Earth Time, June 30th, Year 22,052 AD.
At this precise moment, both Orsaga and Ra distinctly felt the Abyssal Pact they had forged so long ago officially expire.
Every clause, every article — null and void.
Neither side owed the other anything.
Inside the Crimson Heaven, Orsaga sat casually eating fruit. He glanced briefly at the Human Federation, then withdrew the vast power that had been looming over their territory.
He had no intention of harassing them afterward.
For all his cruelty, Orsaga prided himself on being a demon who honored his bargains.
His prices were often dubious, his terms laced with traps, but once a pact was struck, he would fulfill it.
For twenty millennia, he had been little more than the Federation's guard dog. Humiliating? Perhaps. But he had already obtained what he wanted from them.
There was no anger in him.
In truth, his childhood years working menial jobs had left him oddly well-versed in the business of security. Even now, the experience carried over; returning to the role felt almost… familiar.
And there was no point in revenge.
This material universe was the great gaming table of the Chaos Gods.
The Milky Way, though a mere backwater in the grand cosmic scheme, had become — by coincidence and fate — the most conspicuous cup upon that table.
Even if Orsaga himself left them be, misfortune would find the Federation soon enough.
And Ra, burdened as he was with a peculiar destiny, would draw even more attention.
Having glimpsed countless timelines, Orsaga knew:
In 99.98% of futures, the Human Federation was destroyed.
In most of the remaining fraction, they barely survived, clinging on in misery.
And in the tiniest sliver of chance, they abandoned their ideals and joined the ranks of the Chaos Gods, becoming yet another fallen empire — one more tally mark of corruption in the Warp.
Every path led either to tragedy, or catastrophe.
Why should he waste effort targeting them?
Others would line up eagerly for the privilege of teaching humanity despair.
---
Earth.
Ra felt the contract dissolve with clockwork precision.
He fell into thought, then turned toward a data screen before him.
It overflowed with streams of confidential Federation information: domestic policy, economics, healthcare, even strategies for handling alien threats.
With it, Ra could extend his psychic sight, attempting to trace possible futures.
Unlike the Aeldari, who had codified prophecy into a refined art, Ra's methods were crude, almost shamanistic. He required threads, omens, and data to cast his foresight.
But this was inevitable. If a lone mortal could rival the Aeldari's tens of millions of years of accumulated divination, the Aeldari would never have ruled the galaxy so long.
Still, he prepared himself, then opened his mind.
The process was slow.
His senses blurred, as though veiled by frosted glass. Strange, twisted forms flitted at the edges of perception.
Perhaps it was not they who moved — but Ra himself, pulled along currents he could not feel.
Time passed, though how long he could not tell.
At last, clarity returned. He found himself standing at a vast crossroads, countless paths stretching into infinity.
And at the end of every road loomed five colossal shadows, their forms indistinct yet undeniable.
Inevitable. Inescapable.
One of them radiated a presence disturbingly similar to Orsaga's.
Before Ra could study further, his consciousness was wrenched into one of the futures.
Time accelerated. Empires burned. He watched as the Federation's vast domains went up in flames.
---
Days later, Ra's awareness returned to his body.
His face was dark, brows deeply furrowed.
Of the 117 futures he had glimpsed, not one ended well.
The Federation was annihilated in every vision — whether by Aeldari fleets, by massed Warp incursions, or by the awakening of ancient civilizations thought long dead.
The galaxy teemed with serpents hidden beneath the rot, ready to strike from shadows unknown.
The weight of it pressed down upon him.
For all his resolve, even Ra could not ignore the bitter taste of futility.
It was as though all his labor would be squandered, his blood and spirit wasted.
At last, unwilling yet determined, his gaze fell upon a sealed file.
The Strong Artificial Intelligence Project.
It was forbidden, and with good reason.
But the Federation's path forward was nothing but darkness — a blind man's maze, with cliffs at every turn.
Stand still, and predators would descend.
Advance blindly, and they would fall to ruin.
In such dire straits, Strong AI was like the nuclear weapons of ancient Earth: a gamble that might obliterate them, but if successful, it could create deterrence strong enough to buy survival — and accelerate their growth beyond measure.
For a Federation facing only despair, it was temptation itself.
After long, grim reflection, Ra placed a call through a secure channel.
Hours passed in tense, whispered discussion.
One month later…
Despite fierce opposition and controversy, the Strong Artificial Intelligence Project was unsealed.
The Federation government decreed its immediate implementation.
A dangerous die had been cast.
_____
T/N:
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