Korhal system, near-orbit of Korhal IV.
In the void, sudden ripples surged, as though invisible claws tore open the dark curtain of space. A jagged purple rift flared against the black expanse, glaringly bright.
Even from Korhal IV's surface, the spectacle was clearly visible.
Like razor-sharp insect limbs, massive organic structures pierced through the rift. They pulsed as though alive, forcing the wound wider, like colossal organic jacks prying open space itself.
With psionic power and the Swarm's bio-energy clashing, supernatural thunder roared. Space warped. The fissure expanded visibly, in mere breaths forming into a mirror-like plane.
Screee! Screee! Screee!
It all reflected in Jim Raynor's eyes. "Oh no…" he whispered wearily.
Too familiar.
As one of the very first Terrans in the Koprulu Sector to face the Zerg and survive, Raynor had seen it all.
Back when the Swarm first descended upon Mar Sara, Raynor had been just a marshal of the old Confederacy.
At that time, the Overmind—the first true master of the Zerg—still lived. He had witnessed this very tactic: rending space to hurl swarms across the stars for mass invasions.
After the Overmind's death, neither the second Overmind born from fused Cerebrates, nor the broodmothers that ruled separate strains, could replicate such a feat.
That was one reason the Swarm never drowned the entire sector after the Brood War, despite defeating the UED fleet, the Dominion, and the Protoss alliance.
The scale and speed of this rift could only mean one thing: the same kind of full-scale invasion Raynor had faced on Mar Sara, driven by the unified will of the Overmind.
"Sarah…"
Only one possibility entered Raynor's mind.
The broodmothers could not do this. Only the Queen of Blades could—the true inheritor of the Overmind's legacy.
Bang!
"Why are you doing this… This is the worst decision…"
Raynor couldn't hold back a cry of grief and guilt, slamming his fist against the deck. The sorrow of betraying his fallen comrades, of helpless despair, flooded through him.
Sarah Kerrigan—she had thrown herself back into the arms of the Zerg to save him!
This was the fear that had haunted him through every day in Arcturus Mengsk's prison since they had been torn apart by Ghost operatives.
He had poured everything into purifying her!
With Valerian Mengsk's help, he had uncovered an ancient Xel'naga artifact, capable of purging Kerrigan's infestation and restoring her humanity.
They had stormed Char itself to carry it out. The plan succeeded—but at a terrible cost.
Raynor had even been forced to kill his oldest friend—Tychus Findlay.
"I made a deal with the devil, Jim," Tychus had said as he leveled his gun at Kerrigan, newly restored, powerless to resist.
The bullet meant for Kerrigan struck Raynor's armor instead, leaving only a dent. In the end, Raynor raised his own pistol and shot Tychus.
He knew Tychus sought death, knew the truth of Arcturus' leash on him—that he had never been free. But it did not change the fact: he had killed his friend with his own hands.
Had he not gambled with the devil as well?
If Zeratul's ancient prophecy of the Xel'naga—that "the entire sector will face terrible destruction, and only Kerrigan can prevent the end"—was what drove Jim Raynor to risk everything to save his lover, then the fact that Kerrigan had returned as the Queen of Blades was a crushing slap across his face.
All for nothing. Everything ruined.
His heart deadened, Raynor closed his eyes in anguish, believing he had betrayed his fallen comrades, betrayed the trust of his Raiders, and destroyed the hope Zeratul had fought for.
"Oh? The Zerg too? Even the bugs have come to join the chaos in the Korhal system?"
Calm words, crisp and clear. The speaker was the commander of the Astartes Third Legion's Black Templars fleet, Second Grand Company Captain, Legion Champion, and the nominal supreme commander of the combined fleet—"Black Tiger" Hak Foo. After ordering, "Watch him!" he strode past the broken Raynor.
"Prepare to engage."
His brutish, battle-worn face flushed faintly red with excitement, sharp black eyes blazing with joy at the scent of war.
"Second and Fourth Naval Squadrons, already in low orbit over Korhal IV—continue your suppression offensive. Tear down Korhal IV's orbital defenses and lock down their skies."
"Order the Third Squadron—bring the ship closer. Meteor Devastation, adjust course. Time to greet these bugs. First Squadron remains as reserve—hold position."
Among Astartes officers, Hak Foo was known as one of the least suited for command.
Though trained and drilled in the Empire's standards of leadership, his every instinct came from battle. He was unbound by manuals or case studies, guided only by raw experience.
Charitably, one might call him a fearless frontline leader, a master of battlefield tactics.
"Grand Captain, as the senior officer in this warzone, you should remain at the center, to coordinate command…"
Beside him, a striking Templar captain with flowing silver hair and dark violet eyes tried to intervene, but Hak Foo cut him off brusquely, impatience flashing across his face as he waved a hand.
"Oh, God-Emperor above, my Empress Selene! Calm yourself, my dear First Captain. Let those so-called command regulations go to hell! In sudden crisis, the officer in charge must take full responsibility. You see those bugs in our face already—war is courage! Those are Her Majesty's very words. I must answer for this position."
Twisting logic—but hard to refute.
"Very well, the flagship will not move."
But that wasn't the point.
The First Captain of the Third Legion's expedition fleet sighed bitterly, just about to speak when Hak Foo's rough voice rang out again:
"I hereby grant the First Captain full acting authority over command! Likewise, the fleet flagship falls under your direct control!"
"Yes, sir!" ×N
Senior officers of the Third Legion expeditionary fleet filed out of the chamber, answering in unison, clearly used to such antics.
Watching Hak Foo snatch his helmet from the guards and stride away at full pace like a man escaping, the First Captain reached out, speaking quickly:
"Wait, Grand Captain! Regarding our original plan for Korhal IV—should we shift from suppression to decapitation strikes?"
"Your decision."
"When should the reserve First Squadron be committed? Under what request protocol…?"
"Judge for yourself."
"Should we dispatch Valkyries for surrender operations…?"
"Your responsibility."
"And the handling of prisoners…?"
"All yours."
Hak Foo waved a hand dismissively and vanished through the closing hatchway.
"Ahh…" The First Captain lowered his outstretched hand and sighed helplessly.
He glanced at the Inquisitors, the astonished Sisters of Battle, and the Valkyries. "You must excuse us. The Grand Captain's temperament is… more like a World Eater."
"We've heard the tales," an Inquisitor nodded knowingly.
"According to servitor database estimates, Korhal's discipline ranks among the top ten percent of our conquered worlds. Unlike death or feral worlds, Korhal IV has 6.3 billion inhabitants. Its population, economy, and industry all stand at the highest tier."
"If we continue with the suppression strategy—destroying Korhal in one battle, broadcasting it across the sector as a warning to force other human worlds in the Koprulu Sector to surrender—it is, in truth, a loss. Korhal IV, as the Dominion's capital, has immense colonial value. To destroy it would not be cost-effective."
"Suspend the suppression offensive. Cease bombardment."
There were no needless complaints or hesitation. The First Captain immediately entered work mode.
Calm, orderly, precise.
"Inquisitor, this is Jim Raynor. The prison records we seized will be forwarded as well—select useful individuals from them. Divide and dismantle Dominion hostility."
"Establish contact with the Raiders. Attempt to gain their trust, bring them into the fold, or failing that, obtain their coordinates and eradicate them. Handling these stragglers will be your responsibility."
Raynor was handed to the Inquisition, who would deal with the scattered Raiders—whether by persuasion, rhetoric, soul-searching, or manipulation, these were their specialties.
Next came the order to circulate the Inquisition's records from the Daemonhunters Chapter on combat with the Zerg—reissued fleet-wide, with emphasis. Even the Imperial auxilia would be included.
"Sisters of Battle, your task is simple. Cooperate with the auxilia and subservient troops to cleanse Korhal IV's orbital defenses of Dominion resistance. Board if necessary. Secure at least three intact enemy warships as samples."
"Valkyries, your role is to wield your charm. The prison, orbital ports, and fortress satellites will yield many Dominion prisoners. Soften them, lessen their hostility—I want no camp riots. And remember, record broadcasts showing our goodwill for transmission across Korhal IV."
Seemingly impressed by the First Captain's poised, elegant command style, a young Valkyrie in a black uniform trimmed with golden runes tilted her head and smiled slightly:
"Diplomatic war. Propaganda war… is that right?"
Not all Valkyries were as steadfast as Durandal. Many were more akin to diplomats or civil officers than warriors.
Snap!
"Correct. It's called a multi-pronged approach."
The First Captain signed off orders as he strode along, snapping his fingers with a laugh. "Beautiful diplomats, what are you waiting for? Get moving."
Compared to Hak Foo's ferocity and quick temper, the First Captain of the Second Grand Company clearly matched Leiva's vision of the Legion more closely.
And indeed, that was the case.
Leiva knew Hak Foo's temperament and style better than anyone. That was why he had paired him with a First Captain skilled in administration, supported by an extensive staff of officers and advisors.
Hak Foo rarely pondered strategies deeply. As Legion Champion, he was one of the last lines of certainty—the bulwark. After all, what was the point of such a large staff if not to handle the details?
The First Captain, often the second-in-command of a Grand Company, naturally carried the duty of assisting or assuming command when the leader was at the front.
In the Empire, where valor and ferocity were prized, this was hardly unique.
The most famous example: Angron, Primarch of the XII Legion, the World Eaters. He was the archetype of a "non-administrator."
Rarely did anyone see Angron in an office signing papers.
More often, he was seen on the bloodiest fronts of an expedition, or in field hospitals, or with recruits in the training cages.
Either hacking apart foes with his chain-axes, or consoling wounded brothers, sparring with new warriors, or exchanging lessons with his captains.
For the World Eaters, the First Captain of their First Grand Company was considered the true administrator of the Legion.
As for which style of leadership was best—there was never a consensus in the Empire.
The Empress had only one demand: victory.
"As for Lady Jibril… she is Her Majesty's Guard. We cannot order her. Though no Zerg movement can escape her, she will still be issued a copy of the operational plans."
...
Bzzzzzz—!
As the plans and orders spread, the massive Imperial fleet—composed of the Black Templars expeditionary forces and the Inquisition's exploratory fleet—split swiftly into three great formations across the Korhal system.
The First Provisional Naval Squadron held steady in the center of the battlefield, unmoving, splitting the combat zone, watching like a predator poised to strike.
The Second and Fourth Provisional Naval Squadrons encircled Korhal IV.
The Dominion Navy had been utterly broken, its orbital defense network mostly shattered. The remaining orbital ports and fortress satellites were swarmed by Thunderhawk gunships diving in. Some destroyers even braved the fire directly, ramming into boarding position.
Spear-like grapnels, each the size of a transport craft, shot into their targets. Blazing hot melta blasts tore into fortress armor, leaving deep scars across reinforced steel, shaking entire platforms.
Figures, armored and unarmored, were hurled into the void.
But none of that mattered. Once the grapnels punched through, their clamps locked fast into hulls.
The boarding hatches opened. The boarding action began!
Auxilia drawn from countless colonies of the Sacred Selene Empire surged forward. Their many accents blended into one will:
"For the Empire! / For the Empress!"
The Third Provisional Naval Squadron, meanwhile, under the charge of a certain brute, hurtled straight toward the rift.
"Being hammered by troops shoved through a spatial rift isn't my style!"
"Straight at the bugs' nest! Take the head, kill the swarm's master!"
A wild, thunderous voice bellowed across the comms: "Bring the ship closer!!"
Screee! Screee! Screee!
Like a wall of living flesh, pulsating organic matter spread across the hundred-kilometer rift.
Colossal, twisted creatures moved in the shadows. In the next instant, creeping creep poured into the Korhal system—the body of a Leviathan. Its dark red stems writhed outward in every direction, tendrils clawing for the skies.
In a heartbeat, the rift was webbed and overflowing.
And when the Queen of Blades' flagship emerged—the largest of the Leviathan behemoths—
"Arcturus Mengsk… it's time to settle accounts… Hah, so this is Korhal?!"
—
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