Baku sat in his dimly lit living quarters, a metal cup of synthetic coffee steaming in his grip as the screen in front of him flickered with the insignia of Channel 11: The Imperial Military Network. The program currently airing was Imperial Soldier Interview, a series that showcased the lives of soldiers within the vast and merciless Imperial Army.

  Tonight's episode featured a grizzled veteran, his face hardened by years of brutal service. The camera zoomed in on his worn-out armor, the scuffed pting telling stories of countless battles. Beside him, a younger soldier, still fresh in the ways of war but no less determined, sat rigidly, awaiting his turn to speak.

  The cameraman's voice was steady, professional. "Tell us, soldier, what's it like to serve in the Imperial Army as a conscript?"

  The younger soldier exhaled, his eyes dark with memory. "Well… first, you get three months of training, broken down into harsh phases. The first half of each month is pure endurance. Every day, we march five miles carrying 100-pound packs. But here's the catch—90% of that weight is Lerium ammo. Only 5% is rations, and the st bit is our combat radios and materials to build a small outpost."

  Baku took a sip of his coffee, shaking his head. That’s brutal.

  The soldier continued, his voice unwavering. "During the st two days of our first training stage, we get attacked by tamed ants—DNA-enhanced, relentless creatures. One bite is all it takes for our fre to go off, signaling we're 'dead' in the exercise. We have to endure the attack while building an outpost because in real combat, we'll always be behind enemy lines. The final two days are absolute hell, but it prepares us."

  The cameraman nodded, shifting to the veteran. "And what happens after that?"

  The older soldier chuckled dryly. "After that? Hand-to-hand combat, half the day, every day. Then marksmanship and tactics. The real test, though, is for our leaders. They have to think on their feet—pn how to counter an opposing team using only the resources avaible. This cycle repeats for three months. Every year, no matter how long you've served, you go through it again."

  The younger soldier smirked. "And that’s just for conscripts. If you survive long enough to get promoted to Guardsman, it gets worse."

  The cameraman leaned in. "How so?"

  The veteran sighed. "Three months of marching—50 miles daily, carrying 300 pounds of gear. Then comes a week of intense urban warfare training—learning how to control, clear, and defend vilges, towns, and entire cities. After that, it gets even more technical. Week one? Advanced tactics. Week two? Guerril warfare training. Half the time we learn how to wage it, and the other half, how to counter it."

  "And the st week?"

  The older soldier's expression turned grim. "Formation warfare. Breaching buildings, spaceships, jungle combat—everything. And every weekend, the NCOs and officers are forced to come up with the most insane tactics. If they score high enough, their unit gets signed into the Death Pension Program."

  Baku’s grip on his cup tightened. He had heard of that program.

  The cameraman paused, then asked, "For those unfamiliar with the program, could you expin it?"

  The veteran nodded. "The Death Pension Program was created by Emperor Hariko Lee himself. Any soldier who joins gets their family's financial future secured. If we die in the first minute of war—whether on a battlefield, in space, or on some forsaken pnet—our family gets a lifetime pension. That way, nobody dies for nothing. No one wants to risk their life without knowing their loved ones will be cared for."

  Silence hung in the air for a moment. Then, the cameraman cleared his throat. "Any final words for the audience?"

  The younger soldier spoke first. "The Imperial Army isn't for the weak. It will break you. But if you survive, you’ll be part of the deadliest force in the universe."

  The veteran chuckled. "Yeah… and if you don’t survive? Well, at least your family gets a nice payday."

  The screen faded to bck, and Baku leaned back in his chair. The road to war was paved with sweat, pain, and sacrifice. And for those in the Imperial Army, there was no turning back.

  The Imperial Airborne Division: Masters of ChaosThe Imperial Airborne Division is one of the most elite forces in the Imperial Military, trained to conduct rapid insertions behind enemy lines, disrupt supply chains, and engage in guerril-style warfare. Their training is rigorous, spanning three grueling months to prepare them for every possible combat scenario.

  Training Regimen: The Art of Unconventional WarfareImperial Airborne troopers begin their journey aboard the Imperial AC140, a massive aerial transport designed for rapid deployment. Instead of traditional parachutes, each deployment occurs via drop pods, each carrying 48 soldiers, ensuring rapid and coordinated insertions deep within hostile territory.

  Month 1: Urban Combat MasteryThe first month is dedicated to mastering combat in vilges, towns, and cities, ensuring that every soldier understands the complexities of urban warfare. Each week focuses on a different environment:

  Week 1: Vilges – Training emphasizes close-quarters combat, securing strongholds, and blending into rural environments.

  Week 2: Towns – Soldiers learn to seize and hold strategic positions, clear buildings, and set ambushes.

  Week 3: Cities – Large-scale urban engagements with a focus on rooftop warfare, tunnel fighting, and using infrastructure to their advantage.

  Week 4: Adaptation & Simuted Operations – Full-scale wargames test their abilities, forcing them to adapt to shifting enemy tactics.

  Month 2: Jungle WarfareThe second month pushes the Airborne to survive and fight in the dense jungles, where visibility is low, terrain is hostile, and the enemy can strike from any direction. Soldiers learn:

  Stealth & Concealment – How to disappear into foliage and ambush enemy patrols.

  Survival Tactics – Navigating harsh environments, setting traps, and enduring without resupply.

  Jungle Raids – Coordinated assaults on enemy outposts hidden deep in the wilderness.

  Month 3: Crash Survival & Civilian InfiltrationThe final month prepares the Airborne for survival and deception, testing their ability to operate deep in enemy-controlled territory.

  Week 1: Crash Site Survival – Soldiers simute the aftermath of a downed aircraft, learning to evade capture, secure supplies, and call for extraction.

  Weeks 2-4: Civilian Infiltration – Troopers blend into enemy poputions, sabotaging supply lines, spreading misinformation, and inciting chaos.

  Weekend Orc Combat: The Raidies CnOn weekends, the Airborne engage in brutal hand-to-hand combat training with the Raidies, a Stage 3 orc cn known for their relentless raiding tactics. Unlike most orc cns, the Raidies avoid Imperial territory as long as they receive water and intel on worthy fights. This uneasy truce allows the Airborne to hone their close-combat skills against an unpredictable and ferocious enemy.

  The Imperial Air Assault Division: Cutting the Enemy’s LifelinesWhere the Airborne Division excels in deep infiltration, the Imperial Air Assault Division specializes in disrupting supply lines and destroying enemy artillery. These soldiers are trained to march 8 miles per day while carrying 75 pounds of gear, including rations and Lerium ammunition, a specialized energy-based munition used in Imperial weaponry.

  Core Training and Combat ReadinessAir Assault soldiers are trained to:

  Destroy Enemy Supply Lines – Using ambush tactics, explosives, and precision strikes to cut off reinforcements.

  Eliminate Artillery Positions – Swiftly neutralizing long-range threats before they can devastate Imperial forces.

  High-Endurance Warfare – Conditioning for long-distance marches under extreme conditions, maintaining full combat effectiveness.

  Support Unit: The K3 Tank HuntersSupporting the Air Assault Division are 5 K3 tanks, each designed for ambush and rapid repositioning. These highly mobile armored units provide firepower in hostile zones and require NCOs to train as scouts every weekend to master the art of ambush warfare.

  By combining relentless physical endurance, specialized tactics, and armored support, the Imperial Airborne and Air Assault Divisions remain at the forefront of the Empire’s deep-strike and disruption warfare, ensuring that the enemy is never truly safe.

  Riven Aldir stood aboard the Emerald Sentinel, his fingers dancing over the holographic interface as his message was transmitted.

  "The pirates are not found within the Imperial Territory or our territory, my queen."

  A moment of silence passed before Queen Ara Zylzana’s response came through the ethereal channels of the Elven High Command.

  "Then they must be hiding elsewhere. Search the so-called uncimed gaxies. Find them, Riven."

  Riven nodded, turning to his crew. "Begin scanning for warp anomalies. If they aren’t within cimed space, they must be hiding in the void."

  For hours, the Emerald Sentinel swept across the unknown regions, its sensors piercing through the vast emptiness. Then, a distortion in space-time flickered on the dispy. His eyes narrowed.

  A warphole.

  It was a tear unlike any he had ever seen—an artificial rift stretching 100 billion light-years long and wide within the Lanic Gaxy. This was no mere smuggler's tunnel. Someone—or something—had created a passage vast enough to move fleets unseen.

  Riven did not hesitate. "Mark the coordinates. We are going in."

  As the Emerald Sentinel emerged on the other side, the scene before him ignited into chaos.

  The Battle for Lanic GaxyBefore him, 30,000 Scattered Elven Empire warships—S2 frigates, S3 destroyers, and heavy battlecruisers—were locked in a brutal engagement against 300,000 pirate vessels. The enemy's S1-css ships swarmed like a storm of steel, their cannons firing indiscriminately, overwhelming elven defenses through sheer numbers.

  Riven gritted his teeth. "They were waiting for us."

  Elven warships fought valiantly, their refined energy weapons cutting through the pirate hordes. But the battle had barely begun when new alerts bred through his ship’s systems.

  Enemy reinforcements inbound.

  From deep within pirate-controlled space, a massive fleet emerged—1 million old-model S2 and S3 warships.

  "This isn't just a pirate den," Riven muttered. "It's a lost fleet."

  The enemy had gathered an armada, relics of forgotten wars, ancient ships restored for one purpose—to annihite the Scattered Elven Empire. The realization hit him hard. If these ships escaped into wider space, they could wreak havoc across the sector.

  He smmed his fist against the console. "Send a distress signal! Now!"

  The Arrival of the Norse MarinesWithin minutes, the Elven High Command responded.

  The Imperial Empire had answered their call.

  From deep within Imperial territory, Fenris, the leader of the Norse Marines, arrived with 201,000 of his warriors, accompanied by a massive fleet of 500,000 Imperial warships, carrying over 1,152,000 soldiers.

  And at the center of their formation loomed a colossal fgship, 1,800 kilometers in length, bristling with power.

  The battlefield trembled as 400 mega-cannons roared, their projectiles tearing through the pirate ranks. 200 psma anti-aircraft batteries shredded enemy bombers before they could deploy their payloads. The sky burned with the fury of the Norse Marines.

  "Push forward!" Fenris's voice thundered across the fleet. "Take the Lanic Gaxy!"

  For an hour, the space above Lanic was consumed by fire and blood. Elven warships regrouped under the cover of Imperial bombardments, their losses now mitigated by the reinforcements. The pirate forces crumbled beneath the unrelenting assault.

  Then, silence.

  The st pirate warship exploded in a blinding fsh of light, and the Lanic Gaxy belonged to them.

  The Great Wall and the SurrenderAs the fleets began their sweep of the battlefield, Riven’s scanners detected something strange—a great wall deep within pirate territory.

  "It’s a stronghold," he realized. "One they never expected to be breached."

  But as the first nding craft descended, thousands of pirate survivors emerged—not to fight, but to surrender.

  They dropped their weapons and knelt before the approaching Norse Marines, their faces pale with exhaustion and fear. The battle was lost, and they knew it.

  Fenris led his warriors onto the surface, their power armor glinting under the starlight. Without hesitation, they rounded up the captives, securing them for transport.

  "They will answer for their crimes," Fenris decred, his voice firm. "They will be tried in the courts of the Scattered Elven Empire."

  As Riven Aldir looked upon the broken remains of the pirate empire, he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  The warphole had been their salvation, but also their warning.

  If the pirates had hidden a fleet this rge, what else y beyond the veil of uncimed space?

  For now, the Lanic Gaxy was secure. But Riven knew this was only the beginning.

  he Lun Gaxy's heart—Sector 0001.0000—was cold, quiet, and uncimed. Among 500 million sor systems, this one stood eerily still. It held only four pnets: a gas giant, two scorched stones too close to the sun, and one habitable world nestled in perfect orbit—a jewel amidst ash.

  Two massive armadas had converged upon it.

  From the northern void came the Norse Marines under Fenris, warlords of storm and frost, their S2 through S6 warships blotting out the stars—500,000 ships, a sight that made the void shudder. Their fleet shimmered with sor steel and thunder runes, each ship embzoned with Odin’s Eye and Thor’s Lightning.

  From the Elven stars came Riven Aldir, high admiral of the Scattered Elven Empire, bringing 30,000 sleek starships, smooth and radiant like the petals of a dying sun. His fleet moved in graceful silence, a contradiction to the brash fury of the Norse.

  Together, they set eyes on the habitable world below—rich with oxygen, forests of dense quartz trees, and echoing silence that chilled the soul. Uncimed. Untouched. Unaware of what lived within.

  They nded.

  And they woke something older than stars.

  THE SILVER BROOD

  The first csh came as the Norse Marines deployed. Their drop-pods smmed into rich soil, and thunder cracked from their autocannons as they began scouring the nd.

  Then came the Silver.

  From beneath the crystalline forests burst Ancient Spiders, mineral-armored behemoths with bodies glinting in iron and quartz. Their hides resisted even Elven arcane disintegration spells.

  Greater Spiders emerged—human-sized and eerily beautiful. Their elegance lured scouts close, only for their forms to morph into bded death, tearing through ranks with venomous grace.

  And towering over the brood were the Queen Spiders—bckened with ash and brimstone, their steps melting the soil, their screeches shaking orbit.

  But it was the Spider Warriors that cut deepest: twenty-four bde-limbs, precision incarnate, cutting through tanks like parchment. Worse, they were intelligent—coordinated. Tactical.

  And they weren’t alone.

  THE FOUNDING MOTHER’S SPEAR

  From the darkness stepped a new horror—a humanoid spider, silver exoskeleton shimmering, two arms and two legs, like a cursed hybrid between elf and arachnid. With web-forged spears inscribed with prayers, it hurled them through the battlefield.

  One struck a Norse soldier.

  His scream wasn’t just pain—it was wrong. A tear opened in the void, and with it emerged an army.

  6,000 S7 Spider Hive Ships phased into reality, hissing into the sector. Each vessel was forged of bone and silk, warping through dimensions, responding to the Founding Mother’s call. Ship-to-ship combat erupted in a storm of psma, webbed artillery, and holy ordnance.

  The spider forces surged.

  Cannon fodder—common spiders—absorbed the Imperial Navy’s bombardments.

  But behind them came the elite: Humanoid Spiders with varying leg-counts. It became clear—they were ranked by their number of legs. Two-legged commanded others. Four and up bore biomass cannons, firing twisted pods that converted soldiers into spider-hybrids, horrifying mockeries of men.

  THE IMPERIAL RESPONSE

  NCOs aboard Imperial ships screamed updates:

  “Two of the two-legged ones command each 24-armed general! Behind them—ten thousand more!”

  “The Queens aren’t just commanders—they’re the hive mothers of this pnet and the entire attacking fleet!”

  As ships were boarded, brutal close-quarters combat unfolded. Vibro-axes cshed against bded limbs. Bolters howled. Screams turned into shrieks, and shrieks into silence.

  THE ANGELIC INTERVENTION

  From the heavens, prayers were answered.

  Tariel, angelic tactician and heavenly informant, revealed the truth:

  “These beings... they function like Beelzebub. Spiders of corruption. Artificial angels turned fallible are becoming like them. True angels—those born of the Sun’s Dominion—can burn them out.”

  He summoned a legion.

  One thousand sunborn angels descended—each a beacon of light amidst chaos. Their arrival burned through the Spider Armada with such intensity that nine of every ten spider ships fell. Holy fire turned void-bck shells into molten ash.

  Those angels that perished did not fall—they ascended, their forms turning into pure light, hovering, awaiting the next call.

  Then came Archangel Pandora.

  A titan of holy wrath, she arrived wielding the Sunfme Lance, but something was off.

  “No light returned when Pandora’s legion fell,” Tariel said grimly. “They were artificial. Manufactured holy matter not faith since holy matter has no resurrection.”

  Still, the tide turned.

  The spiders retreated, dragged back by the Founding Mother’s psychic call. The hybrid humanoid disappeared, its dimensional tear closing slowly like a bleeding wound.

  EPILOGUE OF THE FIRST PLANETFALL

  The pnet was not won. Not yet.

  But Fenris, his Norse Marines bloodied yet standing, raised the banner of the Imperial Alliance. Riven Aldir, though wounded, began converting the forests into elven observation posts.

  Above, the orbital wreckage glittered like silver snowfall.

  Below, the Hive Spider waited. Watching. Evolving.

  For they had seen the angels.

  —Following “The Battle for Lanic Gaxy” and the First Pnetfall of the Lun Gaxy—

  Imperial Command Dispatch — Secure Channel Transmission #FEN-Δ003

  From: Fenris, Warlord of the Norse MarinesTo: His Eternal Majesty, Emperor Hariko LeeSubject: Status Update – Victory in Lanic Space / Stalemate on the Ground

  GLORY TO THE IMPERIAL EMPIRE

  Long live the Emperor.

  Your Majesty,

  With respect and honor, I submit this report from the heart of the Lun Gaxy.

  Victory in space has been secured. As per Imperial orders, our fleets eradicated the pirate infestation above the Lanic Gaxy. 500,000 ships of the Norse Division, supported by Elven Admiral Riven Aldir’s remnants, reduced the pirate fleets and their forgotten armada to debris. The skies now belong to us. The stars fly our banners.

  However...

  The ground tells a different story.

  The enemy here is unlike any we have faced—these Silver Brood. Creatures of ancient manufacture, part arachnid, part arcane, all monstrous. We pushed into their territory expecting remnants, resistance, perhaps rebellion.

  Instead, we found war.

  Our first contact teams were torn apart within minutes. Thirty-man fireteams reduced to twitching limbs by spider-scouts no taller than a child. Heavier squads faced the 24-bded Warriors—none returned.

  Our tanks held for a time—until acidic silk melted pting, and the mineral warriors began tunneling from below. Even our Dreadborns, those blessed by Odin’s Wrath, fell to the psionic pulse of the Founding Mother’s Spear.

  My lord, this is no mere resistance.

  It is an awakening.

  Thousands of humanoid spiders, guided by intelligent command figures, counter every fnking maneuver. Their technology is not technology—it’s organic warfare, integrated into them. They infect the nd. Convert our fallen. Turn the soil against us.

  The Sisters of Faith, though not yet nded in full, have established healing zones near Sector 0042. But they report psychic interference—visions of webs stretching across gaxies. Nightmares of cosmic nests.

  Even now, we bleed.

  Over 82,000 Norse Marines have fallen or gone missing. Our S3 and S4 walkers are pulled into sinkholes of silk and bde. Entire squads report hallucinations—their comrades appearing as spiders, causing fratricide.

  And yet... we hold the line.

  The Elven Scouts, using arcane vision runes, have identified four major spider hives across the central continent. One is dead—burned by angelic fire. The rest pulse with growing light.

  The angels have given us a gift. Tariel’s wisdom turned the tide in the air. But on the ground, their light can only go so far. Faith must be wielded like steel now, not sung from temples.

  We are converting the nearest mountain into a fortress: Fort Valkengrim. Elven engineers have joined our efforts. A combined wall of rune and steel shall rise by sundown. Let this be our bastion.

  But we will need more.

  We request:

  Deployment of 2nd and 3rd Imperial Legions (The Sisters of Faith and the Japanese Space Marines).

  Activation of anti-hybrid protocols for all medical stations.

  Distribution of soul-sealed ammunition from the Sancros Armories.

  Authorization for orbital strikes on Hive coordinates Omega-9 through Omega-13.

  I shall not yield.We shall not falter.But we must crush this infection before it spreads beyond the Lun Gaxy.

  This is no longer a pnetary cleanse.This is a new warfront.

  For the Emperor.For the Empire.For the eternal fme of humanity’s will.

  —Fenris, Norse Warlord of the Storm

  Transmission End

  As Emperor Hariko Lee received the transmission aboard the S6-Fgship Honor-Bound Sovereign, he stood in silence.

  Behind him, banners of the 1st through 3rd Legions stirred in the artificial wind. The gaxy burned with war, and now—new ancient evils stirred beneath the crust of uncimed worlds.

  Hariko Lee narrowed his eyes, then turned to his war council.

  “Prepare the Second Wave.”

  “Long live the Imperial Empire.”

  And across the stars, the order spread like wildfire

  The Lanic winds stank of psma ash and chittering death.

  Captain Maximilian Thorne—2nd Norse Marine Division—stood ankle-deep in the remains of what used to be a frontline encampment. Twisted barricades crackled with dying rune-sigils, and bodies, both human and spiderkin, littered the trench network that now barely held form. His armor bore sshes across its pted chest, his left pauldron gone, and his breathing was heavy, rhythmic, warrior-trained.

  They had lost seventy men in ten minutes.

  He gritted his teeth and swung his bde—a two-handed Godsteel great psma chainsword engraved with runes that shimmered in the dark—and cleaved a humanoid spider in half. This one had six legs, designating it as a Field Commander among the Silver Brood. Acid hissed as it sprayed across the dirt, missing his visor by inches.

  He spun, parried two more cws, and brought his knee into the head of a crawler with ten legs—a Hive Guard. It crumpled, but others were closing in, some with bioluminescent nodes pulsing across their exoskeletons, hinting at psionic command rank.

  “Sector 0042, position Omega-Twelve! This is Captain Thorne! We are overwhelmed! Requesting immediate bombardment support—NOW!”

  He ducked as a spider hybrid hurled a corpse toward him—one of his own, face twisted in a final scream.

  Thorne caught the body, eyes hardening.

  “Rest, brother.”

  He id the body down just as his comms chirped.

  “AC-140 inbound. Skyfire burns red. Hold the line.”

  And then the earth trembled.

  Above, clouds parted like peeled skin, and the silhouette of Imperial air supremacy carved across the heavens.

  The AC-140, a beast of engineering born from the fury of the Empire’s finest minds, descended through the smoke-choked skies like a steel angel of vengeance. At 194 feet tall and wide, its six thruster wings shimmered with anti-gravity pulses. It hovered, casting the battlefield in shadow.

  On its underbelly, weapon bays opened with a hiss.

  A female officer’s voice rang out from its broadcasting array, sharp and clear:

  “Engaging dual-combat psma systems. Area clearance protocols authorized by Imperial Command. Brace for cleansing.”

  The 50mm Psma Rotavator Cannon began its song—1,000 rounds per volley, each bolt incinerating clusters of advancing spiders with pinpoint precision. Entire hills of silk and flesh evaporated in seconds.

  Next came the 230mm AE01 Artillery Piece, mounted along the dorsal spine of the AC-140. With a deep hum and violet pulse, it unched seismic psma shells, obliterating the spider hives marked on Thorne’s HUD. Each detonation shook the heavens.

  And then—like the fist of a god—the 120mm Psma Rail Gun engaged. Its first shot cut clean through two Warbeasts, each the size of a medium dropship. The ground warped from the kinetic backsh.

  Thorne stumbled as the heatwave passed, visor auto-dimming.

  The Silver Brood scattered.

  The tide was breaking.

  “Captain Thorne!” shouted a surviving comms sergeant behind him, dragging a wounded man. “They’re falling back! The fnk’s clearing!”

  Thorne roared, sword raised high. “Norse Marines—FORWARD! Drive them to the abyss! Show them what HUMANITY ENDURES!”

  With renewed fire in their souls, his marines surged forward, stepping over webbed corpses, firing sidearms and bde-tossing into the retreating enemy. The skies lit in a beautiful, terrifying psma aurora.

  And still, the AC-140 hovered—guardian, reaper, witness.

  —

  Imperial Command Dispatch — Secure Channel Transmission #FEN-Δ003-A

  Addendum Report – Sector 0042 Update

  From: Captain Maximilian Thorne, 2nd Norse Marine DivisionTo: Warlord FenrisCC: His Eternal Majesty, Emperor Hariko Lee

  “Sector 0042 is stabilized. Enemy forces pushed back to Ridge 27. Hive Nexus Omega-12 has been destroyed. AC-140 ‘Skyfire Warden’ remains on overwatch. We lost many, but we held. They came like death itself… but they underestimated the wrath of humanity, and the vengeance of the Empire.

  Awaiting reinforcements. Continuing fortification until the Sisters and Space Marines arrive.

  Long live the Empire.”

  —

  In the war council aboard the S6-Fgship Honor-Bound Sovereign, Emperor Hariko Lee read the dispatch in silence. His gloved hand clenched, then rexed.

  He turned to his command staff.

  “The fmes have been lit.”

  He raised a finger.

  “Light the rest.”

  “The second wave begins.”

  Across the void, hyperspace corridors shimmered with the activation of gates. Legion banners unfurled. Gunships ignited. War hymns began to py across a thousand systems.

  And on the blood-soaked fields of Lanic, Captain Maximilian Thorne raised his sword once more, the thunder of the AC-140 above echoing his defiance.

  The humans were still here.

  Still fighting.

  The transmission came on a crimson-coded frequency—an urgent ping from Captain Hena of the 2nd Company, Sisters of Faith.

  “Emperor,” the voice crackled through the high-command chamber aboard the S6-Fgship Honor-Bound Sovereign, “the AC-140 reconnaissance confirms Hive presence. We lost half our forces thinking it was just humans… but they’re not.”

  A heavy silence settled.

  “Artificiacs,” the pilot added grimly. “Synthetic humanoids built for war. They burrowed under the cities. We engaged thinking they were rebels. They’re not rebels. They’re nightmares.”

  Hariko Lee didn’t flinch. His eyes—steel sharpened by endless campaigns—narrowed. Behind him, banners of the 1st to 3rd Legions danced with the artificial wind.

  He turned to his command staff.

  “Send in the Sisters.”

  The room trembled with power as the order left his lips.

  “Prepare the Second Wave.”

  Day 2–3: The Descent

  Captain Hena’s 2nd Company of the Sisters of Faith nded in full war regalia—rosary-linked psma sabers at their hips, bolter-maces on their backs. Their dropships fred with violet light as they descended through the ash-filled sky over Sector 0042. AC-140s howled above like celestial wolves, scanning and clearing approach zones with punishing psma rain.

  The Sisters moved with purpose.

  Their holy presence bolstered the shaken defenders. Their hymns silenced the cries of the wounded.

  And then they descended—into the tunnels.

  Beneath the crust, the air was fetid and dry. Massive burrow-pits linked a hive structure that spanned kilometers. The walls pulsed with bio-synthetic veins. The Artificiacs swarmed, hurling themselves at the Sisters with inhuman fury.

  But Captain Hena was not easily shaken.

  “Burn them,” she said.

  Fme projectors roared, cleansing the tunnels with sanctified promethium. In an hour, twenty-seven chambers were cleared. In two days, over a hundred. They carved a path to the Hive Core, where the enemy queen—a monstrous hybrid of AI and silver-chitin—rose from a throne of impaled skulls.

  With a holy incantation, Captain Hena plunged her Bde of Saint Nalia into its brain-core. Light exploded from the queen’s body, and with it, the hive mind fractured.

  Day 4: The Rally

  Captain Maximilian Thorne stood once more among his bloodied Norse Marines. His armor was bckened from days of continuous battle. Behind him, fortifications had been built up using imperial auto-fabricators and scorched enemy limbs. The AC-140 “Skyfire Warden” hovered above, never leaving their side.

  Then—out of hyperspace—they came.

  Ships. Thousands.

  A ring of warsteel 1,800 kilometers above the pnet. Dropships the size of cities opened their massive holds, revealing rows upon rows of elite warriors. Fmethrowers, heavy repeaters, energy gives—all gleaming in the dark.

  The Imperial Second Wave had arrived.

  With them came:

  2,000 Fk 88s, their barrels gleaming with runic wards against corruption.

  2,500 K3 Main Battle Tanks, armored monstrosities bristling with railguns and molten core projectors.

  Over a million elite troops, drawn from the four branches—Imperial Marines, Guard, Mechanica Corps.