The golden warp vortex continued to expand, the quantum arcs dancing along its rim ionizing nearby orbital debris into gorgeous bands of plasma light.
As spacetime curvature heaved, the first prows to punch through the dimensional barrier were more than a dozen Emperor-class battleships, ten-kilometer steel behemoths in black-and-gold livery, the Custodes sigils etched along their flanks glinting coldly amid the energy turbulence.
They unfolded into a wedge formation as the prow macro-batteries calibrated, subatomic radiance coursing within each barrel, painting the surrounding void an eerie blue through the vented heat sinks.
The vessels that followed presented a completely different aesthetic.
Over twenty super-heavy cruisers burst from the void in black-and-silver, angular armor plates bristling with hydraulically driven auxiliary mech-arms, the moving metal structures making the whole fleet feel like a precise industrial organism in motion.
Most striking was the legion badge along each ship's broadside—
A relief of a giant hand formed from liquid metal that refracted a wintry gleam of alloy whenever the ship came about.
These ships belonged to the Human Empire's XVIII Legion, the Iron Hands, whose gene-primarch was Ferrus, second youngest among his brothers.
When more than five hundred ships of all classes completed translation, the fleet formed a flawless order in near-Earth orbit.
Field projectors released from the supply train built a honeycomb energy network around the periphery; hexagonal cells constantly adjusted deflection angles, refracting the occasional UED orbital gun salvo off into deep space.
At the center of this metal swarm, the thirty-plus-kilometer Radiance of Humanity slowly trimmed her attitude, the raised seal-script characters along her ram prow flowing with tangible streams of energy, golden traces sketching more characters in the vacuum.
And in lunar orbit, on the bridge of the UED Sixth Fleet's flagship:
An admiral's knuckles beat a dull rhythm against the tactical table, the flares of distant detonations beyond the ports bleaching his iron-gray temples.
He needed no electronic aids; what his eyes saw was shocking enough—
Stellar-class energy sources were rewriting gravitational constants. When those black-and-gold giants unfurled their energy wings, the field disturbance even lifted dust storms from craters on the lunar far side.
"Radiation readings over threshold!" the sensor operator's voice trembled with fear. "Main-battery charge-spectrum analysis shows—my God, Admiral—if they unleash a full salvo, not only our entire Sixth Fleet, the Moon itself could be obliterated!"
At that, the admiral's gaze froze on the tactical holo.
The points marking the Iron Hands fleet were peeling out of the Custodes screen and spreading to envelop; torrents of cruiser exhaust traced perfect curves through the vacuum.
When one cruiser suddenly accelerated to cut in along the Sixth Fleet's flank, massive coolant vented through armor seams, leaving kilometer-long "ice crystal" tails against the moondust backdrop.
Such flamboyant maneuvers, heedless of revealing intent, were naked tactical humiliation.
"Lost contact with ground forces on Earth!" the comms officer yanked off his headset. "They… they're broadcasting a surrender declaration on public channels—"
The admiral looked out another port.
There, three Emperor-class battleships' main batteries were slewing in sync, and in those barrels more than a hundred meters wide, a golden energy contrary to common sense was reaching critical.
"Initiate…"
He felt his Adam's apple roll and realized how hoarse he'd become. "Initiate the final protocol. All personnel and vessels are to cease resistance."
As the Radiance of Humanity's ram began condensing energy at solar-core scale, UED fleet sensors spiked off the charts.
The seal-script characters carved into the metal blazed like supernovae; power enough to rewrite physics danced at every stroke's start and turn. Faced with such mind-breaking might, the Sixth Fleet had only one choice: outright surrender.
Meanwhile, aboard the Radiance of Humanity's bridge;
The bronze dome was braced by mortise-and-tenon alloy beams engraved with inscriptions from the Codex of Humanity, their sheen a bronzeware matte in the cool light of the holos.
Black-hued metal tiles paved the deck, incised with unbroken patterns. Each time a Custodian's golden boots stepped across, those lines rippled briefly with gold—an outward manifestation, it seemed, of the flagship's "neural plexus."
Twelve coiling-dragon pillars stood in symmetric ranks to either side; the dragons' eyes were crystals of the Flower of Purity that brightened and dimmed with the ship's energy pulse.
The master console took the form of a bronze tripod cauldron, its three-footed design suspending a hologram of the solar system at center, data flows moving through the air as characters in seal script.
Custodians stood silent at their stations, three-meter golden armor and the crimson capes behind them in stark color contrast, the red crests atop their helms like flames held in stillness.
The Lord of the Prime-Universe Empire—the Human Emperor, Samuel Young—stood before the giant observation window.
The arched mullions were done in an antique ice-crackle lattice that broke the starlight into countless diamond motes over his black-and-gold plate.
His more-than-five-and-a-half-meter frame stood mountain-steady, the energy tracery at his joints arranged like the star-dot arrays of the Hetu and Luoshu, brightening and fading with each breath.
Beneath the black hair, his features had shed the play of emotion from a century ago. Now he resembled a bronze tripod weathered by ages—majestic, archaic, and unfathomable.
At Samuel Young's side stood the War Goddess, Athena. Her golden armor seemed delicate beside the Emperor's; the tip of the Spear of Victory rested on the deck, sparking tiny arcs where it touched the tiles.
Her upturned face toward the star map held the pure curiosity of a child gazing at the sky, but the tactical previsualizations flickering in her pupils told the truth—at her core, the War Goddess was a precision engine of slaughter.
At Samuel Young's other side stood another primarch—
Ferrus Manus.
The primarch's mag-boots left spiderweb stress cracks across the dark tiles, and his armor was a walking arsenal.
Shoulder-mounted mech-arms bore a micro melta, a molecular disintegrator, and a grav winch; his main weapons platform was a carapace like a tortoise when folded and a big-bore cannon that could smash asteroids when deployed.
His austere features were the mirror of his father's.
Ferrus stood with his back to the viewport, looking down on four captains.
Kneeling on one knee, they cast uneven shadows across the tiles:
Gaozan of the Salamanders' 3rd Company, his moss-green Terminator plate like bronzeware clotted with verdigris, the Salamanders sigil on the pauldron cast by lost-wax, every scale clear.
Malakim Phoros, Captain of the Lamenters, whose personal Titan-plate flowed with a cold gleam like birds skimming metal; the foldable metal pinions on his back were furled now, each feather a lethal vibro-blade.
Tyberos's shark-toothed Terminator armor stank of blood.
The teeth on his pauldron were no sculpture, but trophies pulled from the maw of some void predator, preserved and still snarling.
Sigismund's black plate was as matte as wrought iron, without any ornamental tracery, and the captain sank to one knee in the most standard of Imperial salutes.
The bridge fell into an uncanny quiet, broken only by the faint electronic hum of orbital traces on the holomap.
Samuel Young's gaze passed through the viewport; the UED Sixth Fleet was arranging itself in a surrender pattern, engine rooms fully exposed, turrets locked forward—snakes declawed and showing their soft bellies.
Dong… dong…
He turned then; his black-and-gold plate's joints sounded with a hum like bronze bells.
His boots crushed over the cloud-and-thunder patterns of the dark tiles, and those ancient lines lit with momentary gold, like a startled swarm of fireflies.
When he raised his left hand, the energy streaming through the armor seams flared, lighting every battle scar on the captains' armor in fine relief—medals earned across wars in many universes.
"Rise, my children."
His voice carried a multi-track reverberation; beneath the gentle upper register hid a low-frequency thrum like a star's core oscillation.
The sound went straight through power-armor soundproofing and set a faint resonance in Astartes bone—a physical sign of gene-seed kinship answering kin.
The four captains rose as one, the synchrony so perfect it chilled the blood.
Terminator hydraulics dumped pressure in unison, raising a brief white mist across the bridge.
Through that veil, every upturned face showed extreme devotion—
Gaozan's pupils dilated, a net of capillaries reddening the iris rim from excitement; Phoros's metal wings unconsciously unfurled under his control, feather-edged vibroblades rasping off tiny sparks; Tyberos and Sigismund seemed less overt, but the flush in their faces said enough.
The Emperor plainly meant to dispense honors and rewards.
"I have reviewed the reports from the Koprulu Sector," Samuel Young said, his gaze passing over them and pausing for a breath on the deepest scar of each suit—a highest form of respect for a warrior's wounds. "Zerg acid blood has eaten through many star systems; the Protoss' psionic matrices tore apart more Terran Imperial fleets; and you, with steel and flame, remade the human frontier."
When his eyes found Gaozan, the living crystals in the dragon pillars shifted to emerald, and he said:
"So, child, beyond standard honors, what do you require?"
The Salamanders captain hesitated only a heartbeat before thumping a fist to his chest; armor on armor rang through the bridge. "Your Majesty, please assign Agria and Haven to the Salamanders' 3rd Company."
His pauldron seemed to hum from overexcitement. "Though both suffered a full Zerg onslaught, after thorough purgation and with full support from the Imperial Engineering Corps for reconstruction, they will still be highly habitable, near-Terran worlds."
"Granted."
Samuel Young had no reason to object.
With a glance at Gaozan he had already read the causes beneath the request—not only what was spoken—and did not call it out.
At his nod, the bronze tripod's holo marked both systems at once.
Gear sigils of the Engineering Corps bloomed at the map's edge—sign that the corps would fully support the works.
Next, Phoros's Titan-plate went to standby as the Emperor's gaze turned; the metal pinions folded into a penitent's pose. The captain, whose handsome features recalled Sanguinius, said in a low voice, "As per the Expeditionary Honors Code."
Phoros paused, then added, "If Your Majesty permits… when next the gate opens—"
"The Lamenters will continue on vanguard." The Emperor's interruption carried a prophet's certainty.
A Custodian subtly adjusted his stance. On the readouts in his helm, a "supernova" flared outside at the moment the Emperor spoke.
As Samuel Young turned, Tyberos stepped in half a pace. The clash of his shark-tooth pauldrons rang like stone and steel; he could hardly wait. His voice was a gravel grind: "Your Majesty, our Carcharodons require Forerunner technology and equipment for a comprehensive upgrade of our company fleet. We want ground-piercing warheads that can rip open a planet's crust! We—"
"Granted."
The single syllable turned every dragon eye in the pillars a feral red.
The Lord of Humanity in the Prime Universe had agreed to Tyberos's great white shark of a request.
When the Emperor finally looked to Sigismund, the bridge suddenly dimmed.
The Black Templars captain stood at perfect attention, but the bare blade of his greatsword was shivering at high frequency, as though its edge were entangled with the Emperor's emanating psychic field.
"We merely obeyed orders, Your Majesty. The Black—"
"Ten bespoke greatswords." Samuel Young raised his right hand; ten gold specks, like micro-stars, flowered in his palm. "Forged solely from terrestrial planetary cores, steeped in holy oil distilled from the Flower of Purity, and blessed with twenty years of hymns in the Temple of the War Goddess."
?!
Sigismund's breath stopped.
He could feel clearly that any one of those lights held power enough to savage heretical and daemonic things of Chaos.
More terrifying, the weapons were emitting "encrypted signals" receivable only by Black Templars gene-seed—and these seemed to be battle-programs "written" by the Emperor himself.
"The rest—"
Samuel Young turned to Athena.
The War Goddess immediately threw open a holo of the Galaxy of Universe 18, marked with a host of as-yet unconquered systems. "You will decide among yourselves."
Silence settled over the bridge.
All four captains' life signs showed "anomalies" at once—
Gaozan's temperature spiked; Phoros's lacrimal glands began secreting saline past the norm; Tyberos trembled all over; and the vibration of Sigismund's greatsword had long since gone beyond the human hearing range.
In that hush, only Ferrus's mech-arms ticked as they fine-tuned; the primarch's austere face suggested he was recording how his father "spoke" with the Astartes—filing it away for his own reference.
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