Mars' integration injected formidable power into the rise of the Imperium.
Mars, once a technological wasteland, was transformed into the industrial heart of the Imperium the instant it formally became a part of it.
Its Tech-Priests, with unmatched efficiency and fanatical faith in the Machine, helped the Emperor swell the fleets of the Great Crusade.
The Astartes Legions—those gene-forged super-soldiers—
swept all before them in the Great Crusade, unstoppable; their very presence became the emblem of Imperial might.
With the unification of the Sol System, the iron-shod boots of the expeditionary fleets began to tread beyond its borders into the unknown.
Their mission: to reclaim humanity's lost colonies, exterminate every non-human species encountered, and plant the Imperial banner in every corner of the galaxy.
It was a conquest unprecedented, a grand endeavor to restore human dominion.
Yet, to ensure mankind could navigate the Warp in safety, the Emperor was forced into an unprecedented measure.
He mobilized nearly the entire population of Terra at the time, launching a titanic project—the construction of a vast Psychic Beacon: the Astronomican.
In the Emperor's design, this Psychic Beacon, powered by his own colossal will, would blaze with searing psychic light.
That light would serve as the Navigators' lodestar, allowing them to find direction through the dark of the Warp and guide vessels on relatively safe voyages.
This structure, the Astronomican, became the very foundation of the newborn Imperium.
Without the Astronomican to provide positioning data, the fleets of the Imperium could no longer travel the Warp in any reliable fashion.
They would forfeit real control over colonies scattered across the galaxy.
The light of the Astronomican became the safeguard of Imperial expansion; its existence was the key to the Imperium's continued advance.
Yet the reach of the Astronomican's light is finite.
Regions beyond the maximum projection of this Psychic Beacon are known as the Imperium's frontiers.
There, the darkness of the Warp is deeper, and danger lurks everywhere.
To address the coming communications problem, the Emperor created a corps of psychic messengers—the "Astropaths."
Astropaths are sanctioned Psykers of the Imperium, entrusted with the special task of interstellar communication through psychic means.
The Emperor, however, distrusts psykery; he knows too well how easily Psykers fall prey to the Chaos Gods within the Warp.
Were it not for sheer technological necessity and the urgent timetable for galactic unification—
with space travel and interstellar communication problems demanding resolution—he would never have employed Psykers.
Even so, every Astropath must undergo personal scrutiny by the Emperor.
Those who pass are bound to the Emperor in a ritual known as "Soul-Binding."
In this rite, the Emperor channels a portion of his own psychic might into these individuals.
This not only amplifies the chosen Psykers but also heightens their resistance to the Warp.
Yet the Emperor's power is so vast that it cannot avoid inflicting damage: the Psykers' eyes and certain other senses are irreparably harmed.
Thus, every Astropath who survives emerges blind; darkness becomes their eternal World.
Still, compared to other Psykers, to become an Astropath is already great fortune.
On every Imperial World conquered, the local Psykers are rounded up and assessed.
The stable ones are hired and monitored by whatever Imperial departments require them; their fate is sealed by the Imperium, a cog in its vast machine.
Those of weaker will fall under the Warp's influence; their souls rot beneath the touch of Chaos.
Such Psykers are lobotomized and turned into mindless laborers, silently serving the Imperium.
Under the Emperor's iron rule, every life is assigned its purpose—willing or not, fortunate or doomed.
————
X-Men World
"Unconditional exploitation of Psykers, nothing more?" Professor X steepled his fingers, voice tinged with shock and bewilderment.
His mind was awhirl with questions. The ruler of this Universe—the Emperor—was himself the mightiest Psyker in the galaxy; why impose such draconian control over his own kind?
"This is bloody inhuman. Treating Psykers as tools—doesn't it strip them of their freedom?"
Logan snarled; the Emperor's methods reminded him of an old friend's deeds.
——————
The Great Crusade swept through the galaxy like a merciless storm.
Wherever defiant armed forces refused to yield, they were ruthlessly crushed.
Expeditionary units swiftly erected governments enforcing Imperial decree upon the ruins, controlling every corner of society with an iron grip.
At the same time, the Imperial Truth was rammed down the throat of every Planet's populace—willing or not—like an overwhelming ideological tide.
Throughout this process, the Primarchs created by the Emperor were discovered one by one.
When the expeditionary fleets arrived, most Primarchs already ruled their adopted Worlds as sovereigns or leaders.
Possessing peerless strength and intellect, they nonetheless found their destinies rewritten before the Emperor.
The Emperor explained their origins and fate; after inner struggle, the majority swore loyalty to their creator.
Yet some Primarchs rejected the Emperor's summons.
But following a series of bloody events, even they were dragged into the Great Crusade, forced to serve the Imperium's expansion.
In the early days, before all Primarchs had returned, the fleet was divided into three main forces, led by Horus Lupercal, Primarch of the XVI Legion Luna Wolves; Ferrus Manus, Primarch of the X Legion Iron Hands; and the Emperor himself.
As the remaining Primarchs were found one after another, the Emperor entrusted each of the twenty Astartes Legions to its respective Gene-Father.
The Worlds on which the Primarchs had grown became their Legions' home-Worlds and recruitment grounds thereafter.
Now, in addition to the Space Marine Legions, the expeditionary fleets carried every manner of auxiliary force.
There were gene-enhanced warriors even more elite than the Astartes Legions—the Emperor's own bodyguard. Clad in gleaming golden armor and wielding devastating weapons, they were the Emperor's foremost blades.
There were also specialized Anti-Psyker Cadres formed of Untouchables, naturally immune to sorcery and the perfect knives against the Chaos Gods.
And then came the uncounted mortal auxiliaries, the Imperial Army, meant to support the Astartes Legions. Though lacking the might of the Space Marines, they still played a vital role on every battlefield.
Finally, the Titan Legions and Cybernetica Cohorts, piloted by the Tech-Priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus—towering War Machines that moved like living fortresses and crushed all before them.
As the spearhead of the Great Crusade, every Astartes was the deadliest weapon in his Primarch's hand.
They were far from invincible, yet no mere mortals. Space Marines were born for war—hard and efficient, like the weapon they carried most often: the Bolter.
A Bolter is a brutal solid-round firearm that launches .75-caliber self-propelled explosive shells, capable of horrific damage.
Though not exclusive to the Space Marines, the image of an Astartes with a Bolter has become the very emblem of the Imperium.
Where Bolter-armed Astartes appear, smoke and blood soon fill the sky.
Under the command of their Gene-Fathers, the Legions fought with even greater fury.
Each Primarch reshaped his Legion to match his own tactical genius: some favored hit-and-run raids, others armored spearheads and grinding siege warfare.
By the Emperor's writ, the Primarchs led tens of thousands of Space Marines into battle.
Behind them marched endless ranks of mortal auxilia and the mighty engines of the Mechanicum.
The Great Crusade raged for nearly two centuries; at its height more than 4,300 expeditionary fleets fought across the The Galaxy / Milky Way.
World after World was "liberated" from tyrants and false rulers.
Xenos—Greenskins, orks, Aeldari—were broken by the Imperium's might.
Countless minor alien races, their names long forgotten, vanished forever in humanity's grand march.
Yet beneath those triumphs lay mountains of bones, the price paid in uncounted lives.
Some Worlds, their populations too genetically warped for reclamation, suffered total orbital annihilation.
In an instant they were erased; billions died in fire and dust, their cries drowned beneath the iron tread of Imperial expansion.
It was a merciless conquest, a blaze of glory bought with oceans of blood.
Under the Imperial banner every Planet was dragged into the fold—whatever its will, whatever its fate.
——
Marvel Universe
The tension hung like frozen air, almost suffocating.
Before the great screen, Steve Rogers—once the hero of World War II, now leader of the Avengers—clenched his fists, rage and despair mingling in his eyes.
His deep, powerful roar echoed through the room.
"Bastards!" The cry condemned the ruthless invaders—and his own helplessness.
Yet the fire of Steve's anger died as quickly as if doused with cold water, replaced by bleak despair.
Slowly he uncurled his fists and shut his eyes, as though to bar the horror from his mind.
His worst fear had come true: the Nazi ideology the World once spat upon had returned, more brutal and merciless than ever.
The Avengers stared, stunned; they had never seen their steadfast leader lose control.
Tony Stark—usually all quips and swagger—sounded shaken to the core.
"Did the Captain just swear?"
"Not a word, Stark."
Steve's voice carried a warning, his gaze cold: now was not the time for jokes.
But worse revelations followed.
When they watched an expeditionary fleet unleash an orbital strike on a still-living World, every face turned pale.
Such annihilation, such callous contempt for life, filled them with horror.
"Did they just… exterminate a Planet?"
Peter Parker stammered, voice trembling, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Yes. They did."
Star-Lord sounded lost; the Planet's Death reminded him of The Collector's footage of the Power Stone—millions turned to dust in a heartbeat.
The memory left him crushed and powerless.
Even Thor looked stricken; his father Odin, who had conquered much of Yggdrasil with fire and blood, had never destroyed an entire World.
No matter how fierce the foe, the All-Father had never crossed that line.
Wanda Maximoff's voice was a plea.
"Tell me it was a dead World."
In an instant she was ten years old again, huddled with Quicksilver as their apartment was bombed.
That wound in her heart had never closed.
Silence answered them—answer enough.
One by one they cursed in their native tongues, sharp words of rage and despair flung like knives at the unseen enemy.
————
Super God World
"I no longer know how to judge the humans of that Universe."
"By any civilization's morals, their deeds are unspeakably evil."
Hexi sighed at the sight of Psykers shackled as slave labor.
"Indeed, by our standards they are utterly evil."
"Yet they have no choice, do they? And compared with other alien powers, they are already far better."
Kesha began to pity that cosmos—so vast, yet almost devoid of sane civilizations.
Kesha's tone carried helplessness; she knew civilizations ought to develop in diversity and harmony.
But in the Warhammer Universe they had sunk into endless strife and chaos.
She watched the screen: the modified Psykers, fleets struggling in the Warp, Planets shattered by war, and her heart filled with pity.
"Yet for humanity, this man has undeniably led mankind to greatness again."
Complex emotions laced Kesha's voice.
Though she disapproved of the Imperium's deeds, she had to admit the Emperor had fulfilled his promise to mankind.
Setting aside his harsh politics, He truly deserved the title Emperor of Mankind.
Her thoughts drifted to the Primarchs—had they even left their nutrient tanks when they were scattered to these Worlds?
How had they survived alien environments and risen to dominate their Planets?
Even in her Universe, genetic engineering could only be activated at set times.
She knew too well its complexity and limits.
In the Super God World, gene-craft was highly advanced yet could start only under strict conditions to ensure healthy new life.
Those Primarchs had not only survived such hostile Worlds but become their overlords—utterly unbelievable.
Three-Body World
"How many fleets?" the Three-Body Ruler stared anxiously at the screen, which showed staggering news from the distant cosmos.
He needed confirmation he had heard correctly; the number was too astonishing.
"4,300 expeditionary fleets."
The War Consul's voice trembled with fear; his body shook as if he could not believe his own words.
To the Three-Body civilization, the figure was astronomical.
They had exhausted half their productivity to assemble one fleet to Earth, yet the foe casually fielded thousands.
Silence spread among the Three-Body Leadership; the number stunned them speechless.
Four thousand three hundred fleets—an overwhelming military might far beyond their imagination.
They realized their enemy was powerful, highly organized, and moved with clear purpose.
The discovery brought unprecedented pressure and dread, forcing them to rethink every strategy.
Meanwhile, Earth's human society split into two camps over the Emperor's actions.
One side, appalled and furious, called his deeds the greatest crime in human history.
Massacres, slave-labor, every Imperial act trampled centuries of human morality and humanity.
Their spokesman, Cheng Xin, spoke a thought-provoking line:
"If humanity's future is so dark and cruel, we might as well perish now."
Her voice rang with despair, as though she had lost all faith in mankind's tomorrow.
The other faction backed the Emperor without hesitation; facing unknown cosmic threats, decisive action was vital.
Unless swift cuts were made, aliens might unite to strangle the newborn realm.
Only through overwhelming force and unshakable will could humanity survive in the Universe.
To them, the Emperor's cruelty was a necessary choice in the brutal competition of the cosmos.
The two camps clashed ever more fiercely, hurling human society into unprecedented division and turmoil.
Every soul fought for belief, arguing over mankind's future.
The debate reshaped Earth's politics and profoundly altered human morals and values.
People began rethinking what true morality and true survival meant.
Every corner filled with tension; each individual faced a hard choice: cling to moral conviction or compromise to survive.
Human civilization had reached its crossroads.
————
Warhammer World
Horus, the Luna Wolves Primarch, stood beside the Emperor and said,
"I'm starting to think that machine is deliberately slandering us."
"Wars did happen; necessary violent conquests are on record—I won't deny that."
The Emperor's gaze swept across every Primarch and Space Marine present.
It told them the Imperium's rise had been rough, yet all served a higher goal.
"But whenever a World or civilization defies the Imperium and spurns our offer of friendship, whenever alien races attack as humans approach—"
"a hundred Worlds cheer when they see the expedition fleets upon their skies."
Pride laced the Emperor's voice, hope shining in his eyes.
He knew the Great Crusade aimed not merely to conquer but to reunite and rebuild.
The expeditions were cruel; he would not deny it, nor would he refute other Worlds' views.
Because those campaigns carried what mankind now lacked—hope and a vision of a brighter future.
This era called the Great Crusade was, in truth, mostly not bloody.
Though the fleets departed Terra like shrapnel, their journey sought not destruction.
They came to reclaim lost branches of humanity and rebuild the galactic civilization shattered by the Age of Strife and the Long Night.