crashhh—!
Explosions flared, plasma sparks from Yamato Cannons bursting across the void. The void shield arrays rippled with uncountable waves, as though a torrential storm had been poured into a single pond.
As the flagship of the Third Legion's Combined Fleet, the largest and most ostentatious vessel, it naturally drew the focus of Korhal's defenders.
But it was pointless.
Raynor could see the pride on the faces of the naval troops, watching the ripples outside with disdain, unconcerned by the desperate struggle of a trapped beast. To them, it was like enjoying a fireworks display.
The gap was total, insurmountable. Raynor's heart sank.
"Oh~, Jim Raynor, before Her Majesty, to let your eyes wander so freely—that is quite disrespectful."
That portrait—the Emperor? Or rather… the Empress?
He lowered his head. No reason to be stubborn over such a matter.
If they had chosen to save him, then there was room to talk.
Click-click~
The crisp snip of nail scissors echoed by his ear. Turning, the first thing Raynor saw was a yellow-and-white striped suit.
Raynor froze, his dizziness clearing at once. Straightening, he widened his eyes.
"The leader of the Raiders, eh~?"
Behind sunglasses, Borsalino's trademark crooked smile emerged. He looked Jim Raynor up and down with interest.
Tall for a normal man, but Raynor's frame was broader by far. His vest hung loosely, buttons undone, revealing a sweat-stained white T-shirt beneath. The thin fabric clung to a heavily muscled chest and arms.
A rough face, paired with his deep, gravelly voice, gave him an intimidating air—at least to those who had never served in war.
"Let's start with your value~. Ordinarily, with our fleet's assault on Korhal IV to destroy the Dominion, you—a wanted terrorist—should be overjoyed. Why so troubled, then?"
Slowly, lazily, Borsalino trimmed his nails. The clipped fragments vanished instantly, erased in precise golden flashes, leaving not a speck behind.
A psionic? Raynor thought.
Then—
"Oh no, no, no. I ate the Glint-Glint Fruit, making me the Glint~ Glint~ Man~. And, after the Honkai's blessing, the Honkai~ Glint~ Glint~ Man~."
He spoke as if reading Raynor's thoughts. Borsalino tucked away the clippers, narrowing his eyes.
"…"
"So war is your choice, then. Just like the United Earth Directorate in the Brood War, you outsiders come to the Koprulu Sector, and every choice you make is the same disaster."
Raynor took a few deep breaths, setting aside distraction, then raised his question.
"If your goal is to occupy Korhal IV, you only need to defeat Arcturus' forces. With the power you used to attack the prison, a decapitation strike wouldn't be difficult. This scale… it only breeds more hatred."
"…"
For a long moment, Borsalino was silent. Then, hands in his pockets, his mouth twisted into a grin.
"That question, hm… Old man doesn't know either. I'm just a salaryman. Orders come down, I follow them. Simple as that~."
What the hell? You're not the one in charge, so why are you interrogating me?!
The sudden shift back to that greasy, mocking tone made Jim Raynor twitch at the corner of his mouth.
This lanky guy—was his freakish appearance some side effect of genetic modification? Long and awkward, monkey-like, and talking in that sleazy drawl—it made Raynor's ears itch with the urge to punch him.
But the corner of his eye caught that nearly three-meter-tall frame, the strange golden energy, and the soldiers watching like hawks.
Forget it.
Man is the knife, I am the fish.
"Then where's the one in charge…?"
Clang!
"Passable!"
The sealed doors of the bridge command center swung open. Black Templars and Imperial Navy soldiers instantly snapped to attention.
"These Korhalans… their discipline holds even under the hammer of invasion. No riots, still maintaining order. Makes me almost reluctant to bomb the place!"
A loud, booming voice. Just that voice alone conjured the image of a rough, battle-hungry brute in Raynor's mind.
The next moment, he felt a terrifying presence behind him. The pressure crushed the air from his lungs, leaving no time to think. A powerful arm seized him and lifted him clean off the deck.
One thought filled his head:
Fuck you!
Why did everyone here like to grab him around like luggage? He was a Marine, one of the toughest, strongest fighters around, yet in their hands he was nothing more than a chick.
Don't tell him even those fresh-faced trainee-looking girl soldiers could toss him the same way.
Dragged roughly and spun around, Raynor saw the one holding him this time—a towering giant in ornate purple-and-gold power armor.
Flaming deep-red hair shaped like a starfish, matching red brows and beard, black eyes sharp and fierce, brimming with menace.
"Oh, so you're Jim Raynor… leader of the Raiders? The one who helped me wipe out guerrilla forces without effort, the chain that binds the Zerg?"
The voice was deep and booming, gruff and aggressive. Raynor strained against the hold, but it was useless. Under that crushing aura, he was just a plaything.
"He's our guest, Afusan. Looks like the Imperial Guard lady from above is finished with her talks, eh?"
Borsalino, somehow producing a cup of strong tea, shuffled over like some retired old man.
"Hey! You monkey—cough, Borsalino! What do you mean by 'Imperial Guard lady from above'!"
A clear, melodious voice rang out behind him. Light flared, and Raynor turned toward it.
"You've gotta be kidding me… angels, now? What the hell is this world coming to?" He shook his head.
Because before him stood an angel.
Her very presence radiated overwhelming force, demanding reverence. A female angel, a geometric halo rotating above her head. From her waist unfurled glowing wings that lifted her effortlessly off the ground. Her flowing hair streamed endlessly despite the still air, each strand catching light like a prism, shimmering in rainbow hues.
"My name is Jibril, Flügel, of the Imperial Guard, Battle Angel Legion! Remember it well, because someday, I'll be First of the Guard!"
Jibril descended before Borsalino. Though she looked like a child among giants, her pride was unshaken. Floating at his eye level, she patted his shoulder like a senior, golden cross-shaped pupils blazing with an insatiable hunger for victory.
"Uh… Old man believes you, Miss Jibril. Once you're First, don't forget to raise my salary."
As a seasoned slacker and salary-thief, Borsalino raised both hands in harmless surrender.
"Hmph, of course!"
Hands on her hips, Jibril nodded firmly, very satisfied.
Unlike in the Imperial Palace back on Selene's throne world, where anyone could crush her down, here she could finally show off!
"Wahaha, just watch! I am Jibril!"
For her first interstellar mission, Jibril thumped her chest with excitement. Even if her opponents were nothing more than dust in her eyes, she was brimming with energy.
"This one is Jim Raynor! Yes, this pathetic—cough, this mortal. Don't let him die. I remember, when I was listening outside Her Majesty Selene's study, I overheard reports and analyses about him."
At her words, the faces of those present grew solemn.
Originally, Jim Raynor had been rescued only as a byproduct of their information-gathering on the Dominion. Then, once they discovered he was the leader of the Raiders, they judged him useful enough to bring aboard the Meteor Devastation—thinking they might absorb or crush the Dominion's resistance forces through him.
But if his name had reached the desk of Empress Selene herself, then his value was far greater.
All eyes turned to Jim Raynor, still bewildered and trying to make sense of it.
Jibril tossed out one last line: "Afusan, leave Korhal IV to me."
In the next instant, she vanished—space folded—and she reappeared beyond the ship's armored viewports. Her body stood in the void, and in Raynor's numb eyes, she became a shooting star streaking across the battlefield.
Was this what Zeratul had warned of? The darkness descending, monsters and demons, the resurrection of gods?
Raynor thought nothing could shake him anymore.
Wait!
As he stared at Jibril's fading trail outside the viewport, suddenly, in the raging void of the Korhal system's battle, a faint trace of violet light caught his eye.
It looked… familiar.
Zerg?
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