The void was absolute, infinite, and indifferent. Darkness stretched in all directions, broken only by distant stars, glinting faintly like shards of frozen glass. Time seemed meaningless here; it had no gravity, no flow, no voice. And yet, within this emptiness, a vessel drifted—a ship unlike any other, alive in a way that no human mind could comprehend. Its hull shimmered with a subtle, iridescent glow, almost as if it were breathing, exhaling faint currents of warp energy in measured pulses.
Inside the vessel, in the central chamber that resembled more a temple than a command center, Zero opened his eyes. They burned faintly with psychic resonance, reflecting the latent energy of the ship, and the voices that had been waiting inside his mind stirred. He rose, movements fluid and precise, every step radiating control, power, and inevitability. His body was no longer purely human: it was enhanced with Spartan musculature, Astartes gene-seed modifications, and the subtle touch of Earth-born biogenetics that allowed him to withstand and manipulate energy, gravity, and psychic currents.
Inside his mind, a chorus of voices awoke. The Primarchs—angry, analytical, protective, visionary—all merged within him. They spoke not in words, but in layered harmonics that carried both knowledge and emotion, guiding him, challenging him, demanding attention.
Zero… you carry all of us," said one voice, calm and deliberate.
"Do not falter," growled another, sharp and insistent.
"The galaxy watches… and waits," whispered Sanguinius, a note of warning mixed with warmth.
They were not a cacophony. They were a symphony, and he was both conductor and orchestra. He felt their memories, their triumphs, their mistakes. He was every Primarch and yet fully himself. The weight of destiny settled upon him like a cloak of living metal, yet he bore it with ease born of preparation beyond comprehension.
Zero moved through the corridors, and immediately, the ship responded. Conduits of energy thrummed softly under the walls, and panels glimmered as if aware of his thoughts. The air carried a faint hum, resonating through his enhanced body as a pulse synchronized with his heartbeat. The vessel was more than machine; it was companion, sentinel, and weapon. Every system—shields, thrusters, weapons, sensors—was attuned to his intent, anticipating commands before they were formulated.
The corridors themselves were a study in balance: wide enough to accommodate the hybrid legionnaires he had created, narrow enough to focus attention, polished and cold yet alive with faint currents of light. Symbols etched along the walls shifted subtly, some Mechanicus, some alien, some defying Euclidean geometry entirely, offering insight if one's mind could expand to grasp them.
At the bridge, the chamber opened into a cathedral of technology. Holodisplays projected star systems, warp currents, and enemy vectors in crystal clarity. Thrusters glowed faintly with readiness; weapons systems slotted into place, awaiting command. The ship itself seemed to hum in anticipation, the metallic walls breathing faintly, aware of the anomaly within.
The sensors flared—small craft approaching, glinting against the void like shards of black ice. They were scavengers, pirates, or rogue patrols of the Imperium. They assumed the emptiness of the void meant safety. They were wrong.
Zero's hand hovered over the control console, but it was more than a hand—it was an extension of mind, body, and spirit. Inside, the Primarch echoes converged, merging aggression, strategy, and foresight into one harmonious command.
"Engage," he said.
The order was more than spoken—it was psychic, threading through the neural links of his hybrid legionnaires, through the ship's systems, and even into the approaching enemy sensors, anticipating and overwhelming them. Lasers lanced through the void, cutting into metal hulls with surgical precision. Plasma arcs incinerated decks, and boarding parties extended mechanical limbs into the enemy vessels, moving faster than human reflexes could follow. Within moments, the attackers were neutralized; technology salvaged, casualties avoided.
Guilliman's analytical voice arose in his mind, assessing efficiency. Angron snarled, urging more violence. Dorn offered caution, Sanguinius reminded him of honor. Zero absorbed them all, synthesizing their guidance, and the ship itself hummed in approval, perfectly aligned with his mind.
The chorus of voices settled into an internal council.
"Too cautious," growled Angron.
"Precision is strength," Dorn countered.
"Compassion is a weapon when wielded wisely," Sanguinius murmured.
"Every action ripples through time and space," Magnus intoned.
Zero allowed their perspectives to coexist, blending chaos and order into guidance. He spoke aloud, the sound carrying through the ship: "All shall serve Omnizero."
The words extended psychically, resonating through the ship and the legionnaires below. Every system, every soldier, every conduit understood. Obedience was not demanded; it was instinctive, automatic, and complete.
Descending to the lower decks, Zero observed the hybrid soldiers. Taller than humans but not as massive as Space Marines alone, they moved with a terrifying balance of strength, agility, and grace. Their armor fused ceramite with energy shielding, neural interfaces, and modular weapons. Bolters could seamlessly shift to plasma configuration, energy blades hummed with contained lethality, and grenades adapted to strategic needs.
Each soldier's mind was linked, a psychic hive that allowed instantaneous coordination. Yet, individuality remained; they could improvise, adapt, and act without direct orders, and each was aware of Zero's presence as both guide and nexus.
Zero walked among them. He felt their loyalty, courage, fear, and anticipation. "They are extensions of my will," he thought, "but their autonomy strengthens us."
He initiated a training simulation. The bay transformed into a miniature world: jagged canyons, ruined cities, and forests. Squads deployed with perfect synchronicity, executing maneuvers impossible for unaugmented humans. One squad flanked simulated enemy fortifications, another created choke points, a third executed precision boarding strikes. Every movement was recorded, analyzed, adapted.
On the holodisplay, the first candidate planet appeared: amber deserts, jagged frozen peaks, scattered settlements, and rivers of molten ice. Minimal technology, no signs of Chaos corruption—a blank canvas.
Zero extended his consciousness, sensing life, energy, mineral deposits, and latent warp currents. Magnus detected hidden resources beneath the crust. Dorn evaluated defensive positions. Sanguinius identified populations suitable for recruitment and inspiration. Angron only raged at the lack of challenge.
Zero harmonized their perspectives. "This world shall be Omnizero's foundation," he thought.
Zero led the descent personally, standing tall as thrusters kicked up clouds of dust. The air was metallic, tinged with ozone, the scent of mineral and iron heavy. Hybrid soldiers moved with Spartan precision, deploying to establish perimeters, scanning for threats, and integrating the terrain into their neural calculations.
Rogue mercenary bands, previously unchallenged, struck almost immediately. They assumed underestimation of their opponent. They were wrong. Bolters lanced in perfect arcs, energy blades ignited, and squads maneuvered with unmatched speed and coordination. Canyons became killzones, urban ruins traps for the unwary.
The battle was short, decisive, and clean. No hybrid soldiers fell. Mercenaries were annihilated. Omnizero had been declared, first in action as well as thought.
Settlements were fortified, factories established, and inhabitants trained. Neural-psychic networks connected planetary command with Zero's fleet. He walked through villages, observing as hope and fear mingled. People bowed, some trembled, some accepted eagerly—but all recognized the authority radiating from him.
At night, atop a dune, Zero surveyed the stars. The chorus of Primarchs argued, advised, and debated.
"Patience is power," Dorn said.
"Do not linger," Angron growled.
"Compassion is necessary," Sanguinius reminded him.
"Every choice echoes through time," Magnus warned.
He sensed Warp currents, faint but growing. Chaos was aware. Imperial observers might notice. He was an anomaly: a fusion of all Primarchs, enhanced with Spartan-Astartes discipline.
"Let them come," he said, raising his hand. "Omnizero will endure."
The sun rose over the amber deserts and frozen peaks. Hybrid soldiers moved in perfect formation. The planet was no longer just a world; it was a bastion, a foundation, a living extension of Zero's will.
"Omnizero is born," he proclaimed. "No mortal, xenos, or daemon shall stand unbroken against it."
The stars themselves pulsed faintly, acknowledging the emergence of a new Primarch. One singularity: Zero. Omnizero had begun.