They came not by fleets of steel, but through light.
Billions of citizens streamed from Pangea to Eden in pillars of shimmering energy, carried by Starbound teleporters that split atoms without scattering them. The surface of Eden, once lifeless, now pulsed with radiant white arches as teleportation beacons received the migrants. One after another, people arrived—mothers clutching children, scientists with crates of data, artisans carrying relics of culture, warriors gripping weapons from a war they hoped would not follow.
The air buzzed with awe and uncertainty. Pangea had been alien, but it was home. This… this world felt different. The gravity was the same. The wind even carried a similar density. Yet the soil underfoot was fresh, untouched by war, not a single fossil to suggest it had known anything before them.
Da Vinci stepped forward from the central welcome dome, arms open, smile warm. "So this is Eden, looks exactly like earth." She announced to the incoming masses.
Cheers followed, not out of celebration, but relief. Relief that the long-buried fears of planetary extinction hadn't been realized. Relief that someone—Dr. Dew—had made this impossible miracle possible.
Around them, preservation domes were already filling with carefully transported lifeforms from Pangea. Not for habitation—but protection. Biologists, xenobotanists, and wildlife experts ushered Pangea's fauna into their new artificial biomes. Entire forests were reconstructed inside domes to preserve samples of native vegetation. Aquatic enclosures sealed in rare amphibians, coral systems, and creatures whose DNA had taken centuries to stabilize.
It was not just for science. It was also for mourning.
They knew Pangea would be lost—eventually. To something they didn't fully understand: Chaos. A force that warped reason, melted identity, and consumed reality with a hunger that obeyed no natural law. They didn't speak of it often. Most didn't know the term. But in whispers, the word had passed: daemons, the warp, corruption.
None of that had come to Eden. Yet.
From the high towers overlooking Eden's first city—called Babel—Dr. Dew watched the growing settlement. He said nothing. Just observed. Like a guardian cloaked in silence.
Behind him, Paracelsus adjusted his coat as he stepped into the viewing chamber. "Atmospheric pressure seem to be stable. Biological assimilation is within expectations. Migration complete—seventy percent in one day."
"Good," Dew replied.
Paracelsus walked up beside him. "You expected a slower turnout."
"I expected hesitation," Dew said. "They were born on Pangea. They've never seen Earth, never smelled trees made of carbon instead of alien sugar compounds. But they adapted. Faster than I thought."
"They may not be from Earth," Paracelsus said, "but something in them remembers it. Even if they never knew it."
Below, children ran barefoot through synthetic fields. One boy reached down, picked up a flower, and paused—like it whispered something to him. He tucked it behind his ear and smiled.
Cassidy entered with a tablet. "Teleportation's running smoothly. Last wave hits at dawn. After that, we begin faze three. Anything not natural to pangea ecosystem gets purged on schedule."
She nodded. "Data vaults already deleted, machines should be melted in the blast, along side the buildings. No trace will be left behind."
Leonardo da Vinci joined them, peering through a handheld lens."and yet I feel like something amiss."
Dr. Dew turned from the window not knowing what to say.
Six months later, galaxies away, on the surface of a certain world—Pangea stirred.
The planet, now had six craters. The cities were glassed. The foundations of civilization obliterated. Only raw stone and ash remained.
Or so they thought.
From the orbiting scout vessel "Blight-Reverent," a tendril of filth stretched downwards. The Death Guard descended like vultures upon carrion. Their dropships did not hum—they groaned with disease. Engine vents wept pus. Rust etched every surface.
They landed at what had once been the city of Hope, hope for a piece full life.
Now, it was just a crater.
The lead champion of this splinter warband—Festurion the Spoiled Breath—stepped onto the cracked terrain, breathing deeply through the rot-woven tubes embedded into his helmet.
"No scent of intelligent life," he hissed. "But... evidence that there use to be intelligent life here is evident."
Behind him, plague marines scanned the area with corrupted servo-pulses. One of them—more machine than man—paused. "Unusual debris. Metallic. Structured. Not of Imperial make. Or any currently known xenos."
Festurion turned, interested. "Show me."
They cleared debris. Beneath warped stone and shattered ferrocrete, they unearthed a device—dented, scorched, and missing some parts but still slightly functional.
It glowed faintly.
Festurion's eyes narrowed. "This... is not Imperium technology."
One of the corrupted tech-priests approached, filaments twitching like tongues. "Unknown fabrication protocols. Human-compatible. Machine spirit dormant. Requesting authority to interface."
Festurion nodded.
The machine priest reached into the core of the device.
"What is it?" a plague marine asked.
The tech-priest's voice was a gurgle of awe and corruption.
"A forge. For creating something?"
Festurion chuckled. "So the dead left us a gift."
None of them knew what it truly was. Not yet. But they knew one thing: this device manage to survive whatever causes this crater. It wouldn't be long before thay figure out that this device was meant for mass producing synthetic life and intelligence. A system for creating artificial warriors and workers the are completely self-aware.
That made it valuable.
"Secure the artifact," Festurion said. "Begin transmission to the Daemon Primarch. Let him know—we have found something of interest."
And far away, in the clean halls of Eden, Dr. Dew stared at the blue skies, unaware that his old gen 3 Synth creation device manage to survive the devastating explosives, even if it was severely damaged.
She looked at the children running through a field below. "This place... feels like home. Not just a detailed copy—but like the real Earth."
He nodded slowly. "Because we made it that way. But we can't forget what we had to sacrifice get to where we are now."
Behind him, Paracelsus checked data logs. Leonardo da Vinci drew schematics for cultural centers. Morgan le Fay watched drifting clouds, saying nothing. Artoria stood still, hand on Excalibur's hilt, as if expecting something unseen.
And somewhere—billions of light-years away—Chaos was waiting.
End of Chapter Forty-Eight