The history of humanity is written in blood.
For centuries, the nations of Earth warred endlessly. Borders shifted, ideologies clashed, and peace became a forgotten word. By the twenty-fourth century, there were no longer countries, only armies — fractured warlords and machine states battling over the last scraps of a dying world.
In that crucible of fire, humanity was reforged. Weakness perished. Only those who lived for war endured.
Then came the Final Unification.
A warlord rose from the ashes of broken empires. His name has been erased, for he abandoned it the day he declared himself the First Crimson Imperator. Under his iron fist, the warring states were crushed one by one, until only one banner flew over the world: the crimson standard, dyed in the blood of humanity's fallen.
Peace was not the Imperium's promise. Survival was. Conquest was. Humanity, the Imperator declared, had no destiny but war. And under his vision, Earth was reborn as a fortress-world, every child raised a soldier, every city a barracks, every life sworn to the Crimson Imperium.
It was war that carried humanity beyond the stars.
The scars of Earth drove its people to seek new worlds. At first, crude engines carried explorers to Luna, to Mars, to the scattered colonies of the Sol system. But always war followed — colonies rebelling, factions resisting, until they too were drowned in crimson.
And then, at last, the stars opened. Faster-than-light travel was discovered — not by scientists seeking peace, but by engineers reforging weapons of war. With it came the Imperium's first contact with life beyond Earth.
The galaxy was not empty. Ancient civilizations ruled the void, their empires vast and arrogant. They looked upon humanity as vermin crawling into their heavens. They sought to crush the upstarts before they could take root.
But they had miscalculated.
Humanity did not beg. Humanity did not yield. Humanity, forged in endless centuries of war, rose to meet them — and shattered them in fire. The Crimson Imperium spilled forth from Earth like a tide of steel, conquering or annihilating all who dared resist.
From that age onward, those who fought for the Imperium were no longer called "soldiers." The word was too small, too fragile, for what they had become.
They were Executioners.
Men and women who carried war in their veins. Warriors who drowned their enemies in crimson without hesitation, without mercy. To them, slaughter was not a horror — it was another day's work.
Thus, the galaxy learned the truth: Humanity was not a child of peace. It was a species of conquerors.
And so, the age of the Crimson Imperium began.
For centuries, the Imperium expanded, its Executioners carving crimson paths across the stars. Worlds fell. Civilizations bent the knee. Humanity's banner rose higher with each conquest, until whispers spread through the galaxy: The Imperium cannot be stopped.
But history is not written in victories alone. Even empires born in blood can bleed.
And it was at the very height of its power — after humanity had defeated the Hive Mind and stood as a rising equal among the oldest galactic empires — that betrayal struck.
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The Night of Crimson
The throne room of the Galactic Council was drenched in light, yet for Nael Caelum, it felt darker than the void between stars.
He knelt on the polished obsidian floor, his crimson cloak torn, his silver hair matted with blood. Chains bound his arms, though it was not the weight of iron that pressed him down — it was the weight of betrayal.
Around him, the chamber echoed with laughter and the cold, hollow voices of alien lords. They had once called him ally. Now they called him tyrant.
"Nael Caelum," one of them hissed from atop the high dais, its scaled face sneering in contempt. "First of his line. Last of his kind. Humanity's empire dies with you."
Nael raised his head, crimson eyes burning like twin embers. He could still hear it — the bombardment of Earth, the screams of billions as fire rained from orbit. His home, his fortress world, reduced to ash. He had fought for them, bled for them, conquered for them… and in the end, the galaxy repaid him with chains.
His family's faces flashed before his eyes. His brother. His sisters. Cut down in the night, slaughtered by assassins wearing the Council's sigil. His generals butchered in their sleep. His fleets sabotaged, turned to wreckage. It had all been orchestrated — swift, merciless, absolute.
The alien lords believed humanity had been broken. That the Crimson Imperium had been erased. That Nael Caelum was nothing more than a relic, a dying warlord on his knees.
But as the executioner raised his blade, Nael's voice cut through the chamber, sharp as steel:
"You think this ends with me?" He bared his teeth in a bloodstained smile. "I will return. I will burn your stars. And when the galaxy remembers my name, it will be in screams."
The blade fell. Pain exploded. Darkness swallowed him whole.
And then—
Nael gasped awake.
The air was different. Not the sterile stench of the Council's hall, but the raw iron scent of Earth's air recyclers. He blinked. His body felt… lighter. Smaller. His hands were unscarred, young, trembling. His reflection in the steel wall showed a boy — tall for his age, silver-haired, crimson-eyed, but still just a cadet.
He stood at the gates of the Imperial Academy. The banners of the Crimson Imperium hung proud and untarnished above him, untouched by betrayal. Soldiers marched past, saluting with the discipline of a nation still united.
Nael's heart thundered. He knew this day. He knew this hour. It was the day he first entered the Academy, aged fourteen, untested and naive.
But this time, he was not naive. This time, he carried decades of conquest, betrayal, and rage in his mind.
He clenched his fist, whispering to the empty air:
"This time… I will not fail. This time… I will kill you all."
The banners of the Imperium rippled in the wind as Nael Caelum took his first step toward destiny once more.