The flagship Gilded Ambition was a fortress of steel and gold, a testament to the Rogue Trader's ancient lineage. Its halls were lined with banners older than most worlds, its vaults heavy with plunder from a hundred forgotten wars. Veynar had always considered it unconquerable.
Until now.
He sat in his throne upon the command deck, eyes fixed on the holo-displays before him. The feeds showed the impossible.
Francis Harlock had boarded his ship. Alone.
The first squad of armsmen had moved to intercept him. Veynar watched them form ranks, weapons raised, chanting prayers of discipline. He watched Harlock walk into their fire, cloak whipping in the storm of bullets and lasfire. He did not charge, did not scream, did not falter.
He walked.
His saber moved like lightning, each arc a stroke of precise death. Armsmen fell in pieces, blood painting the walls. Harlock never slowed. His crimson eye burned in the darkness, casting a glow that turned fear into panic.
The feed cut to another corridor. More armsmen. More death. Harlock carved through them with the same cold precision. His movements were efficient, unhurried, almost disinterested. He killed as though it were inevitable, as though nothing could alter the outcome.
The third feed showed him now, closer, nearing the command spire. Shadows clung to him, twisting at his heels. The mist of the Arcadia followed him like a cloak, seeping into the walls of the Ambition, dimming its lights, choking its machine-spirits.
Veynar's hands tightened on the arms of his throne. His breath came in short, ragged gasps.
"This is not… this is not possible…" he whispered.
The officers around him trembled. None dared speak.
Harlock advanced. Steady. Unstoppable.
Veynar's mind began to crack. He had faced Eldari corsairs, Ork warbands, even the fringes of Chaos pirates. He had bartered with xenos, defied Inquisitors, survived the horrors of the void. He had thought himself untouchable, his name destined to echo alongside the High Lords themselves.
But this… this thing was different.
Harlock was no man. He was grief given flesh. Rage given form. The weight of an entire fallen world made manifest.
Veynar's breath quickened. His vision swam. The feeds blurred as his eyes widened, unblinking, unable to look away.
Harlock's crimson eye burned brighter with every step, a bloody star that consumed all reason.
And Veynar understood, too late.
He was not about to fight a rival.
He was about to be unmade by a legend.