From the rear lines, Julius observed the carnage as the Thunder Warriors carved their way across the battlefield.
His expression was cold, but not despairing.
He had received intelligence in advance and already understood, at least roughly, the combat capabilities of these warriors. He knew full well that relying on his own troops alone could never win him this war—at best, they could only delay the inevitable.
That was why he had resorted to that ritual.
Now, watching the Thunder Warriors tear through his armies, the corner of Julius' lips curved into a thin smile.
In the past, he might have worried. But now, with the Heart of Slaughter, things had changed. To him, these warriors—powerful as they were—were no true threat. They were, in fact, the perfect nourishment.
Difficult enough to provide a challenge, yet not so great that he could not kill them. And every death would feed his strength.
Tens of thousands of such foes filled the battlefield.
The thought of slaying them all, his power soaring with each kill, thrilled him.
When that day comes… unifying Terra, even the entire Solar system, will no longer be a dream.
As for conquering the entire galaxy? Julius had never even entertained such a fantasy.
This was an age without faster-than-light travel. Beyond Solar system lay only endless, futile journeys—long enough that one would die of old age before ever arriving.
The very notion was pointless.
He licked his lips, throat parched, and took a long draught of blood from the chalice in his hand. The restlessness within him ebbed.
Blood-drinking was a habit he had acquired since gaining the Heart of Slaughter.
According to scraps of lore he had unearthed, the being known as the Crimson King delighted in blood. His rituals demanded rivers of it, and alien legends claimed he drained whole worlds of life to slake his thirst.
Julius believed that imitating this practice might curry the god's favor. In time, he found the taste not only tolerable but strangely pleasing. Now, it was no longer mere ritual—it had become his vice.
He drained the cup and lowered it—when suddenly, his instincts screamed. A stabbing pain raced across his nerves.
Without hesitation, he hurled himself forward, psychic power propelling his body dozens of meters across the chamber.
A heartbeat later, the space he had just occupied disintegrated.
A sound like shattering glass filled the air as everything in that zone—living and dead alike—was pulverized to dust. A black rift in reality tore open, wind howling through it.
From the breach stepped a towering figure clad in resplendent golden armor, a crown upon his brow, a greatsword in hand.
The moment Julius laid eyes on him, primal dread consumed him.
There was no question. He could not win.
"Damn it… how can anyone be this strong…"
He did not need to guess. The armor, the crown, the sword—this could only be one man.
The Emperor.
Once, Julius had dismissed tales of his power as exaggerated myths. Now, he realized the truth was far worse—the rumors had understated it.
Could such power have existed even in the Golden Age? He wasn't sure.
The Emperor, for his part, sensed immediately the taint of Chaos within Julius' psychic essence. His suspicion was confirmed.
"For the sake of avoiding greater troubles," the Emperor murmured, voice calm, "I will end you here."
Though his soldiers needed the crucible of war to hone themselves, leaving Julius alive was a danger too great.
He raised his sword.
Bathed in psychic might, the blade blazed like a star. Light spilled forth, multiplying—one into two, two into four, four into eight—until it veiled the sky itself in radiant arcs.
All across the battlefield, warriors paused to stare.
Those with psychic sensitivity reeled, crushed beneath the weight of the power pouring forth.
Julius felt as though he were a rat drowning in a mire. His body, once lithe and strong enough to wrestle mutants barehanded, now strained under the crushing force.
Had he not multiplied his power in recent months, the pressure alone would have killed him.
Yet even as the blazing sword descended, Julius did not despair.
He smiled.
Had one looked closely, one would have seen the glimmer of micro-mechanical systems within his pupils. They had, during this brief exchange, completed their targeting calculations.
The Emperor frowned.
Instead of striking Julius, he turned and slashed into the Sky.
An instant later, from a ridge hundreds of kilometers away, a colossal beam erupted, several hundred meters wide. It tore through mountains, air, and cloud alike—hurtling toward him.
The Emperor recognized it immediately.
The XLLK-6447 Beam Cannon.
A strategic anti-orbital weapon from the Golden Age. Fully charged, a single shot could pierce even small stars.
Against such a strike, he had no choice but to respond with his full power.
His sword clashed with the beam. At the point of contact, a void bloomed—a perfect black sphere. In an instant it collapsed, then expanded in a cataclysmic release.
Heat and radiation surged outward like a solar storm, threatening to engulf the battlefield.
The Emperor's will clamped down. With sheer psychic might, he forced the energy inward, containing it before it could annihilate his armies.
Julius watched. He thought for a mere fraction of a second—then abandoned the idea of exploiting the distraction.
Instead, he gestured sharply to his men. Retreat.
And without hesitation, he turned and fled.
As a warlord who had ruled for centuries, Julius still held other trump cards—even beyond the beam cannon, which was now cooling and unable to fire again so soon.
Terra, after all, had been the heart of the Federation. Even in ruin, caches of its ancient legacy remained. He had his share of them.
But none of them, not all of them combined, gave him the confidence to face the Emperor.
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