The Emperor was racing against the clock, forging his new Astartes Legions from stolen gene-seed, a desperate gamble to unify Terra and reclaim humanity's lost territories among the stars. But somewhere out there, in the cold, uncaring void, his precious Primarchs were scattered, their incubation pods flung across the galaxy like cosmic debris.
One pod, carrying Primarch Number Twenty-One, finally tumbled out of the Warp. It drifted through a silent star system for a time before a planet's gravity took hold, yanking it toward a world of staggering, fallen beauty.
This was Argent Nur, the "Land of Light," a planet that had been a bastion of science and a testament to humanity's ingenuity during the Golden Age. From orbit, it was a masterpiece—majestic gemstone mountains shimmered with every color imaginable, and a cerulean ocean stretched to the horizon. But the most magnificent sight was the "Nur Ring," a colossal, man-made ring system that encircled the planet's equator like a crown. A majestic piece of celestial engineering, it now showed no signs of life, a silent monument to a much better time.
Down on the surface, directly beneath the giant, dormant ring, several immense cities were crumbling. They had been built around the conduits that fed them from the Nur Ring above, but now they faced their greatest crisis.
A decade ago, a meteorite had pierced the planet's defenses and fallen to the surface. An investigation found nothing but a scorched crater. Everyone figured the atmosphere had incinerated it, but they were wrong. Soon after, reports of attacks began to trickle in from the scattered settlements. The attackers were unlike anything humanity had ever seen: grotesque, green-skinned creatures with tusks and thick limbs, who roared an incomprehensible battle cry as they charged.
"Waaaaaagh!!!!!!!!!!!"
The Argent Nur warriors called them "Orcs," a name borrowed from an ancient Terran tongue. They were an ugly, unstoppable plague. In the early days, the warriors of Argent Nur had used their advanced, salvaged weapons to repel the green-skins, but the Orcs seemed to multiply faster than they could be killed. For every one they took down, ten more took its place. They were a tide of pure, brute force.
Even more disturbingly, the Orcs' weapons got better with every passing battle, and some of the larger ones started showing a terrifying level of cunning. The war shifted from humans hunting green-skins to the green-skins laying siege to humanity. They had been pushed back, city by city, to their last bastion.
This massive city, built around a giant orbital tower leading to the Nuer Ring, was now under a relentless assault. The three-year siege had drained its resources, and its once-impenetrable defenses were faltering.
"Get everyone ready for the last resupply. We're fighting our way out." King Nowick, a giant in pitch-black armor, leaned on the battlement, his eyes weary as he stared out at the "green tide" below. He knew it was over. Millions of Orcs waited, ready to breach the walls and wipe out humanity. He locked eyes with the biggest Orc below, its cruel, cunning gaze a direct insult. For years, they had foolishly believed the green-skins were mindless brutes. They were wrong.
The Orc Boss, as the humans called him, had proven to be a tactical genius, systematically wearing down human forces and steadily advancing on their territory.
"Hope remains," said a tall, gaunt figure behind the King. It was the High Priest of the City of Truth, a tall, slender man in solemn black robes.
Ten millennia of decline had left Argent Nur with a patchwork feudal society. King Nowick ruled the warrior class, and the Sentinels were his best fighters. They had protected humanity for centuries. The High Priest, meanwhile, came from a city of psychics, whose arcane powers and bizarre ways were a point of contention with the pragmatic warriors.
"I received an enlightenment in a dream. A savior will save us!" The High Priest, Isaac, smiled, his pale face illuminated by a strange, inner peace.
"Isaac, we have no chance," King Nowick said, shaking his head. "I don't believe in prophecies, and we won't last long enough for reinforcements to arrive." He stepped down from the battlement. "If there is a miracle, it's that." He gestured to the sky, and Isaac knew exactly what he meant.
The Nur Ring.
"We lost everything," Isaac sighed, his gaze piercing the clouds. "Ever since the AI crisis, the ring has been a cage, trapping us on the ground."
King Nowick and Isaac walked through the city streets. They passed the Sentinels, a group of massive, 2.5-meter-tall warriors. Their unique weapons, inherited from the Golden Age of Technology, used a "null crystal" to create an energy blade that effortlessly sliced through anything. Their armor, powered by "micro-fusion devices," gave them an almost unstoppable edge in battle. They were the descendants of the Golden Men, and even after millennia of decline, they were a force to be reckoned with.
King Nowick stopped and asked his Chief Swordsman, Siran, how many men were left.
"Less than twenty thousand," Siran said, his scarred face grim.
"Prepare a set of gear for me," King Nowick said, clapping his Chief Swordsman on the shoulder. "I'll fight with you."
"As you command, My King!" Siran said, his voice full of a renewed sense of purpose.